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“There must be something.” His hands form fists over the table, and the pen he still holds jerks across its makeshift notepad, leaving a glaring black streak over the ivory. “Name it.”
“Maybe…” I lick my lips and try a new line of attack. “Maybe the truth?”
His mouth tightens into a flat line. The pen falls from his grip and rolls across the table. I have to lunge for it before it can fly off the edge. “The truth?”
“Maybe if you told mewhyyou don’t think I should associate with Adrian Riley, rather than try to browbeat me with your checkbook… That might go over a tad better.”
Though, it’s not as if the answer isn’t painfully obvious—he hates the man, and something tells me that Adrian Riley more than readily returns the sentiment. A mutual anger simmers between them—but the polished, suave kind that makes them provoke each other with veiled words and casual threats when any other man would have resorted to fists.
Like Danny, for instance. My brother has never met a problem he couldn’t solve by beating it into a bloody pulp—or being beaten into a pulp. Whichever came first.
I jump, torn from the thought, as Mr. Bellamy stands. One of his hands tugs at his tie while his gaze sets the air between us figuratively on fire. “This isn’t a conversation that I want to have—”
Oh, thank god. “Me either,” I admit, bolting upright. “I’ll leave—”
“In public,” Mr. Bellamy continues over me. He turns and crosses the small dining room, drawing eyes with every step. Not even because he’s fuming, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Most likely because, in spite of being furious, he looks damn handsomewhilefuming. For the first time, I notice the slight curl to his hair that usually isn’t there. He must have washed it this morning and left without combing every single strand into place as per usual. I can’t resist the part of me that pictures him in the shower, washing away every wayward germ that might have touched his skin. Washingmeaway. The thought makes my breath hitch in my throat. I wonder if the water was cold…
“Ms. King?” He doesn’t even bother to look back at me as he dominates the doorway, his posture rigid enough to rival that of a statue. I start forward, picking my way through tables, and he leads the way across the lobby, toward the elevators…
“No.” I dig my heels into the polished marble, shaking my head. Only then do I realize where he might be headed.This isn’t a conversation that I want to have in public.“We can talk in the car,” I suggest while Bellamy casually strikes the button, indicating he plans to ascend to an upper level.
When the elevator finally does arrive, he glances back at me, and for the first time in so long… I can’t read his expression.
“You named your price, Ms. King,” he says in that raspy, warning tone. “I’m willing to pay it. Unless you’ve changed your mind and decided to accept my previous offer.”
Standing there, the picture of poise, as he offers to take me up to his private suite and discuss what I assume is an intimate aspect of his personal life… Graeme Bellamy has never looked more intimidating. Or more dangerous. He could offer me a million dollars, and—as much as I might kick myself for it later—I could easily walk away. But if he instead promises to reveal even a sliver of information about himself that I hadn’t learned on my own?
Well, it is a tempting proposition, to say the least.
“Ms. King?” He glances back before stepping into the elevator. He braces one hand against the side, preventing the doors from closing, but his terse frown warns me that he won’t wait forever.
“Fine.” I start forward and enter the elevator, pressing my body against the corner as far away from him as the narrow space will allow. I hold my breath as the doors close, and the lift begins its ascent, and then I do the unthinkable and follow Graeme Bellamy right to the door of his penthouse suite.
He pulls his card key from his pocket and swipes it through the reader. When the door opens, I don’t see any hint of Maria in the foyer. Did he really fire her? I glance at him, letting my eyes drift over the firm set of his shoulders. Despite everything that has transpired between us within the past twenty-four hours, I still don’t believe he’d be that cruel. Firing me without warning was one thing, but even I could admit that, given our history and despite my dedication to the job, for all I knew, it could have been a long time coming.
As he slams the door behind him, I tally up all the reasons Graeme Bellamy could have amassed over the past three years to reach the decision to let me go. Our relationship wasn’t exactly friendly, for one. I constantly nagged him about his meals, admittedly overstepping a few boundaries between concern and borderline obsession with his health. Not to mention, I’m the only one apart from Gloria who seems to have no trouble telling him to his face just what I think.
“You said something about a conversation,” I say, prompting him when he doesn’t speak. Ignoring me still, he moves to stand before the impressive view of the city revealed through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows that lines this side of the loft. It’s turned into another dreary day with a storm hovering over the horizon, a fitting omen of my luck. “Perhaps we can reschedule,” I add, when Bellamy still makes no attempts to speak. There are much more important ways I could be spending this day, such as tracking down a moving company to help clear my apartment before Danny makes himself too comfortable.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Bellamy says to me, and I promptly lose my train of thought—correction—the train flips the tracks and explodes in a fiery wreck. The look he gives me from over his shoulder… Intense would be one way to describe it. Maybe even vulnerable. Real emotion spills out, bubbling beneath the indigo crust of those two incredible eyes.
“Who… who fool me?” I pant once I find my breath.Snap out of it, Evie.I lace my hands together behind my back and pinch myself on the wrist, just once. The little bit of pain tethers me somewhat back to reality, but his gaze never loses that honest quality, even as he frowns.
“Adrian Riley,” he says as though the answer were obvious. Though maybe it is. These past few days, everything seemed to lead back to that name one way or the other.
“Who is he?” I ask, taking a single step closer. To hear him better. The impulse has nothing at all to do with the way my fingers twitch as if aching to brush his shoulder. Because touching him would be a very stupid thing to do… Even if he looks seconds from sending his fist through one of the crowning centerpieces of his high rise. Okay, on second thought, preventing vandalism seems to be a damn good reason to shirk the rules. I reach out. Inhaling sharply, I brush the tips of my fingers along the side of his forearm, just hard enough that he flinches and glares at my hand. The gesture distracts him from the window, at least.
“Someone you do not want to entangle in your life, I can assure you that,” he says while I take a quick step back and tuck the offending fingers into my pocket. They burn. A lot. Or maybe it’s more like a… tingle. The same tingle I feel in a place where I haven’t “tingled” without the aid of a battery-operated machine in so damn long.
Okay, maybe not that long. Since last night, whenhisfingers had made an impromptu stand-in. I can tell in the almost mirror-like reflection shining off the glass before us that he isn’t looking at me. Thank god. I fight to school my own horrified expression into a blank mask and then take another two quick steps away from him. “It’s not like I’ve gone out of my way to associate with him, so I think you don’t have much to worry about—”
“You haven’t,” Bellamy interjects. “Hehas. Don’t tell me you’re really naive enough to think that Jezebel woman just randomly crossed your path—”
“Dahlia,” I correct, irritated for reasons I can’t explain. Perhaps it’s the self-centered way that he assumes the one bit of human interaction I’ve had outside of him had to be all about… well,him. Granted, I didn’t believe that Dahlia had been out on a casual stroll either, but the point was—that was the most amount of fun I’ve had in years. All three of the ones spent working for him included. I had needed that. So. Damn. Much. It’s funny how I hadn’t even realized it until Dahlia had whipped out the first bottle of disgustingly pink nail polish while we waited for her masseuse to arrive. “And I can assure you that neither you, nor Adrian Riley, were mentioned once during our spa day.”
Those two words draw an almost comical reaction from him—he wrinkles his nose like a boy caught staring at his mother’s lingerie drying on the clothesline. “I can assure you that anything he or his associates do always has an ulterior motive lurking behind it.”
“Well, maybe I did as well. Have you considered that?” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “After all, how else would I score a private meeting with a Swedish masseuse flown directly from Sweden—”
