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His temperament had been darkening steadily for the last four hours, once he’d found out what Eva’s father was up to. Pennington was scrambling—futilely of course, because Zaccheo had closed every possible avenue—to find financial backing. That was enough to anger Zaccheo, but what fuelled his rage was that Pennington, getting more desperate by the hour, was offering more and more pieces of The Spire, the building that he would no longer own come Monday, as collateral. The blatant fraud Pennington was willing to perpetrate to fund his lifestyle made Zaccheo’s fists clench as he stalked to the window.
The view from The Spire captured the string of bridges from east to west London. The moment he’d brought his vision of the building to life with the help of his experienced architects had been one of the proudest moments of his life. More than the properties he owned across the world and the empire he’d built from the first run-down warehouse he’d bought and converted to luxury accommodation at the age of twenty, this had been the one he’d treasured most. The building that should’ve been his crowning glory.
Instead it’d become the symbol of his downfall.
Ironically, the court where he’d been sentenced was right across the street. He looked down at the courthouse, jaw clenched.
He intended it to be the same place where his name was cleared. He would not be broken and humiliated as his father had been by the time he’d died. He would not be whispered about behind his back and mocked to his face and called a parasite. Earlier this evening, Eva had demanded to know why he’d been so fascinated with her kind.
For a moment, he’d wondered whether his burning desire to prove they were not better than him was a weakness. One he should put behind him, as Eva had suggested, before he lost a lot more of himself than he already had.
As much as he’d tried he hadn’t been able to dismiss her words. Because he’d lied. He knew how to forgive. He’d forgiven his father each time he’d remembered that Zaccheo existed and bothered to take an interest in him. He’d forgiven his mother the first few times she’d let his stepfather treat him like a piece of garbage.
What Zaccheo hadn’t told Eva was that he’d eventually learned that forgiveness wasn’t effective when the recipient didn’t have any use for it.
A weakening emotion like forgiveness would be wasted on Oscar Pennington.
A keycard clicked and he turned as the entry code released the front door.
Sensation very close to relief gut-punched him.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ He didn’t bother to obviate his snarl. Nor could he stop checking her over from head to toe, to ascertain for himself that she wasn’t hurt or hadn’t been a victim of an accident or a mugging. When he was sure she was unharmed, he snapped his gaze to her face, to be confronted with a quizzical look.
Dio, was she smirking at him?
He watched her slide her fingers through her heavy, silky hair and ignored the weariness in the gesture.
‘Is it Groundhog Day or something? Because I could’ve sworn we had a conversation about where I was going earlier this evening.’
He seethed. ‘You finished work an hour and a half ago. Where have you been since then?’
She tossed a glare his way before she shrugged off her coat. The sight of the jeans and sweater she’d chosen to wear instead of the roomful of clothes he’d provided further stoked his dark mood.
‘How do you know when I finished work?’
‘Answer the question, Eva.’
She tugged her handbag from her shoulder and dropped it on the coffee table. Then she kicked off her shoes and pushed up on the balls of her feet in a smooth, practised stretch reminiscent of a ballet dancer.
‘I took the night bus. It’s cheaper than a cab, but it took forty-five minutes to arrive.’
‘Mi scusi? You took the night bus?’ His brain crawled with scenarios that made his blood curdle. He didn’t need a spell in prison to be aware of what dangerous elements lurked at night. The thought that Eva had exposed herself, willingly, to—
‘Careful there, Zaccheo, you almost sound like one of those snobs you detest so much.’
She pushed up again, her feet arching and flattening in a graceful rise and fall.
Despite his blood boiling, he stared, mesmerised, as she completed the stretches. Then he let his gaze drift up her body, knowing he shouldn’t, yet unable to stop himself. The sweater, decorated with a D-minor scale motif, hugged her slim torso, emphasising her full, heavy breasts and tiny waist before ending a half-inch above her jeans.
