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Bloody hell. She looks almost exactly how she did in that damn nightmare. Her hair is loose. The strap of her black camisole hangs off one shoulder. Her lips are swollen, though perhaps because she’s in the process of biting them as she sets out the very last tie in a shade of black.
“Evelyn.”
She doesn’t look up. Instead, she raises her hands, lowering each finger one by one while counting out loud. “There are nine letters inseverance,” she declares as though fascinated by the fact. Her head falls back, and her eyes finally meet mine, wide and utterly devoid of fear. “You have exactly nine bottles of imported wine.”
“Three bottles of imported wine,” I tell her, taking a step toward the bottle of a rare Italian vintage she reaches for next. “The rest are champagne.”
Without care for my presence, she wraps her lips around the bottle and throws her head back, exposing a throat sculpted as if by god for a man to sink his teeth into. She misjudged how much she could swallow at one time and jerks forward, sputtering priceless wine all over the cream carpet. Despite all appearances, I can tell at a glance that she hasn’t drunk much from any bottle. Even so, her cheeks are already pink, but her grip is steady as she sets the bottle aside.
“If you leave now, I won’t bother with alerting security,” I tell her, but the words lack the conviction I’m used to. As if to bolster them, I dig through my pocket for my mobile. “Iwillcall, Evelyn.”
“I know,” she replies, almost matter-of-factly. “But before you do, all I want is to ask you one question.” Bracing herself on the palm of one hand, she slowly climbs to her feet. Once she’s standing, she faces me directly, her chin jutting into the air. “Why?”
“Evelyn,” I start as my finger hovers over the security contact number. “I suggest you save this discussion for when you’re sober—”
“Bullshit!” She doesn’t back down, and I would expect no less. “Why did you fire me?”
My eyes narrow. “Do you really need a reason?”
“Yes!” She flinches as though I’ve slapped her—which doesn’t make any damn sense. Her hurt pride aside, I gave her more money than she would have seen by the end of the year, with extra for the hell of it.
“You’ve been more than adequately compensated,” I point out. At the same time, I don’t know what possesses me to snatch her opened bottle and take a sip right from the rim. Damn, I can taste her essence, lingering among the glass, sweeter than the liquor itself.
“Compensated?” Spittle flies from her mouth as she snatches the bottle back. “Are you kidding me? I’ve devoted three years of my life to working for you, and this is—”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “So that is what this is about.” I reach into my breast pocket for a pen and snatch a monogrammed notepad from a drawer in my nightstand. “Name an amount, and I’ll have Sarah adjust your check in the morning—”
“This isn’t about money, you pompous ass.” All at once, Evelyn King deflates before my eyes. Her shoulders slump. Her gaze drifts to the floor. She never lowers that stubborn tilt to her jaw, however. No matter how broken she is, she won’t lose her damn propriety. “I just want to know why…”
Why.“Explanations are rarely required beyond a reason scribbled on a customary check, Evelyn. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what you want to hear.”
That her dismissal had absolutely nothing to do with her work ethic and everything to do with…
“Is it about him?” she asks, a hopeful note creeping into her voice that I instantly dislike.
“Who?”
“Adrian Riley.”
“No.” I clench my hands. Unclench them. Then I snatch for the bottle again, though this time she relinquishes it freely. After a hefty swing, I choke out, “Why would you think that?”
“Why?” Either she’s mastered her poker face, or that wine has made her oblivious to the warning in my tone. “Because I know my work ethic is above and beyond anything required of my position, and because you hate himthatmuch. It’s obvious. Or… or maybe this is about the club. Do you think that I can’t handle it?”
She squares her shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the fallen strap of her camisole, which dips a dangerous fraction.
“Handle what?” I shove the bottle toward her, obscuring any bit of flesh potentially bared by her posture.
Rather than drink, she sets it aside, her eyes downcast. “Is that why you fired me? Because, for the record, Ican. It makes perfect sense for Atelier Noir to have a side business that can help foster relations between prized clientele. I could even assist you in its operations.”
“Could you, Evelyn?” Perhaps. Even Adrian Riley would have trouble manipulating someone like her—I can admit as much. Do I want to take that risk? No. Nothing is worth the potential loss. “Consider this your last warning. You have five minutes before I ring for security.”
I turn my back on her and head for the hall. James should still be out front—he can take her home once she’s escorted out.
“Wait.”
That sharp tone alone makes me stop in my tracks. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s swaying on her feet, her lips pulled back from her teeth.
“You—” She jabs her finger in my direction though her voice is too breathless to convey much of a threat. Instead, she sounds exhausted, and somehow that’s more alarming than her anger. “You… you are ameanperson, Graeme Bellamy.”
