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Rachel’s chin went up as she tossed her long sleek hair over her shoulder and gave him a look that was pure disinterest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I have no interest in it either.”
“You show the world the bitch, so they won’t notice when you go out of your way to do something nice for the people you care about.”
“Do you actually need me here for this conversation? Or are you happy to carry on alone?”
“I know all about the ways you’ve smoothed the paths of the people around you. Take Isobel’s kids,” he said evenly. “She was having trouble getting them into a decent school. You stepped in, and suddenly they were getting offers from the best schools in London. Only, they didn’t know it was you because the schools told them they were picked up through the entrance exams they did for other schools.”
“That wasn’t me being nice.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I was sick of listening to Isobel whine about it, that was all.”
“Then there’s Harry’s literacy charity. Does he realize how many strings you pulled through your connections in government to get him access to the countries he wanted to work in?”
“Again, a purely selfish move on my part. I can’t stand his wife, Magenta, and he was talking about moving to London with her.” She shuddered. “I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“Callum’s prosthetic legs,” he carried on. “There’s a waiting list a mile long at the clinic that produces them. Not only that, but he got the state-of-the-art prototypes that are barely out of testing, and I know for a fact he didn’t pay what they’re worth. Didn’t your brother go to school with the CEO of the company that developed those prosthetics? And I do believe you and Jonathan had dinner with him a couple of weeks before Callum got the call that he was on the shortlist. Right after you made a huge donation to their research fund.”
“Coincidence.” She looked bored. “As much as I enjoy our little chats—which is about as much as I enjoy having gynecological exams—I have an appointment with my wine cellar.” She lifted her phone, ready to call for a car.
Harvard swiped it from her. “I have a car, and I’m going back to your place with you.”
“Over my dead body.” She didn’t bother reaching for the phone, but he knew she was itching to retrieve it. There was the promise of payback in her eyes.
“Rachel, I won’t kill you, but I will tase your sexy ass and throw you in the back of my vehicle. And no one here would object. In fact, I’m betting I’d get a standing ovation.”
She glanced around at the employees lingering to watch them and to snigger over her car. No doubt they were waiting for her to lose her mind and eviscerate someone. He sighed. What was with everyone and their fear of Rachel’s reputation? Couldn’t they see she deliberately cultivated it just so she didn’t have to deal with them?
“Get in the car.” He pointed at his SUV.
Cold hazel eyes stared at him while she considered her options. “Fine. Have it your way.” And then she swept past him and into the car. The back of the car. As though he was her damned chauffeur instead of her supposed fiancé.
He glared at their amused audience before climbing behind the wheel. In the back seat, Rachel sat with her hands clasped on her lap and her feet crossed at the ankles as she gazed out of the window. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if she’d affected a royal wave for the TayFor staff.
“Couple more things,” he said as he pointed the car out of the parking lot. “Stop being a bitch to the people who care about you and apologize to Ryan.”
“Of course,” she said politely. “I’ll have my new PA schedule it for me. I do believe I have an hour free around about the twelfth of never. Now, would you be a dear and return my phone? I really must text everyone I’ve ever dealt with and tell them to keep their mouths shut about my business. Especially if an irritating ex-spy comes asking questions about whom I help, and why I do it.”
All Harvard could do was toss the phone back to her. If there were two things he’d learned in the CIA, they were to pick your battles and to exercise patience. The exact same skills he needed in dealing with Rachel.
The drive into London from Surrey took a little longer than expected, thanks to the rush hour traffic, and Rachel spent the time tapping away on her phone. Harvard dreaded to think what she was doing. If Rachel wanted to, she could start World War Three armed purely with an iPhone.
“I need your keycard,” he said, rolling down his window as they approached the garage under her apartment building.
Grudgingly, she handed it over and let out a little strangled sound filled with irritation when he pocketed it instead of handing it back. Ten minutes later—after Rachel had reluctantly added him to her list of approved visitors at the reception desk in the foyer—they were in her apartment. And it was just as spectacular as he’d envisioned.
Set in a part of Knightsbridge that overlooked Hyde Park, it allowed her to call Kensington Palace her neighbors. Rachel owned one of two split-level penthouses with uninterrupted views of the city, the park, and royalty.
The vast open-plan living area, with its polished dark wooden floors and thick white rugs, paled in comparison to the views framed by the floor to ceiling windows. And, even better, good sound insulation meant they couldn’t hear the endless London traffic far beneath them. It was an oasis of decadence right in the center of one of the world’s busiest cities.
She’d furnished the large living space with overstuffed sofas in shades of white and cream. But the different textures that made up the upholstery meant they didn’t seem spartan. The cream walls were decked with contemporary art; she seemed to have a thing for huge, bright abstract paintings.
By the window was a baby grand piano and an oversized armchair. A handknitted blanket in cream, of course, was thrown over it. A book lay on the seat. Rachel’s reading nook, maybe. Apart from that, no personal mementos or photos cluttered up the place. Rachel obviously liked clean lines and plenty of space.
“Have you finished psychoanalyzing me based on my home?” she asked as she strode into the room.
“Not quite. Got to see the rest of the place first before I come to any conclusions.” Harvard dropped his bag on the thick rug by the sofa and turned. He stopped dead. “A red kitchen?” Not just red. The cabinets were a lacquered red: the shade of blood. “Inviting,” he muttered, wondering if she cooked in it or just dissected things.
“You don’t need to stay here if you don’t like it.” Rachel strolled past him and into the kitchen from hell. “Wine?” She reached into the wine rack against the far wall and took out a bottle of red, then grabbed two glasses from the cabinet behind her.
“Red wine?” He looked around. “In this apartment? You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”
