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“I tried to convince him to call you—”
My hand withdraws from the wall and meets it again—so harshly that Gloria hears the resounding thud on her end and gasps.
“Graeme—”
“When?”
“He got on the plane early this morning.” Apparently, she meant morning in London, hence the four-a.m. phone call. I do the math, frowning with every blasted second that’s passed.
“Where is he headed?” The question is merely a formality—I already know the answer.
“Here, of course. It’s only for a month, darling. He just needs some time to get back on his feet. His last business venture failed, but he’s already secured the capital for a new investment opportunity…”
A month. Which for Alexander meant nothing more than a span of time during which he would try every trick known to man to accomplish whatever asinine scheme he believes will make him rich this week.
“Fine. Goodbye.” I hang up and toss the phone aside without bothering to see where it lands.
I pace the length of the bed while mentally tearing through my options—there aren’t many. The doorman already has Alexander’s profile with strict instructions not to let him in—not that it will be enough. I’m sure Gloria gave him the address out of spite. I’m sure he’s already mapped out the quickest route to my office from the airport. He must have used the money she sent him to buy a ticket in the first place.
And I’m sure his sudden desire for travel can be traced back to none other than Adrian Riley.
That, if anything, should take precedence over whatever else transpired since last night. My main focus should be anticipating whatever move my so-called brother might make next.
Not a woman. Not this blasted feeling of discomfort that only grows whenever I so much as take a bloody step. There’s only one damn way to get rid of this feeling. I enter the bathroom and turn on the walk-in shower to the coldest setting. When I strip my boxers and climb beneath the spray, I believe that it’ll work.
Apparently not. Five minutes in, my teeth chatter while all the blood in my body seems determined to stay south. Damn it. I switch the water to warm and palm my cock in my fist, picturing the usual specimen I prefer to have in my bed—brunette, large tits, plenty of pedigree. Four strokes should do the trick. By the fifth, I’m shaking, my teeth gritted, my free hand pressed against the shower stall. The only damn way to end this seems to be to allow my brain to play the images it wants to—red silk, black lace… blond, messy hair that isn’t quite straight, but it’s not curly either. That face…
My breathing quickens as heat roils through my abdomen, and I sacrifice pride for comfort. The images come faster.Those lips. Those eyes. Her hand on my shoulder, the nails clenching.
My grip tightens as I rock on my heels, pumping into my fist.
I see an image of her half naked, and it’s over. Any evidence is washed down the drain, and when I finally leave the bathroom, draped in a towel, I’m sure that the presence of Evelyn King in my dreams is a sign. A promising one.
Men like Adrian Riley go for the jugular when planning an attack. They strike exactly where they expect their victim to bleed the most. Once, his target was Alexander, and now, he seems to have set his sights on Evelyn. Can I blame him? Not really. After all, everyone has a weakness that can easily be exploited.
Everyone but me.
CHAPTER10
evie
It’s another one of those dreary mornings where my ringtone competes with the buzz of my alarm clock to snap me awake. When I sleepily scroll through my messages, I find that all three are from Branden, each one increasingly urgent.
He’s in the office early,claims the first one.He’s already hunting for his dossier, adds the second. The final message sends me lurching out of bed and staggering toward my dresser—He’s asking for you.
I stub my toe on the edge of my end table but bite back the pain as I snatch the hanger containing my outfit for today—already picked out a week in advance—and dart into the bathroom. In ten minutes, I’m dressed and save time by throwing my hair into a bun without bothering to brush it. Breakfast for myself is a limp piece of bread, while Bellamy’s is already prepared and waiting in the fridge. I count down the minutes as I toss everything I need for the day into my canvas bag, and scan the end table on my way out of the door.Picture.Vase. Statue. Ficus.
Perfect.
The next hour passes in a blur as I race to the subway station and the four blocks to the corporate offices. By the time I arrive on the top floor, I’m panting, my blouse is sticking to my body by a layer of sweat, and Mr. Bellamy is nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the boardroom,” I hear Ann call from her desk.
Strange. While it’s not unusual for Bellamy to arrive at the office early, he typically sends me a terse email commanding that I also show up. I quickly check my messages but find nothing again. Odd.
My heart pounds as I exit the office and start down the short hallway. I find the infamous boardroom door wide open, and Graeme Bellamy already seated at the head of the long table, his eyes stern and focused.
A bad sign.
