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Unless she’d already found a new man to pester.
According to James, she left not long after I had. Where could she have gone without her bank cards or I.D.? I tried not to give a damn. Instead, I crossed over to my mobile. The damn thing still works, and James again picks up on the first ring when I call.
“Sir?”
I glance at the nightstand, reading off the hotel’s name from the glossy brochure propped against the body of a silver lamp. “The Hilton suites. Come and get me—”
“I’m already outside, Sir,” James says smoothly over me. “But there is something else we should discuss. I think it might be best to do so in person.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. James isn’t one for cryptic preludes. In fact, the only other time I remember him sounding that concerned was when a rival company stole our winter collection, and Stella had to draft up new designs in a fortnight. The memory makes my jaw clench. Has Riley done something similar? I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop where the bastard is concerned. Before leaving the suite, I pause only to grab Evelyn’s belongings from the dresser, the mug of coffee still steaming on the nightstand.
Out front, James is waiting, as promised, ready to usher me into the vehicle. One look at his face, and I know that whatever has concerned him is far more than some damn designs.
“What is it?” I ask as I settle into the back seat. After closing the door on my end, he says nothing until he claims the driver’s seat. Even then, his only form of communication is to reach back and drop a stack of documents onto the seat beside me.
One glance at the topmost page, and I see red. Evelyn King is staring at me, barely clothed, the dressing room of Atelier Noir visible behind her. The page itself is a printout of a website page, with a glaring black headline—BELLAMY REPORTED TO EXTORT EMPLOYEES FOR PERSONAL GAIN.
Apparently, the writer meant to aim this as a hit piece against my reputation, but the only images he chose to use are of her. Evelyn King vulnerable and exposed—and every one she’d sent only to me.Fuck.I can’t think straight. My hands are in fists, and I have to force myself to grit out, “What the bloody hell is this?”
“I found that on a tabloid website an hour ago,” James replies, all while effortlessly steering the car into the early morning traffic. “I had it taken down, of course. The publisher of the website refused to name their source, but with some mild persuasion, I was able to learn a location from which the photos were emailed.”
He’s playing coy on purpose, too tactful to insult my intelligence by stating plainly what I already fucking know. Damn it. I scowl at the memory of that Riley woman prancing after Evelyn with her “innocently” misplaced mobile. One might think the action too childish for Adrian Riley, but I know the bastard.
And I know the only logical solution to solve this problem.
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”
“All traces of the images have been removed,” James replies, his tone level. “The publisher has given me his word that he will not share them again. Still, I have alerted the legal department. Shall I inform Ms. King?”
“No! No…” I slam a fist into the leather upholstery of the car, but the pain lancing through my knuckles does little to snap some sense back into me. If Evelyn knew, she’d be furious, liable to remove Adrian Riley of his balls. I’d have every right to make her eat crow and admit that I’ve been telling her the truth about the blasted git all along.
And in the process, she’d be humiliated.
“Sir?” James prods. “I could have the legal department reach out to her should you not want to get involved—”
“I’ll handle it,” I insist with a sigh. “Just get me to the office before I have you contact a hitman.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
Twenty minutes later, he lets me off before the Atelier Noir headquarters, where Evelyn King and her damn scent are nothing but a distant memory.
“Good morning, Mr. Bellamy,” Ann calls once I ascend to the top floor and pass her desk. I don’t even have the sense to return the greeting before entering my office. A janitor must have snuck in early and tidied it. One could never tell, despite the odd angle of the leather chair behind my desk, that I had spent most of the night in this room before pride dragged me to that damn hotel, picked at random.
She wouldn’t make me sleep in my office two damn nights in a row.
I toss her things onto the desk and approach the closet where I keep a set of spare suits. I switch the gray tie for a black one and straighten the collar. In the mirror affixed to the inside of the door, the swollen lip is more noticeable. Fuck me—she drew blood. I’ll make her pay for that. I seal the promise by dragging my thumb over the pinprick mark her teeth left behind, smearing the pinkish remains of blood.
“Mr. Bellamy?” I turn to find Ann in the doorway, her expression… puzzled. “You have a phone call,” she says carefully.
The confusion in her tone instantly sets me on edge. My mother. Alex. Adrian Riley, ready to gloat over his failed publicity stunt. The potential suspects form an unwelcome Russian roulette as I approach my desk. “Forward it to my cell,” I tell Ann. Inhaling sharply, I snatch up the mobile the second it rings and snarl into the receiver, “Bellamy.”
“I want my things back,” a woman demands, her tone still haughty despite the exhaustion racking it. I take some solace in her obvious annoyance. If she’d learned about the photos, she wouldn’t sound this damn haughty.
Perhaps I feel a small shred of smug pride that I wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough night, apparently. Evelyn King sounds like hell. Restless, raspy, husky hell. “Now,” she adds when I say nothing in response. “This could be considered theft. Return my things to me immediately, and maybe I won’t go to the police.”
“Most people would need an appointment to contact me directly,” I remark. Ann’s hesitation suddenly makes sense. “In what way did you harass my secretary?”
“I simply told her it was urgent,” Evelyn counters, her voice rising the way it does when she’s in danger of… Well, in danger of telling men to go fuck themselves in French. “Which it is. I’ll give you the directions of a P.O. box where you can drop off my stuff by the end of today, and maybe I won’t press charges.”
