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“I think you’ll find I can, and I am.”
It’s actually the end of fall, though the air outside is positively icy. But nothing is colder than David’s voice. Okay. She’s a gold-digging whore, but I think this has gone far enough. She’s right. He can’t just shove her out in the cold. I tug my arm, but Timothy still doesn’t loosen his grip, so I lean over and pinch the skin at the back of his hand.
“Fucking ow,” he hisses, releasing my arm abruptly and shaking his hand while he glares at me. “That hurt!”
“Good.” I duck past them, hurrying to my room, snatching up my phone, and coming back out. No one else has moved, and I now stand perfectly between the two groups. Moving toward Robyn and David, I dial the car company’s number.
“Thank you for calling for a priority pick up. Where can we direct the car?”
“Hi, it’s Angela Shepherd. Harwell Manor. Thank you.” Hanging up, I quickly call the London hotel where I stayed before coming here. They have a room and are happy to accept a middle-of-the-night check-in.
I turn to Robyn while she sobs loudly. “Robyn, what’s your surname?”
She turns to me, glaring as she screams. There are a lot of words coming out of her mouth, most unsavory, none of them a discernible surname. Turning to David, I try again.
“Surname?” I gesture to Robyn, but he is just as unforthcoming, staring at me, nonplussed.
“Why do you care?” he asks, hands shoved in his pockets, regarding me coolly.
“Vernon.” Timothy’s voice sounds behind me, only two steps away, and I jump in surprise. Crap. I didn’t hear anyone else approach over the semi-sonic sounds of her calling me a bitch, a whore, and everything in between. It reallyislike being back in QB.
“Her name is Robyn Vernon.” Timothy watches me carefully, but I ignore him and confirm the booking. Hanging up, I turn back to Robyn.
“There’s a car on the way. And you’re all booked in at a hotel in London. Everything will be paid for, but you must be out of the room by eleven AM tomorrow.”
She blinks at me, sniffing through her tears. “W-why are you helping me?”
I eye her carefully, employing the cool, detached, professional tone I use when dealing with screaming women – the Westerhaven men apparently share the ability to create them in spades. She’s not the first woman getting dumped that I’ve had to assist in an ungraceful exit from one of Bill’s homes. He seems to attract unstable, hysterical women. I guess his nephews are no different.
“Because you’re making a scene in Mr. Westerhaven’s house, and that’s unacceptable.”
“You w-work for M-Mr. Westerhaven?” Robyn asks, still crying. I fix her with an unblinking stare.
The sarcasm drips off my voice. “Honey, I think you’ll find almost everyone in this house works for Mr. Westerhaven in some capacity. Including the man who is kicking you out of his bed.”
My phone beeps, and I check the message. “Your car is here. You should leave.”
Robyn casts one last look at David, who is glaring at me with his arms crossed over his chest, not sparing her a glance. I’m impressed as she nods, wiping her face and straightening her shoulders. She grabs the handle of her overflowing suitcase, marching down the stairs.
Beau, Sarah, and Ryan have joined Max and Tiffany at the top of the stairs while we have been subjected to Robyn’s tantrum, and Beau immediately grabs her bag to help her down the stairs. Once she leaves, David speaks, still burning a hole in the side of my face with his laser-like eyes.
“In what capacity do you work for Uncle Bill?”
His voice drips with doubt. Ah, I suppose only Timothy and Beau have been let in on the little secret that I’m not Bill’s mistress.
There’s nothing like the truth. “I’m a spy.”
Ignoring the others, I head back to my room. Bill chooses this moment to appear at the top of the stairs, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. He’s probably smug because he deliberately sabotaged his nephew’s relationship and chased a gold digger off. You can’t tell me he wasn’t flirting back with that girl at dinner. If you tried, I’d have to inform you that you’re a liar.
Bill seems surprised to find everyone standing in the hallway, though they part like the Red Sea to let him through as he strides along the corridor. When he reaches his bedroom, he turns to look at us all.
“Well, the show’s over. Off to bed,” he grunts. The others move as Bill calls to me over their heads. “Angie, I want you at the stables tomorrow morning. Nine AM. Dress for horseback riding.”
I’m sorry. Dress for freakingwhat? I stare at him in disbelief.
“You want me to get on ahorse?”
Bill smirks at me. “Yep.”
