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“This isn’t a game, Evelyn,” Mr. Bellamy says, his tone crisper and drier than usual. I glance up, following the rigid line of his jaw. I have sat in on enough of his anger management sessions to know that look, and I instantly feel a twinge of guilt in my stomach. I wasn’t letting him speak. I wasn’t letting him get out whatever it was that seemed to be making him so angry. As aggravating as his smug little insinuations are, now is not the time for banter, even I can admit that.
“Okay,” I tell him, shuffling three steps closer so we stand side by side before the window with the perfect amount of professional distance between us. “I’m listening.”
“We grew up together,” he grits out. “Me. Riley. My brother…”
At first, I assume he was somehow referring to Stella—perhaps there were more secrets lurking within the Bellamy-Ashton skeleton closet than even I could imagine? But no. It was all in the way he uttered that word. Brother. I have never heard him direct even a fraction of that malice toward his sister, considering that, next to him, she was the most valuable asset to the company as the head designer.
“You have a brother.” I say the words carefully, still woefully unprepared for the moment he nods. We’re still not facing each other directly, but I can almost picture his reaction even as I watch it play out over the glass in front of me like some bizarre psychic vision—he’ll straighten his tie, run a hand through his hair, frown. To negate any bit of intimacy that this revelation might foster between us, he’ll, of course, find some way to turn it all on me.
“Yes,” he grunts. “Of course, don’t blame yourself for not knowing that particular piece of information—I hid that fact on purpose.”
I blink. The gruff, bitter tone, yes, that seems to be according to plan. But no insulting barb tacked onto the end of that statement? I don’t know how to process that.
“Why?”
“Because considering the lengths you go through for Gloria, I didn’t really desire to watch you extend the same courtesy tohim,” Bellamy admits. “He’s spent his whole life taking advantage of the goodwill of others.”
I have to take several deep breaths to keep my emotions in check. No… Could I be feeling sympathy for someone like Graeme Bellamy? His situation seems similar to mine. Go figure. Not that I would turn this venting session into an episode of tit for tat.
“I take it that you guys don’t have the best relationship,” I say cautiously, taking a stab in the dark. “Believe it or not, I can relate to that. If you’d tell me about him.”
I expect him to refuse outright. Instead, he frowns, glaring at the view of the city before us. “He failed every preparatory on the continent. My mother eventually had to send him to school in America, where he proudly made a mockery out of our family name every chance he got.”
I say nothing, marveling that he’s speaking to me at all. The strangest part? I can relate to the hard, bitter note in his voice.
“At eighteen, he cut off all ties and disappeared in France for a year,” he continues. “When he turned up again, he broke into the summer house in Nice with some trashy American tourist and ransacked the place without realizing that my mother had been there on holiday. The bastard damn near gave her a heart attack.”
I wring my hands awkwardly and stare down at the polished wood floor. It’s the first time that I’ve ever seen him display some hint of real concern for his mother.
“That’s just the overview of every asinine thing he’s done. More recently, it was entangling himself with Adrian Riley and making a bet that he lost. Spectacularly.”
“And then what happened?” I despise the breathless quality my own voice has taken.
Like someone watching a scene from a tabloid spill out right before her eyes, and she can’t fucking help the greedy desire to learn more.More.It’s like this little itch inside me won’t be satisfied until I do. And not about Adrian Riley, but Graeme Bellamy. How many times has he tried to help his brother and failed? Because I know that damn look—his anger stems more from frustration than true loathing.
God, I need to snap out of it. I shake myself and reach out to drag my fingers down the window glass’ smooth surface. Poor Maria will have to use a bit of Windex to erase the fingerprints, but the icy surface seems to snap some sense into me. Enough that I can look at Graeme Bellamy again without feeling… what is it? Pity?
“Riley and I got into a disagreement. Out of spite, the bastard tricked Alexander into an investment opportunity,” Bellamy admits. “He made it seem like prime real estate, but it was just some sleazy gentleman’s club on the Lower side of London. He also ensured the tabloids discovered that fact so that my family’s name got dragged through the mud. If you look hard enough, you can still find the articles I didn’t manage to bury into obscurity.” He laughs, the sound punctuated by the thud his palm makes when it connects with the window. Hard. Again. A third time.
I can’t stop myself from reaching out, and this time I don’t pull my hand away when he frowns down at it. I let it linger on his forearm—a testament to the insane thrill running through me like a lance. I’m touching Graeme Bellamy. On purpose. For a damn good reason—he stopped hitting the glass, at least.
“Is that the club in London he mentioned?” I ask carefully. Skirting an unfamiliar territory with him feels like playing Frisbee with a lit stick of dynamite. One wrong direction and boom.
“Yes.” He shifts his stance and adjusts his collar as an excuse to rip his arm from my grasp. “Alexander had no choice but to sign the damn thing over to me. He wanted me to sell it, but I decided to make it an… example. If Riley thought to shame me, then I would turn the tables and embrace the challenge.”
His tone is guttural, his expression fearless. This is the man who could move mountains and ruthlessly conquer any task or business he set his mind to.
“I took control of the club. Even managing it inabsentia,I managed to turn it into an exclusive venue that the wealthy and elite clamored to join. I did it out of spite,” he admits. “It was only later that I learned Riley had a similar club here in the States. I think he used the allure of it to convince Alexander that his own club would be a good investment. He named his establishment the Red Room. Naturally, I did the same.” He shrugs, running a finger along his lapel. It strikes me then that money isn’t just a magic cure or a Band-Aid to him. It’s cathartic. He used it to fix his own problems, so of course, to him, it would suffice as a way to fix everyone else’s. “Now, seven years later, the bastard wants to make a ‘merger’ official,” he snarls. “As if I will just roll over and let him take back what I’ve made mine.”
“That… gives me some perspective on the situation,” I say carefully. More like a whole different frickin’ outlook. I do my best to still appear professional, however. The man beside me may have fired me and been a total ass, but even I could admit that having someone from your past waltz back into your life and lay claim to things they had no right to could make for a crappy way to kick off the week.
“Alright,” I say to my sullen reflection. Damn, Graeme Bellamy for making even pissing him off after he insulted me in just about every way imaginable seem cruel. “I’ll stay away from Adrian Riley. Based solely upon my own judgment,” I add hastily.
The last thing I needed in my life was another manipulative asshole. Both Mr. Bellamy and my own brother have that department covered.
“Good,” Mr. Bellamy says, straightening his tie once again. The arrogant bastard has the nerve to clear his throat before stepping away from me as though to pointedly reinforce that any moment of confession is now over.
“Good,” I echo. “And now I’ll be leaving.”
