“I would love to, Dorian. But I already have plans tonight. Rain check?”
Dorian’s heart thudded.
Plans? As in, a date? Did she have a fucking date?
I will kill him without hesitation…
He tried to dismiss it, but the thought wormed its way into his mind, burrowing deep, taunting him.
Haunting him.
“Of course,” he said. “Enjoy your evening, Charlotte. Be safe.”
He ended the call and pitched the phone across his desk, anger and frustration pushing him to his feet.
He knew he should let it go. Just head back to Ravenswood, call Aiden and Cole to make sure they were all set for Saturday’s meeting with Estas, review the additional Armitage files his corporate lawyers had sent over, work on his Midnight Marauder stats, test the new gaming gloves one of his programmers had delivered from R&D…
Anythingbut give in to the idea presently slithering through his mind.
But he couldn’t.
If Charlotte was seeing someone new, it could jeopardize everything—the entire show they’d been putting on for Rudy, her safety, Sasha’s, all of it. Whether she realized it or not, Dorian and his family were risking alotto help her; one way or the other, he had a right to know what she was up to.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he poured a glass of scotch from a bottle he kept in his desk. The alcohol burned, but it steeled his nerves for the task ahead.
One way or the other.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After waiting in the limousine across the street from Charlotte’s building for nearly an hour, Dorian finally spotted his woman exiting the lobby.
She wore a simple black dress and a sheer, wine-colored wrap, her hair and makeup expertly styled. With every step, she carried herself with purpose, poise, and stone-cold determination.
Blood rushed to Dorian’s head, his heart thumping frantically in his chest.
Stunning.
In so many ways, the moment reminded him of the night they’d met, when he’d first caught sight of her in the Salvatore lobby, her smile lighting up the darkness.
“Do you see her?” Dorian leaned forward through the privacy window, pointing her out to Jameson as she marched down Park Avenue on foot. “Black dress, fucking gorgeous?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Follow her. Don’t get too close.”
As Jameson pulled the car into Park Avenue traffic, a flicker of guilt burned in Dorian’s chest. Although he and Aiden had kept tabs on Charlotte and Sasha all week, this was different.
Dorian told himself it was only to keep her safe, but that white-hot guilt eating through his guts called him a bloody liar.
He was spying on her.
Because deep down, all dangers and threats to her life aside, Dorian was a desperate, lovesick, jealous asshole who couldn’t stand the thought of some filthy human lowlife putting his hands—or any other body parts—on his woman.
What was her type, anyway? Thieves and con artists? Stockbrokers? A lawyer, perhaps?
Dorian scoffed.
Pathetic.
