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Bellamy’s eyes narrow into navy slits. “Don’t. Just tell me what you thought.”
“I, um…” I rack my brain, trying to summarize my observations in the least dramatic of terms. “It seems as if you two know each other, though I’m guessing you weren’t close friends—”
“An understatement,” he snaps. “What else?”
“It seems like he was being honest about the merger,” I admit, recalling Riley’s grudging acknowledgment of Bellamy’s business prowess. “Though I’m not sure what you two were even discussing.” If I was hopeful that he might enlighten me, I’m woefully disappointed. His jaw clenches, and despite him supposedly bringing me along for my skill for observing people, I can’t get a read on him. My only takeaway is a sinking feeling that I’ve said the wrong thing.
Seconds later, the elevator door closes, trapping us alone. I spend most of the day with this man, but this time feels different. Tense. Suffocating. I find myself shifting my weight from heel to heel, suddenly aware of how tight my blouse is, and how form-fitting his slacks are. I can’t breathe, and as the floors tick by, I become more lightheaded. It’s almost like he waits until the very moment the doors open on the first floor to speak to me again with witnesses present.
“I’ll handle it. Anything concerning Adrian Riley from now on, you will leave to me,” he commands before pulling past me for the entrance.
It may just be a few words, but I marvel at the strange occurrence. Graeme Bellamy and I do not converse. Ever. He dishes out orders. I rein in his bullshit. Somehow we manage to get through it all with barely ten words spoken to each other at any one time. Rarely do I see him like this—unguardedly honest without an insult to hurl.
Once again, Adrian Riley is shaking everything I know about Bellamy and Atelier Noir to their very foundation. By the time I scurry out onto the street and climb into the car, I’m convinced it’s not a good thing. Events that happen unanticipated rarely are, in my opinion.
Craving the monotony of a neat, predictable schedule, I flip open my planner and review today’s events again. For some reason, my eyes always seem to return to the same appointment, and there’s an odd taste in my mouth when I glance up and find that we’re in front of the Atelier Noir headquarters and not the café where he usually meets Gloria.
“Did you forget something?” I ask, while scrambling to follow as he opens the door and steps out. The moment I set foot onto the curb, he reclaims his seat and slams the door, right in my face. The window lowers almost in slow motion, just enough for him to fling a terse statement at me from over the glass.
“Cancel my appointments and take the rest of the day off. I’ll be going to lunch alone.”
“What?” I can’t stop myself from halfheartedly tugging on the door handle. Shocker, it’s locked.
Bellamy isn’t even looking at me. “Let’s go.” He jerks his chin in James’ direction, and the car pulls away, leaving me with my thoughts reeling.
Abandoned, I can only call after him, “Just eat something with a healthy glycemic index!”
For the sake of the rest of us, I hope he listens.
CHAPTER2
graeme
Lunchis an American concept my mother bastardized to describe an allotted amount of time during which she can torture her chosen prey for information. If she wanted to eat, she called itTea.In all fairness, she learned from the best—all the prior Bellamys who schemed and plotted before her. She taught me most of what she learned, yet I never underestimated her.
Turning the tables on her favorite pastime, however, is as simple as trapping a wild animal—using bait and a small cage.
The moment I enter the dining room of the café, she’s already frowning, seated at her favorite table by the bay windows. When I join her, she doesn’t even waste time on niceties before stating the obvious as her gaze cuts toward the nearest exit.
“Where is Evie?”
“Why hello, Mother. It is quite nice to see you as well.” I sit, reach for the silverware roll on her end, and unfurl it. Setting aside the utensils, I flick the napkin into the air and then present it to her by the corners. When she doesn’t accept it, I toss the bloody thing onto her place setting. “Business meeting ran long. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
I had. In fact, to ensure a long wait, I made James circle the block twice before running over a business proposal I’d brought from the office. As a result, I’m nearly an hour late, and I don’t give a single damn.
Her lips part, but before she can say a word, I reach for the pitcher of water in the center of the table, pour a glass, and shove it pointedly in her direction.
“Do drink something other than liquor, Mum,” I suggest. “I can still smell your mid-morning brandy.”
“Don’t be cheeky, darling.” She cranes her neck to peer over my shoulder. “Is Evie in the loo? It isn’t like her to let you galivant aroundunsupervised—”
“I’ll have you know that I toldEvelynto clear off for the day,” I admit, irritated by the lengths I’ve gone to in order to rob Gloria of her precious ally.
Predictably, she gasps. “A day off? That’s unlike you, darling. Though, she most definitely deserves one after all these years. I wonder what she’s doing at this very moment? Perhaps she’s enjoying her own lunchtime meeting with a handsome young lad.”
I wince, though I’m not sure why. It can’t be jealousy at the thought of her with anyone else. Perhaps it’s merely annoyance at the idea of wasted time. Given what I pay her, Evelyn King doesn’t deserve a day off.
Though, if she were here now, she would fawn over my current opponent, spewing some trivial details about my mother’s life that no one but her cared enough to remember. Lost in thought, she’d bite her bottom lip—the very mouth that some crass associate had once deemedFuckableunder his breath when he thought no one was listening. I should have punched the bastard then, but Evelyn intervened and before I knew it, the meeting was over with a deal signed—one highly beneficial to Atelier Noir. It was her defining skill, that social charm. Like the good referee, she would interject whenever the mood became even slightly tense and prod me to eat a slice of damned toast because of the bloody hypoglycemia. The toast would be undercooked, but I’d choke it down anyway, if only to keep her from severing her lip entirely.
