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“You know, our mother was the one who convinced me to come here and try to talk to you like a civilized creature, but if you’d rather communicate like our bastard of a sire, then so be it. I’ll be on a plane back to London as soon as I can—”
“Wait.”
He makes a show of spinning on his heel, but he lingers near the foyer, his posture rigid.
“I’m… listening,” I grit through clenched teeth.
“You’re a git,” he declares, spinning around. “You’re an insufferable prick, and you waltz around as if you’re the only one who ever knows best. For bloody sake, you don’t know how damn hard it’s been having to be in perfect Graeme’s shadow.”
“So you conspire with Adrian Riley?”
“Adrian was the only one willing to give me a chance, Graeme. Yeah, I blew it, but can you blame me? I just wanted something of my own.”
“And then you promptly burned it to the ground.”
“Out of ignorance,” he says. “But now I can see that constantly making messes for you to clean up only served to make you look even more perfect. The prodigal son. I want to take care of my own mess. So, give me the club. I want it back, and I’ll repay you in installments. Then you’ll be free and clear of it, and I can run it as I see fit.”
On its face, it’s a logical proposal. Perhaps too logical. “Why now? Riley wanted me to sell. Not gift the club to you.”
“Leave him to me. He thinks I can butter you up to guarantee a sale, but he doesn’t know you. The last thing he’d want to do is be forced to work with me. I think that’s revenge enough.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
He smirks. “I get to show that my perfect brother isn’t the only one capable of success, of course. And… Maybe then, we’ll finally make amends.”
He turns to leave, passing a wide-eyed Gloria who reappears, sans any cup of tea.
“I hope you two can get along one of these days,” she remarks, reclaiming her chair. “For my sake, at least.”
CHAPTER35
evie
Idon’t know if it’s because I’m free to wander the entire penthouse for once, but no amount of organizing stray ties or making up the king-sized bed seems to ease the uneasy dread I feel like a constant itch.However, I refuse to believe the discomfort has anything to do with the fact that I spent the past few hours worrying about the man who wasn’t here to whine about my “micromanaging.”
Guilt for getting him shot is understandable, butmissinghim would be absurd.
To banish the mere idea of it, I strip the bed for the third time, re-making it with fresh sheets from the linen closet. I spend the rest of the morning putting away that disgustingly expensive wardrobe—which Maria, I suspect, had moved into the guest bedroom—and it was only as I shoved a folded shawl into a dresser drawer that I realized that this action could technically be seen as giving in. And for all I care, the bastard could choke on his seven-hundred-dollar lingerie.
It’s still early by the time I find myself creeping back into his bedroom. For research, I tell myself. I go through the drawers of his nightstand, organizing what little items I find. It’s entirely by accident that I stumble into his closet, and once I see the severe state of his clothing—ties left lying beside each other in no particular order, for chrissakes—I simply can’t help myself.
By the time five-thirty rolls around, I’ve finished organizing his briefs by shape and color, and only then do I have time to process the strange feeling building in my stomach. That couldn’t be… unease, now could it? Nothing good ever seemed to arise from one of Bellamy’s mysterious “wooing lessons.” “Good,” as in, I always seem to wind up with my panties off and his hands on my body in erogenous places.
I won’t let that happen this time, even as my thighs tighten and my stomach bunches into knots at the prospect. Tonight, all my clothing will remain on—Graeme Bellamy won’t get inside my headagain.
With that thought in mind, I head down to the lobby to meet him when the time nears six. I find William the doorman standing at attention, but no Bellamy in sight. When I glance through the main entrance, I don’t see the Mercedes out front.
Strange. I have never known the man to be late, though these days, he seems determined to prove everything that I’ve learned about him over the past three years wrong.
I wind up waiting in the corner of the lobby, perched on a cream chaise. I’ve barely sat down when a familiar figure makes his entrance. The moment his eyes find me, he jerks his chin for me to follow before grabbing my wrist anyway, pulling me along.
My heart picks up speed when I follow him—even before I see his expression. Blank. Composed. Unreadable.
Where Graeme Bellamy is concerned, the lack of a smug grin heralds alarm.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I climb onto the seat beside him and allow James to close the door after me. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
I pointedly eye his arm and the bandage I know lurks beneath, but he doesn’t respond, still holding my wrist despite my feeble attempts to pull away. He feels so warm, and his fingers—whether by accident or intentionally—stroke the inside of my wrist with breathtaking care. Instead, it’s a nearly silent twenty-minute trip through the heart of the city. When James brings the car to a stop, I glance out of the window and frown. We’re in front of his law offices—the firm that handles the bulk of the negotiations for Atelier Noir.
