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Mayday, Evie.A hot flush creeps over me, and I pinch myself discretely to fight back the panic. He couldn’t possibly know about… Could he? No.I shake my head firmly. I made sure to have all traces of my past erased and expunged. He’s just being his usual paranoid self.
Without a word, Bellamy snatches the magazines from my hands and shoves them back into the seat pocket, their covers askew and their order messier than before.
“It’s late,” he growls, as if the time alone combats the fact that he apparently is a shareholder in some kind of sex club. Seconds later, James pulls up before his building, and Bellamy reaches for the door handle. He pushes it open and places one foot on the curb before my hand lands on his shoulder.
“Wait.” I rise out of my seat and reach for the bag of takeaway. Then I shove it onto Bellamy’s lap before he can argue.
His eyes are on my fingers, narrowed in suspicion. I can sense his body tense beneath my fingertips before he shrugs me off and steps onto the curb. When he marches toward the doorman, he’s still holding the bag of food, however.
That’s one small win for Evie King in a day of straight losses.
I’ll take it.
CHAPTER9
graeme
“Graeme.” My bedmate’s voice is a husky trickle against my ear. “You could have told me…”
Told her what exactly? She doesn’t say. She doesn’t mention being part of a high-profile kidnapping saga either. Or that her name isn’t truly Evelyn King.
For the moment, none of that seems important. In fact, all conversation ceases to matter as her mouth travels south. She’s small, her weight balanced on my chest, her narrow hips straddling mine. Her rose perfume clings to the inside of my nostrils, but I don’t feel the need to shove her away.
Instead, I feel through the darkness, dig my fingers into the thick of her hair and yank to indicate where her mouth should move next. Her breath fans my throat as she laughs. “Patience, Mr. Bellamy.”
Easy for her to say. I let my eyes open and take her in, roaming the thin torso barely covered by an ebony bra. One strap hangs down her shoulder, revealing a dangerous array of pale skin underneath. My fingers twitch, aching to pull the damn thing off entirely and take her in bare. Her hair messy, her lips swollen and parted, her body begging to be fucked as her hips grind rhythmically against mine. But those eyes…
Wait.
“Is something wrong?” She cocks her head, sending her hair cascading down one shoulder. “Mr. Bellamy?”
I don’t answer. I just shove her off and jump from the damn bed.
Something is wrong, because if there is one woman who shouldn’t be anywhere near my cock it is Evelyn, bloody King.
* * *
The damn nightmare jolts me awake at four in the morning. The day gets no better when I check my mobile and discover several missed calls from Gloria. Bloody hell, that woman can sense the most inopportune times to intrude into my life.
I entertain the thought of humoring her while I pull on a pair of fresh clothes. Then I regain my senses and head to the gym instead. Two hours of lifting weights do little to help relieve the exhaustion—and even worse, they don’t distract from the ghastly memory—Evelyn King inmybed.
In three years, I’ve never dreamt of her. Until now, I would have assumed that any nightmare shedidstar in would involve her chasing me around with a banana while screaming about blasted hypoglycemia.
Not her in my bed… naked. And it definitely didn’t make sense for me to wake up from said nightmare with a lot more than a frightful shock. Even dripping sweat and panting with exertion, the front of my shorts doesn’t loosen. No matter how many damn barbells I curl or weights I lift, Evelyn King’s face won’t disappear. Ultimately, I settle for the lesser of two evils when I return to my loft and snatch my cell phone from the bedside table.
“What?” I growl, the moment Gloria sleepily answers the other end. I glance at the clock on the wall above my bed—it’s six-fifteen. Even for her, it’s an unusual time to be awake without a drink.
“Good morning, Graeme,” she replies, her voice raspy before her morning sip of vodka. “Did you get my messages—”
“I did,” I snarl without an ounce of remorse for the tone. “Now, what is it?”
“Well, perhaps we should discuss this over lunch, darling.”
I feel myself frown. Gloria rarely retreats from any chance to exert her particular brand of mothering. “What. Is. It?”
She sighs and surrenders with a single statement. “Alexander is flying to America.”
My jaw snaps shut, and I brace my palm against the wall to keep my fingers from curling. “What did you just say?”
