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Without acknowledging her request, I push past her, toward James, who circles around to the boot of the car when I nod toward it. I toss the bag inside and slam the lid before she can reach for it.
“What are you doing?”
“Lunch,” I tell her, stepping toward the back seat as James moves to open the door. “We have a meeting.” The real appointment will be pushed back. After all, it won’t take long to square away what few details I have left to discuss with Evelyn King. I replace James and grip the door by its handle, jerking my chin toward the opening. “Get in.”
A freshly-plucked eyebrow rises into a fringe of blond hair. It’s two inches shorter than before, courtesy of Dahlia, I suspect. The resulting length frames her face, barely brushing her shoulders. I frown. A bob doesn’t suit her. Her hair should be longer—long enough to use as a leash to drag her to heel when she chooses not to listen.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bellamy.” It takes all her professional, polite nature to tack my name onto the end of that sentence. “Everything that needed to be said, we discussed last night.” She inhales shakily and hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “So, I’ll be leaving. Now.” She glances expectantly at the boot, but I make no move toward it.
“Is that so?”
She nods, but the way her cheeks redden warns me that she already suspects what my next line of attack will be.
“I think we left a lot of thingsunsaidlast night.”
“If you want to press trespassing charges, you know where to reach me.”
I can’t tell if she’s deliberately avoiding any mention of what happened or if it really didn’t stick out in what seems to be a string of moments spent half-dressed in the home of another man.
“And what if I wanted to press charges of sexual assault?”
She reddens even more and inhales as her mouth wordlessly opens and closes. “You… you can’t be serious.”
I jerk the door open wider. “Get in.”
She doesn’t move. Instead, her chin juts even higher, her hands clenching into fists. “No.”
“No?” Before today, I’ve never heard that word come from her mouth, directed at me. No.
“Press charges,” she tells me. “Do whatever you want. The least I can offer you is to have the carpet cleaned—”
“And the bedsheets?”
Within the span of a second, something snaps inside Evelyn King. Her eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them—blazing. She draws herself up to her full height and steps toward me, heedless of the scene we create. “Do you want me to admit it? Is that it?” she demands. “I got fired. I got drunk. I gotfinger-fuckedby my egoistical ex-boss, and I thoroughly regret it. Are you happy now, Mr. Bellamy?”
Her little outburst draws attention from the patrons entering and leaving the club, and everyone within a one-block radius. Something tells me that we’ve caught the attention of a certain duo watching from the upper floor as well.
“Get in.” I take my hand off the door handle and grab her arm instead. She doesn’t expect the motion and can only gasp in shock when I shove her onto the back seat. I climb in after her before she can scramble back out. Her hand is already grasping for the handle of the opposite door, but I beat her to the punch by reaching past the front seat on my end and engaging the master lock.
“James,” I start as I slam the door behind me. “ThePetit Mangercafé—”
“No.” Evelyn maneuvers her body as close to the door on her end as physically possible, her hand digging through her bag. A second later, she withdraws a small, nondescript bottle, the nozzle aimed at my face. “Let me out. Now.”
For the second time in as many days, Evelyn King makes me laugh—really laugh. I throw my head back. My chest heaves with each sharp bark. When I finally trail off, I don’t answer her directly, instead turning my attention to the front seat. “James.”
“James?” Evelyn seconds, her voice a higher octave than usual. “Let me out.”
It shouldn’t take the man nearly a minute to make his choice. In the end, he squares his shoulders and silently steers the car into the thick of traffic. I can see his expression in the rearview mirror—furrowed brow and terse frown. I make a mental note to increase his next check before focusing my attention right back on Evelyn King.
She’s glaring, a look similar to the kind she gave the bureaucrat that she verbally eviscerated in French. That snobbish, prudish sneer. In fact, I almost believe she just might use that pepper spray.
“I don’t have anything to say to you. Mr. Bellamy,” she adds at the last possible second, making the moniker seem more like an insult than anything else.Mr. Bellamy.
“Good,” I tell her, glancing from the window as the buildings of midtown streak past. “I suppose you’ll find it a relief that all you need to do is listen.”
“To what?”
I mull over her question. Which of the many pieces of advice did she need to hear? How about the most helpful tip to begin with. “I’ll keep it simple. Stay away from Adrian Riley.”
