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CHAPTER23
evie
Iam not hiding fromhim. I have to say it twice, under my breath, as I duck beneath the awning of the Royal and linger beside the entrance.
Of course, I wasn’t going to go in. I was merely in the area—taking a walk to ponder my current life circumstances. When the self-pitying got too much, I switched topics. Perhaps rather than use my severance pay to galivant off to the tropics, I could pay off Danny and buy at least a year of peace. He seemed worried the last time I saw him—more than usual. How many thugs had he pissed off this time? How many of them knew my face? How many promises had he made using my money and belongings as collateral?
I refused to let him shape how I lived my life long ago. I still do.
But there is something instinctively attractive about a place that I know he won’t have a chance of sneaking into. Even I catch weird looks when I enter the lobby on the days that the usual doorman isn’t at his post. I need just a hint of that. A minute of feeling one-hundred percent safe and secure. A second, even…
“You’re on time for once.”
I jump as the deep voice ricochets down my spine. It’s familiar—not Danny’s, thank god. Though I’m not sure if this figure is a more welcome nuisance, to be honest. He still smells like garlic, his breath ghosting my ear.
I turn around and am forced to nearly stand on tiptoe to meet his gaze. “What the hell are you doing here?” Too late do I remember thathe, between the two of us, just so happens to live here.
Rather than rush to snidely remark on that point, Graeme Bellamy just watches me shrewdly before inclining his head toward the building’s entrance. “I was on my way to get lunch,” he says—something I’m sure is a damn lie. “Care to join me?”
He starts forward before I can sputter out a response, and for some reason, I find myself following in his wake. I’ll write it up to shock. Even with drops of rain rolling off his hair and onto the shoulders of his priceless suit, the man still somehow manages to seem impeccable. His life must resemble walking down one perpetual runway, all eyes turned in his direction, the audience watching his every move with bated breath.
He leads me toward the bistro and takes up a table near the corner of the dining room. When a smiling waitress appears to take our order, he asks for coffee before they both turn in my direction.
“I’m not having lunch with you.”
The waitress blinks in confusion while Mr. Bellamy merely smiles. “Suit yourself,” he says, sending the waitress on her way. “Though, I will mention that it’s customary to sit at least.”
I raise an eyebrow at the word choice. “Customary for what?”
“For when someone is about to offer you a job.”
I throw my head back and laugh—I can’t help it. Okay, maybe more like snort. Loudly. Rudely. Crassly. We catch eyes from all over—a woman draped in pearls sipping tea near the window shoots me a dirty look as if to exclaim, “Ugh, the riffraff.”
When I finally regain control of myself, Bellamy is still smiling, the arrogant son of a bitch. “What in the hell makes you think that you could fire me, and three days later just hire me back? That I would ever want to be hired back?”
“Well then, I suppose it’s good for both of us that I’m not planning to hire you back as myassistant. This is a different offer.”
Damn him. Damn him. I’m curious, against my better judgment. Well aware of the mind games he likes to play, I’m also terrified. I know I should turn on my heel and leave him and whatever he has to say behind.
But I don’t. I can’t. Smirking, he knows it.
“What kind of job?” My voice catches in my throat. I swallow hard to relieve some of the pressure.
He nods to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I do. Mainly for my own benefit. From this level, I have better access to the pitcher of water that rests on the table between us—all the better to throw the damn thing in his face when he says something that will no doubt be designed to humiliate me further.
“I’m sitting. What?”
“You claim to be an expert on the tactics of a true Casanova,” he starts.
Oh god.
“…Soadviseme.”
I lurch to my feet. My hand reaches for the handle of the pitcher. “I’ll leave you to your right hand, Mr. Bellamy,” I snarl. “And you can consider this a head start to a cold shower—”
“I’m serious.”
