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“Because it’s pretentious bullshit, and I don’t do pretentious bullshit. Food like this is a way for smug rich assholes to signal their wealth and old money because nobody who just fell into money would wake up one morning and say, ‘Today I think I’ll have some fish eggs and snails.’ Meanwhile all these other assholes are rambling on about their ‘sophisticated palate.’ More like sophisticated bullshit.”
“But we need to blend in.”
“Fuck that.”
“Okay, so no on the stuffed mushrooms?”
“Definitely no.”
“You never told me why you took this job.” I wonder if there’s some kind of personal vendetta between these two or if it’s just another kill to him.
“Isn’t this enough?” he says, gesturing. And I know he means the entire obnoxious show and all the pretension surrounding us.
“Your logic is sound,” I say, popping the obnoxious, though admittedly delicious tiny food into my mouth.
“My logic is impeccable.”
“Brian, is that really the only reason?”
“The money was good. Normally I don’t shit where I eat but…”
“Tiny food?”
“Tiny food.”
Windsor finally finishes his speech, gives a meaningful look to Brian and then exits off the stage.
“Well, that’s my cue. Be good while I’m gone.”
“I’ll do my very best,” I say as he leaves a lingering kiss against my neck.
Chapter6
Brian
Ifollow Windsor away from the party to the private part of the house and up to his study on the second floor. He unlocks the door, flips on the light switch, and ushers me inside. I wish I could just kill him right here, right now, but it’s far too messy.
Even though I’ve been to the Windsor Estate a few times before—enough to have the basic schematics down and know about some of the security he has in place—I don’t know enough to pull a job here. The risk of getting caught is still too high. And Mina doesn’t know to get out. I can’t risk her being detained if things go wrong.
Besides, this is a golden opportunity to be inside the belly of the beast with new eyes.
I scan the room, pretending to be interested in the books on his bookshelves and the paintings on his walls. He’s got The Count of Monte Cristo and Machiavelli’s The Prince on his bookshelf. These choices don’t surprise me. I’m not sure what exactly I’m looking for, but if there’s anything in this room I need to know about, now would be the ideal time to collect it.
“That’s a nice piece of ass you brought with you tonight,” he says by way of introduction.
I keep my face blank and shrug. “She’s okay on short notice. The agency assured me she was discreet at least.” I know this fuckface thinks she’s an escort, so may as well play into his assumptions. I’d rather he think she’s a paid companion than to think she might be some kind of threat to him—or leverage he can use against me. I’d rather everyone underestimate her. And I’d like for him to underestimate me—not a small challenge given our work history together.
There’s a buzzing sound and Windsor extracts a cell phone from his pocket. “Yes,” he says, holding a finger up to me. Taking a call in the middle of important enough business to leave his swanky party is just one more signal that he considers methe helpand barely worthy of the level of etiquette he would offer others of his station in life.
I watch as he goes behind his computer and types a few things in, pulls up something I can’t see, then takes a thick white note card out of his desk’s middle drawer along with a Montblanc fountain pen, but not just any Montblanc. I hate that I know this fact, but I do happen to know that this pen cost him two hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars. I vow right here and now that I will take that pretentious-as-fuck fountain pen as a trophy when I’m done.
He ends the call and looks up at me with what I’m sure is a mere mask of apology and not actual contrition. “I do apologize, but I have to deliver this to someone down at the party. I shouldn’t be long. Please, make yourself comfortable and pour yourself a drink.”
He rushes out the door. I glance over at the top shelf brandy in the decanter. But I’m not tempted. For all I know, someone tipped him off that I’d been hired to kill him, and he’s beating me to the punch. Poison is typically a woman’s method of choice, but we both know Windsor couldn’t take me in a straight forward confrontation. I pour a glass anyway and place it on the outer part of the desk near one of the guest chairs.
Then I open the door to check down the hall. He is well and truly gone. I already checked for cameras. He’s got one in the hallway just outside the door, but nothing within this room to monitor someone he’s already invited inside. I assume this lack of surveillance is also for his own protection, so he can be free to do whatever seedy bullshit he needs to do within the confines of this room without leaving a record of it.
I slip on a pair of gloves, wipe down the doorknob I just touched, and take a look at his computer.
