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“Yes.” Bellamy nods, still eyeing the view. “That will be all, Ms. King.”
That will be all.The way he says those words resonates oddly in my brain. And then it hits me. Something insane. Something so selfish and impulsive that it should have come from a toddler and not a grown man. “Is that why?”
He frowns. “Why what?”
Oh, no, you don’t, I think as I approach him. “Isthatwhy you fired me? Adrian Riley?”
Bellamy laughs. Not a real laugh, per se. One of those obnoxious “oh hardy, har har, the riff-raff can be so delightfully amusing” rich person laughs. The kind I’d been subjected to my whole life as the poor girl on scholarship while her father traveled the world, and her delinquent brother scandalized every young, desperate girl within a ten-mile radius. One of those fucking laughs.
“I won’t deny that he wouldn’t hesitate to use you in some scheme should the idea strike him,” he admits. “But seriously, Evelyn, your work wasn’t exactly flawless.”
My entire existence could be summed up with the need for tough skin. I can roll with the punches and handle any insult tossed my way. I was too short. Too skinny. Too chubby. Too blond. Too blue-eyed. Too this. Too that.
Whatever. The remark might sting in the moment, but I could shrug it off. Stiff upper lip, like Dad always said. Anyone could insult me all they liked—Evelyn King. But never my work. Especially not three fucking years of it.
I inhale sharply as everything flashes red. The view. Graeme Bellamy. My shaking hands. I do my best to wrestle the anger back down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Somewhere during the process, I wind up choking on it all.
“My work?” I repeat hoarsely.
“Yes,” Bellamy nods along with his own warped logic even as it spews from his perfect mouth. “I won’t deny that you were efficient, Evelyn, but you could be insubordinate. And lately, you’ve had a habit of leaving your tasks unfinished…”
My right eye twitches. Unfinished. “Like what?”
He turns on me. With one well-placed advance, he has me staggering back against the window. The beautiful view becomes a prison, pinning me in place for the single searching, fiery look he sends in my direction.
“Yourlasttask, to be exact,” he says with so much anger prickling from his tone that my entire body jolts beneath the sting. “When you seemed to be in the middle of demonstrating all of the multitudes of ways that I am a failure in bed.”
My mind goes blank. Dead. Naked. Empty. “T-That… that…”
“Yes, that,” Bellamy says with a nod. He fingers his tie again, entwining his forefinger around the gray silk. It’s dangerous imagery. All those memories I’ve been fighting back since waking up this morning in this very penthouse threaten to descend.
“That was nothing—”
“Then we’re of agreement,” Bellamy says over me. “Which brings me to our final piece of business. Admit it, and I’ll let you go.” He sounds like a teacher, bestowing extra credit upon a bothersome student as long as she says please.
“Admit what?” I manage to croak. His eyes, god, his eyes… I don’t like the way they scan my face, searching for any sign of weakness to exploit. I don’t like the increasingly ruthless way he clenches his jaw. Or how his fingers tighten their grip on his tie so much the knuckles whiten.
He steps closer, towering over me amid the scent of designer cologne. The motion forces me to crane my neck back just to continue to hold his gaze. In an instant, I know with frightening certainty just where he’ll attempt to steer this already dangerous conversation. “Admit that I made you—”
“Unemployed?” I supply, thinking fast. If I kick him in the right spot, I might be able to run past him and reach the elevators before he could stop me. I let my brain toy with the plan, but my body seems unwilling to set it into motion.
“Should I give you a reminder?” Bellamy wonders. He has no damn business looking so… menacing as he tears his hand from his tie as if displaying every sinful finger. “Something about my not being able to get a woman to—”
“I was drunk.” I say the words as though they explain everything. To him. To myself. I was drunk—ergo, anything that happened afterward could be proudly blamed on the wine. Not his touch that raised goosebumps over my body whenever I let myself think about it. His fingers. His voice… every gritted, barely audible word being growled into my ear as he moved his hand between my legs. “Congratulations, Mr. Bellamy, you achieved what my hand operated dil—”
“Shall I give you a refresher?” He touches my chin, placing his thumb against my lower lip. I could bite him if I wanted—not that I’d give him any other reason to chase me down. “You said, and I quote, ‘your money and a few photo ops wouldn’t satisfy me enough to make up for where you lack.’”
The sudden rasp in his baritone does something strange to my heartbeat—it’s surging. I can’t seem to catch my breath. My sanity. Anything. I can only feel his thumb against my lower lip and breathe him in—he smells like all things impossibly rich and impeccable. Designer cologne. Ink from a seven-hundred-dollar ink pen. Cognac.
If someone who was even half of what he represented flirted with me, I knew myself well enough to admit my guard would fall… and my panties would easily follow. But Graeme Bellamy does not flirt—he intimidates and overpowers to get his way.
“I think I achieved one goal to make you rethink your words,” he tells me, his voice softer. Volatile. “Should I be blunter?” His mouth is by my ear, his body dangerously close—within reach of my frantically heaving chest.
“I think I should leave now, Mr. Bellamy.” It’s a struggle to even get the words out. I try to slip past him, but his hand meets the glass beside my head before I can move, trapping me.
“I think you should admit it, Ms. King,” Bellamy says as though he’s proposing the most natural thing in the world. We’re discussing the weather—not this. Not… “Admit it, and I’ll let you go. Our business will be concluded, and you’ll have the highest recommendation to list in your references.”
“And what should I admit, exactly?” He’s too close. He knows how fast my heart is beating. He can see the sweat beading over my brow. His tongue shoots out along his lower lip as though tasting the panic I can’t even attempt to hide.
