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Of course, he’s entitled to keep his secrets. He’s allowed to order about his employee any way he sees fit. He can skip breakfast if he wants to—good for him.
But if there is one thing that Graeme Bellamy cannot do…
It is expect me to stand idly by andnotget to the bottom of it.
My mind is spinning as James cuts through traffic and arrives before a chic boutique on the opposite side of the city, the flagship location of Atelier Noir. I suspect the distance isn’t a coincidence—Bellamy wanted me far out of his way this morning. I can’t decide if the “club attire” mission was contrived or legitimate as I enter the boutique stocked with impeccable clothing stamped with the Atelier Noir brand.
A beaming saleswoman dressed in a black dress approaches me. “Ms. King? Mr. Bellamy called to tell us that you were coming. Welcome! He’s already had us prepare a few selections for you.”
“Selections?”I don’t like the sound of that. My anxiety is only heightened as the woman leads me through the store and toward a room lined in red velvet where what I assume is a changing area is cordoned off by a scarlet curtain. There, hanging on a far wall, is an array of clothing so exquisite that my palms sweat at the thought of trying them on—silk, satin, lace…
I’ve seen concept sketches of the garments, of course, drawn up by the company’s head of design, his sister Stella—though, like a true masochistic perfectionist, Bellamy reviews them all himself before sending them off to be refined.
Seeing the actual creations in person is another matter entirely. Perched on a table nearby is a selection of black heels, and… no, it can’t be. I shake my head and blink a few times, but the items don’t disappear.
“Is something wrong?” the saleswoman wonders.
I shake my head. “N-No, nothing.”
Other than the fact that Graeme Bellamy apparently went so far as to selectunderwearfor me, in addition to the clothing.
As if on cue, my cell phone buzzes, and I withdraw it only to find a single command flash across the screen:
Show me each item as you try it on.
Then, seconds later, a far more clarifying statement—This isn’t a request.
My palms feel sweaty, and the world starts to spin. He couldn’t possibly mean… Could he? I’m shaking so badly I can barely type out the words—Are you, as my boss, commanding that I strip for you?
His reply, and its swiftness, takes my breath away. Barely a second later, I’m staring dumfounded at the words—If that’s what it will take for you to comply. Fine. Think of it that way.
I’m so stunned I promptly drop my phone on the floor. While the worried assistant chases after it, all I can do is stare into space with a single thought running through my mind on a loop.
That son of a bitch.
CHAPTER4
graeme
Damn Evelyn King and her fucking pouty bottom lip. The sight of her haunts me—or, to be exact, my cock. I feel like a blasted teenager, locking my thighs together during my next series of meetings, just to keep my own lust in check.
Enough.I slam my hand onto the desk before me merely to snap some sense back into my brain. Tonight has nothing to do with seeing Evelyn out of those matronly blouses for the first damn time. It is about keeping her protected. If Riley makes the mistake of thinking my interest in her is merely physical, then he won’t have any interest in using her as a cudgel in his childish game of revenge.
At least, it’s my gamble.
After back-to-back appointments, I return to my office to find the remains of her bloody breakfast on my desk. I start to pitch the oatmeal into the rubbish bin, but at the last minute, I snatch up a fork and take a bite. It’s awful, as per usual, but with every forced swallow, I can smell her scent, still lingering in the air. Roses.
Damn her.
Ignoring the dry texture, I down the whole thing, determined to write off the headache pounding behind my temples as a result of that damned hypoglycemia she loves to cite so much.
It has nothing at all to do with the lack of reply to the text message I sent her nearly four hours ago. It has nothing at all to do with the annoying suspicion that she somehow escaped James and is busy micromanaging my life from some nearby broom closet. It has nothing to do with the way Adrian Riley undressed her with his fucking eyes like she was some kind of tart on display for his amusement.
In irritation, I circle my desk and peer beneath it, half expecting to find her crouched there, clutching her precious little planner for dear life.
The fantasy gives me an idea—the next time she disobeys me, I’ll burn it. Or perhaps use it as a carrot to get what I want—her, stoically by my side, well beyond the reach of anyone. Least of all, Riley.
“Mr. Bellamy?” I turn to find Ann in the doorway, twirling a lock of brown hair around her finger. “Do you need me for anything else?”
