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“Oh.” Dahlia shrugs and rises from the bench. Pouchie falls into step behind her, and they create an impressive pair as they stroll toward me. “Same here. I decided to treat myself to a spa day, actually…” Her gaze roves down to my suitcase and the overly-stuffed canvas bag on my shoulder. “Are you traveling out of town?”
“Something like that,” I croak. My palms are sweating. My heart is racing. I’m blinking too rapidly.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t know how to respond to that question. For the first time in so long, I’m simply not prepared. There’s no plan on the horizon. No neat list of tasks to complete. I’m virtually homeless, and yet I have more money in my account than I’ve ever seen at one time. The irony makes me burst out laughing, and Dahlia’s concern only seems to grow.
“Evie?” She takes a step closer, preceded by a cloud of heavy perfume. Her fingers brush my shoulder, and the gesture feels oddly… reassuring? Like the friendly hugs I shared with my roommates, back when I had a normal social life. “Is everything alright?”
I tear my free hand through my hair, only to irritate a million sore spots I hadn’t noticed before. Oh, that’s right. Graeme Bellamy has a penchant for pulling hair,in additionto being a chauvinist pig with the ability to kiss like a mythical Roman god.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, as if the pain can erase the memory of him there. Then I shake my head. Nod. “I just need…”
“A spa day?” Dahlia guesses with a knowing grin. She tugs on her pink leash, sending her puppy skipping to her side. “Care to join us? Pouchie and I have room for one more. Perhaps I could even give you some tips on how to play my favorite game.” Her pointed tone makes me recall our previous conversation. A game. That’s how she described Riley and Bellamy’s relationship.
With me smack dab in the middle of their twisted gameboard.
“Evelyn?” She raises an eyebrow as Pouchie tugs on his leash. “Perhaps you’re too busy?”
As she gives in to Pouchie’s silent commands to move, I follow her. “Wait…”
I’m smart enough to read between the lines as to what she’s really after—a trade. Information on Bellamy, perhaps, in exchange for clarity about his relationship with Adrian Riley.
Any other day I’d refuse her offer on principle—Evelyn King didn’t need pity from anyone. But any other day, I would have a job. Any other day, the last man to get into my pants wouldn’t have indirectly paid for them through my salary.Andany other day, I wouldn’t be trolling central park with all my belongings shoved into a suitcase and no clue where to go next.
So, I nod and smile warily at the only person I’ve met within the past forty-eight hours who doesn’t seem determined to fire or unnerve me.
“Sure,” I say, alarmed to realize that I almost sound genuinely excited. “I’d love a spa day. And, a chance to learn thisgameof yours.”
CHAPTER15
graeme
“Ihave your messages, Sir,” Ann declares with a nervous swallow. She stands in the center of my office, trying her damn hardest to meet my gaze directly, but her eyes keep darting toward the same spot exactly two paces beside my desk, as if fascinated by what—or who—is missing. While Evelyn King has put up with me for three damn years, I doubt Ann could last three more minutes if today is a repeat of the last.
“Summarize them,” I tell her, attempting to keep my tone as neutral as possible. The restraint is in vain—she flinches anyway and runs a trembling hand down the front of her skirt. I can’t help the impatience in my voice. Riley may have won the last battle, but I intend to win the war—starting with tasking James with finding out anything he can about Evelyn KingorEvelyn Browning. Normally, he could have an opposition file on my desk within hours.
It’s been days.
“Okay. Three are from your m-mother,” Ann stammers. “Two are from Andrew Perigrine. One is from the majority shareholder in that accounting firm you met with last week, and one is from Adrian Riley.”
I sit forward, my eyes narrowing. “Say that name again.”
Ann flinches, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. “Um… Adrian Riley?”
I glance at my watch and note the time. It’s barely nine a.m. Riley prefers to let his prospects stew, so either he changed his mode of operation overnight, or he’s plotting something. “The last one,” I snap at Ann, who stiffens on the spot. “What did it say?”
“Uh, he just wanted to know if you would like to join him for lunch.”
Another alarming sign. Riley loves more than anything to dangle any newfound leverage over the head of his enemy—especially in a public setting. A meal was a symbolic representation that typically ended in him gaining the upper hand, our last disastrous meeting included. If I had any ounce of tact, I’d refuse this newer invitation without a second thought.
“Return the call,” I tell Ann while lacing my fingers together so they can’t curl into fists. “Tell him noon. I’ll pick the place.” Preferably, some loud, uncouth venue where they only serve beer on tap and cognac is mistaken for a last name.
“Um… Sir?” Ann wrings her hands nervously and refuses to meet my gaze.
“What is it?”
“Healready mentioned a time and place.”
