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I grit my teeth as the woman pauses as though glancing over her shoulder for listening ears.
“I can say that I helped her personally. Your wife?” I don’t answer, and the woman continues after a moment’s silence. “I’m sure you’ll be a very happy man.”
I hang up without bothering to reply. When I toss the phone aside, I aim for the desk, but I overshoot, and it lands on the floor near the window, instead. What little strength remained in the screen promptly breaks, and the damn thing shatters. I’m down to my last working spare, fished from the depths of my drawer.
By the time I’ve waved Ann off—who rushed into the office, drawn by the noise—and gone through whatever business I had waiting for me on my desk, the day is already over. In theory. I have proposals to peruse. Executives to call. Board members to placate. Such tasks would keep me in the office until midnight on a typical day.
However, most men might find it difficult to concentrate while hemorrhaging investment dollars. Ten minutes later, I’m in the lobby, exiting the building just as the janitor begins to close up. For the first time in years, James isn’t waiting for me like usual. I have to call him, interrupting what I assume was a smoke break. “On my way,” he rasps.
Nightfall has barely graced the horizon by the time I enter the lobby of the Royal. My phone has been silent for nearly two hours now, but I know, even before I set foot inside the suite, that she’s there. I smell roses in the foyer as my eyes fall over the mound of shopping bags placed strategically in the center of the floor. Given that Evelyn had barely updated her wardrobe in the three years I’ve known her, it’s an impressive array. At the same time, it seems nowhere near enough to equal her tab. At a glance, I know that at least one purchase is missing—the one from Bristol’s.
“Did you have a nice, calming, stress-free day?” The words are crooned from the kitchen. I follow them and find her there, braced against the counter with one hand. The other clutches her forehead, and a glass of water rests beside her.
“I know I did, as you can tell.” She waves her hand toward the pile of bags at her feet.
Oh, I can tell. She cringes even as she tries her best to muster up a mocking expression that does little to mask the horror on her face. As much as I may have loathed the thought of having my bank account drained on her frivolity, it seems as though it pained her even worse. I can almost see the disgust written across her face that she doesn’t dare voice out loud. What a waste. In one day, I’ve turned her into a woman no better than Gloria.
A moment ago, I would have gloated over that fact. I might have paired the observation with a few well-placed insults. After all, what could a woman who barely spent money on proper heels find in a department store worth five-thousand dollars?
But one look at her, and I can’t say a damn thing. Her hair is sleek, her skin glowing—thus explaining away the two-thousand-dollar charge to a salon. She wears a gray dress I know damn well she’s never worn before. It hugs her hips. It hugs her breasts.
When she notices my staring, her cheeks flush. “I thought I’d live a little and wear one of my new outfits from Bristol’s,” she says with a weak laugh. “Do you like it? The dress alone cost two thousand—” She seems to choke on the amount.
“Let me see the rest.” My eyes fall to the bag sporting the name Bristol’s. The salesgirl’s words echo in my mind. “That one.” I point to the bag, and Evelyn King promptly turns three shades redder.
“No.” She kicks the bag with her foot, nudging it behind her. “I was under the impression that I would be shopping formyself.”
“Let me see.”
She jumps when I step closer, her hand flying out as if to ward me off. “No. It’s nothing.”
“Embarrassed, Evelyn?” I shrug and turn for the doorway. “So ashamed of your extravagant purchases that you can’t even show them off—”
“Fine.” I glance over my shoulder to watch her stoop for the bag and snatch a slender white box from the depths of it. She tosses the package onto the counter and lifts the lid. Her fingers shake as she fishes the garment inside and holds it up against her chest. “Do you like, Mr. Bellamy? It only cost seven-hundred dollars ofyourmoney.”
The garment in question is a black, lace negligee. I can see more of her dress through the sheer fabric than its actual shape. Two thin straps hold the piece together, and a single strip of black ribbon circles where I assume her waist is meant to be.
My mind conjures her into the damn thing before I can help it. Her tits, barely visible through the layer of silk and lace. Her legs bared beneath the tiny hem. Every inch of her ripe for the taking underneath.
She bought the bloody thing purely out of spite—she never meant to wear it. Knowing that, doesn’t stop me from issuing a challenge anyway. “Try it on.”
She laughs and tosses the negligee back into the box. “Nice try, Mr. Bellamy, but I think you’ve had enough strip teases in one week—”
“Are you afraid?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Afraid that if you do give me another ‘strip tease,’ you won’t be able to control yourself?”
“Yes. Physical assault is a crime, Mr. Bellamy. I would rather not give you a reason to press charges against me.”
“Is that all?”
She lifts the lid of the box and slams it into place. “Yes.”
“Good.” I turn on my heel and head for the foyer.
“Though if I were to put it on…”
