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She likes pink, apparently. Or so I discerned from the freight in her suitcase after I dragged the damn thing from the foyer—where James had left it—and unzipped the middle to reveal its contents. She likes lace as well, despite her haughty indignation at wearing the undergarments I picked out for her.
Minx. I spot exactly three pairs of knickers. Three matching bras. Her wardrobe is a sensible mixture of pale blouses, modest skirts, and the odd sundress. I find not one shred of lingerie or the hint of anything to contradict her polished persona. Evelyn King is a bloody, open book—the thick, archaic kind that recounted some obscure historical lesson one might be forced to read in school.
Her wallet is equally as dull to peruse. There are no pictures hidden within the pockets. No receipts for whips and chains tucked within the change purse. On the surface, it’s like she transformed into a mouthy tease overnight.
It’s not the surprisingly sexual nature to her that has me curious. Or so I decide after the third glass of wine taken from the restaurant. It’s her fucking cheek. No one is this clean. This sensible. This bloody unpredictable.
I fist one of her knickers as if it might hold the answer. It smells like her—damn roses. I drag my thumb along the strip of fabric meant to go in between her legs. Once. Again. For purely valid reasons. I can discern that the cotton, while of decent quality, isn’t silk or something overtly expensive. She’s frugal as well as practical.
Andsensitive. My stupid fucking cock presents that point before I can brush it aside. The sex meant nothing to her, apparently. It damn well meant nothing to me.Shemeant nothing…
“Sir?” The voice proceeds the rapt on my door. It’s familiar—the doorman’s. An ominous feeling clenches in my gut, and I kick the suitcase closed with my foot before entering the foyer. Sure enough, William is waiting on the other end, his face more serious than usual—which means that someone is dead, or something has happened pressing enough for him to break what seems to be an unspoken rule by approaching me directly.
“Sir, you are needed in the lobby,” he says, standing straight with his posture erect. “There is a… disturbance.”
“Call the police,” I tell him. Alex must have lost all tact to attempt to enter the building directly. “His identity should be on file. He shouldn’t—”
“She seemed quite insistent, Sir,” William says over me.
The anger surging through my blood promptly becomes confusion. “She?”
I’m already pushing my way past him before William can clarify. I take the stairs rather than the elevator and arrive in the lobby just in time to witness Evelyn King tell a man where and how he could go fuck himself. In English.
“I told you,” she adds, her typically posh voice strained and tense. “If you just let me go, I’ll get my wallet and—”
“You owe me, lady,” the man, a towering bloke with a beer gut and a goatee, snarls. “If you don’t pay, I’m calling the cops—”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” I step forward, clenching my jaw, my hand already in a fist. The anger coursing through my veins comes as a shock. Would I bludgeon some poor git just for raising his voice at a former employee?Yes,a primal part of me warns.
Especially when Evelyn bites her lip, beyond exasperated. “Look, if you would just let me get my damn wallet—”
“Here.” I insinuate myself between both figures, dig into my breast pocket for my wallet, and shove a handful of bills into the man’s hand. He blinks down at the money before licking his fingers and pointedly counting each note. Judging from Evelyn’s mortified expression, it’s more than enough to settle whatever score they have between them.
“Fine,” the man grunts, shoving the money into his pocket. “But you’re blacklisted, lady—” He jabs a finger in her direction. “She had me drive her around the city for two fucking hours, and then claimed that she just needed to get her wallet. As if I’d fall for that shit.”
He storms out of the entrance, much to William’s relief.
“Give me my wallet, now,” Evelyn says without glancing at me. “I’ll write you a check.”
She looks like hell. Her eyes are bloodshot, her hair a mess. She’s wearing the same bloody sweater from yesterday, and I suspect the same jeans. The fact that she’s here is enough proof to warn me that Evelyn King isn’t in the mood to be prodded—which makes it all the more fun to goad her anyway.
“You’re late,” I tell her, turning on my heel and heading for the elevators. “My home is not a storage for your belongings, Ms. King.”
I’m eager to witness what reaction the words draw from her. I can imagine it well enough—that furious expression, her cheeks red, her eyes blazing. The “real” Evelyn King, a woman I’m starting to realize I enjoy verbally jousting with.
Rather than reply with a biting comment, she sighs. “I’ll wait here,” she says. I can almost hear the rubbery squeak of her attempting to dig her heels into the marble floor.
“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” I say without looking back. “Good night, Ms. King—”
Light footsteps chase me into an arriving elevator car. She pushes herself into the farthest possible corner from where I stand, her arms crossed over her chest, clutching that damn bag of hers. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”
I frown at the genuine dismay in her tone. The elevator doors close, and the car lurches upright by the time I settle on a fitting response. “It would be cruel to play a game, as you put it, with someone who has no chance in hell of winning, Ms. King.”
There’s an audible crunching sound like that of her teeth grinding together, and I can’t ignore the rush of excitement I feel. How much longer until the claws come out? For the time being, she doesn’t say a word until we reach the topmost floor. Rather than follow me out into the hallway, she positions herself in the doorway of the elevator with her hand preventing it from closing. “I’ll wait here,” she tells me.
I don’t even attempt to hide the way my mouth quirks. “In that case, I’ll see you in the morning.”
There’s no reason for her to come inside. Frankly, I should have sent her things with William rather than even bother to meet her in the first place. Hindsight.
