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“Oh no, darling,” she says, her lips upturned in an amused smirk. “Not even close.”
Is that a hint of jealousy I detect? I can’t tell for sure as I follow her pointed stare toward Riley’s office. While we have no way of knowing what’s going on between the two men, I can guess that Dahlia’s picked up on the same bristling tension I have. “What does that mean?” I ask.
She winks. “It means, trust no one and keep your eyes peeled. Oh look, it seems as though their meeting went as well as can be expected,” she mutters under her breath, as my arm is firmly gripped from behind. I nearly fall out of my seat, sloshing cognac onto my gown and instantly throwing at least two grand of Graeme Bellamy’s money down the figurative drain. Good, after the position he’s put me in, he deserves the added expense.
“We’re leaving. Now.” The hand encircling my arm becomes a manacle that yanks me to my feet and spins me around to face the man attached to it. He looks strange up this close… with the lighting so dim and more than a few sips of brandy in my system. His eyes seem brighter. His jaw stronger. His lips softer…
“Evelyn.” He scowls at the glass clutched in my fist, and I scramble to set it on the counter.
“Thank you,” I choke out to Dahlia, who merely watches the exchange, her cat-like eyes glimmering.
I don’t know if she ever says a word in return before I find myself dragged through the thick of the club and shoved into an elevator. Bellamy’s scowl alone deters anyone else from trying to squeeze in beside us, and he smashes nearly his entire fist against the button for the lobby.
As Dahlia surmised, the meeting apparently had gone as “well” as expected when you threw two powerful men into a room alone. My eyes trace Bellamy’s jaw, searching for any hint of a bruise or scratch. I find nothing but flawless skin. Nothing but a face most women would die to have directed their way. Nothing but a man who ironically seems tailor-made for a place aptly named the Red Room. Physically, at least.
The cognac in my system makes me blurt out the words that should have stayed locked up. “I didn’t know you were a gigolo.” It’s funny how disappointed I sound. In forty-eight hours, I went from knowing everything there was to know about Graeme Bellamy to working for a stranger who consorts with the owners of “gentleman’s clubs” and apparently even owns one of his own.
“I know you aren’t drunk, Evelyn,” Bellamy warns.
But what if I am? Even a little. My scowling reflection faces me in the polished interior of the elevator before the doors open, splitting me right down the middle. A drunk Evie would be entitled to feel hurt, betrayed, uneasy…
Either he doesn’t experience such emotions himself, or he doesn’t care because Mr. Bellamy says nothing by way of support when he breezes past me and starts across the main lobby. Even scowling and sour—or perhaps because of that—the bastard still draws eyes wherever he goes. He can’t help himself.
For once, I don’t hurry after him. I take my time, balancing on each wicked heel as I scan Bellamy from head to toe, trying to discern what he might be thinking. He’s watching me as well, with his head tilted as though he’s trying to disguise that fact. Then he stops short without warning and turns around. My breath catches at the realization that I have his full attention. Slowly his eyes perform a march up my hips, then down. Up again.
A hot, uneasy feeling washes over me, making me squirm. Shiver. His jaw is clenched, his gaze narrowed. Almost as if he’s…
Checking me out in a way no boss should view his subordinate.
“Evelyn.” He spins abruptly and waits for me to catch up before storming onto the street. James is already standing beside the car, and the moment I climb in after Bellamy, he navigates us through the streets.
“Take me home first,” Bellamy says. His hands are laced together over his lap, the knuckles stark white. James must have put our takeaway in the front seat because the rich smell of steak permeates the entire space. If I’m not mistaken, I can hear Bellamy’s stomach growl.
Serves him right.
Trapped beside him, I feel alongside my hip before realizing what I’m searching for—my planner. My fingers are itching for my pen—there is so much new information to jot down. So many key points to bold and underline. The Red Room. Adrian Riley—philandering businessman extraordinaire. And Graeme Bellamy…?
When my hand finally settles over a firm surface, I know instantly that it’s not my handy dandy guide. It’s too warm, for one. Flesh encased in tailored cotton, coiled over firm muscle sculpted by regular exercise. Pulsing too, as if an indescribable wave of tension threatens to break free. I don’t know why, but I look up, seeking out his face in the dark.
He’s already staring back, his expression unreadable. Then it hits me that I’m touching him without permission, and I instantly pull back. My fingers tingle, and I rub them along the skirt of my dress to displace the feeling. It doesn’t. This odd, growing sense of unease keeps building in my chest the longer the awkward silence between us goes on.
After nearly a minute, I can’t resist prodding him, “You could have told me.”
In response, Bellamy grinds his teeth together so fiercely the sound almost seems mechanical.
“Before we went in. I mean… most people have certain proclivities,” I add. Especially those rich enough to afford prime real estate to advertise it.
“Proclivities, Evelyn?” Bellamy repeats, clipping the word.
I don’t rehash the slew of information I’ve found out tonight—though hell, I suspect James already knew. Dahlia certainly did. I was the only one unfortunate enough not to have been clued in on the true mystery surrounding Bellamy and Riley.
Because one of those men had worked very hard to cut me out of said knowledge despite dragging me along with him and paying me a fixed salary that depended on my knowing everything about his life.
I don’t like this feeling building in my chest. This prickling, creeping sensation that crawls over my skin. My eyes land on a stack of magazines tucked into the back pocket of the front seat, and I lunge for them. Business Journals and old copies of TIME. I shuffle through the covers, organizing them alphabetically in the darkness.
“You could have told me about your past history with Mr. Riley, for one. Rivalries happen all the time. I would have understood.”
“Would you?” He turns to inspect me, but something in his gaze feels… off. Cold. Pointed. Sharp. “I’m sure there are things about your past that you could have told me. You didn’t.”
