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I set my hand on the desk, caging her with my arms, and leaned forward. “What do you mean men like me?”
“Men who pay attention and take care of their women. She’ll use you and throw you away.”
“Are you saying you are the type who would take care of someone like me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, staring into my eyes.
“You’re with Rico. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? How does that make you any better than you accuse Sophia of being?”
“What we have is open. We are partners and best friends but can be with anyone we choose.”
“And you chose me.”
“Yes.” She leaned toward me, aiming for my lips.
I clenched my jaw and grabbed her wrists, squeezing them tight. “That’s too bad because someone else already chose me. Her name is Sophia Donatella Morelli.”
“What are you doing?” Henrietta struggled in my hold, but I tightened my grip.
“I want the truth. What is the real reason you want everyone to hate Sophia?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pushed at me, and I released her. “Have you lost your mind?”
She jumped from the desk and ran behind it.
Her gaze went to the phone on a side table, but before she could run toward it, I asked, “What did Randolph have on you? Or let me rephrase. What did he do to you to want him dead?”
“W-what?” Her eyes filled with fear.
Bingo.
“Either you killed Randolph or are involved in his murder.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up an email from my investigator. “Did you believe I wouldn’t have you checked out after the shit you pulled with Sophia at the club?”
“I didn’t do anything to Keith. It wasn’t me.”
“Was it Rico?”
Her lips trembled, but she kept her mouth shut.
“Does your lack of admission mean yes?”
“He has nothing to do with this. You keep him out of it. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Well, she had one redeeming quality. Henrietta honestly loved Rico.
“Then admit you killed Randolph.”
“You think everything is so simple.” Anger flared all over her face. “Do you know what it is like to work your ass off and then have some rich prick, daddy’s boy take credit for your work?”
“Let me guess. Everything in Randolph’s new home, fashion, and textile line was your brainchild.”
“The bastard even took my fabrics for his new collection and then had the nerve to say he created every part of it.” She wiped an angry tear from her face. “I was so happy when someone ripped those pieces to shreds right before his show.”
“You wanted him to think it was Sophia who broke into his place,” I accused, taking a step in her direction. She pivoted, expecting me to lunge for her.
