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“If I had more staff to work with…”
“Shut up, both of you.” I cut their stream of words with a snap of my fingers. “We need more police presence in the areas prone to trouble, end of story.”
“And with what budget, pray tell, should I fund your suggestion?” Felix rubbed his wobbly chin, sleek with sweat.
His face was scarred, the result of bad acne, and the top of his head was shiny, his graying hair peppered around the temples.
I pinned him with a look that wiped the smug off his face. He had some extra cash lying around, and we both knew where it came from.
“You have extras,” I shot dryly.
“Brilliant.” Preston Bishop flung himself back on the headrest. “Captain Ethic’s here to save the day.”
“I’d settle for ruining yours. Which reminds me—you have extras, too,” I deadpanned, just as the door to the study flew open.
Kristen, my masquerade date, world-class BJ giver, and a royal pain in the ass, stormed in, her eyes as wild as her hair.
Since I carefully chose my female companions with zero flair for dramatics, I knew she was privy to what the gentlemen in the room hadn’t found out yet. Nothing else would get her so worked up, and she did, after all, work in finding out important information.
“Really, Wolfe?” She wiped blond strands of hair from her forehead, her eyes dancing in their sockets.
Her shabby appearance explained why Sterling came rushing through the door behind her, muttering redundant apologies. I shooed my housekeeper away, focusing on Kristen.
“Let’s take this outside before you burst an artery on my marble floors,” I suggested cordially.
“Don’t be so sure I’ll be the one shedding blood in this exchange,” she said, wiggling her finger at me.
Poor form.
That was the thing about girls who came to the big city from a small Kansas town and became successful career women. That girl from Kansas? She’d always live inside her.
My office was on the west wing of my mansion, next to my bedroom and a handful of guestrooms. I led Kristen into my bedroom, leaving the door open on the off-chance she was in the mood for more than talking.
She paced, hands parked on her hips. My king-size bed stood out as a reminder of the place I never had her in. I quite liked fucking women in compromising positions. Sharing a bed with someone else was not an idea I’d ever entertained seriously.
I’d learned people come and go out of your life frequently and without notice. Solitude was more than a life choice. It was a virtue. A vow of sorts.
“You screw me the night of the masquerade and then get engaged the next day? Are you fucking kidding me?” Kristen finally burst, the words gushing from her mouth as she pushed my chest, giving it her all.
She did a better job than Francesca, but her wrath still left me unimpressed—and more importantly, unmoved.
I shot her a pitiful stare. She knew as well as I did that we were about as far from monogamy as humanly possible.
I promised her nothing.
Not even orgasms.
They required minor work on my part and, therefore, were a terrible waste of my time.
“Your point, Miss Rhys?” I asked.
“Why her?”
“Why not?”
“She’s nineteen!” Kristen roared again, kicking the leg of my bed.
Her wince told me she’d just found out that, like my conviction, it was made of steel. I had quite the taste for expensive, unlikely furniture, something she’d know if she’d ever been invited to my house.
