Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I got a message out to him about the 5150. He immediately tried to look into it, likely found out about the faux suicide attempt, then went to a professional to try to figure out what the hell was going on.
“Oh,” I said on an exhale, feeling the weight fall from my shoulders, my muscles relaxing once again as I set down my statue. “Cam.”
“Yeah, he barged into our office and offered to pay our fee to help you out.”
“He will not be paying,” I insisted.
“I figured,” he agreed.
“Why are you in my apartment when I wasn’t here?” I asked.
“I was here a couple of days ago to look for clues. Today, I am here to talk to you. You got released later than we’d anticipated, so Cam had to get to the office and pretend to be you.”
“Pretend to be me?” I asked.
“Yeah, you’ve come down with a stomach bug, so you can’t be away from the can.”
“Oh, lovely,” I said, letting out a whimper at the idea of everyone in the office thinking that. Couldn’t they have come up with something with a little more dignity than that? Shingles? Pneumonia? A freaking flesh-eating virus?
“Sometimes the best covers are the ones everyone can relate to the most. Who hasn’t had a stomach bug?” he asked, shrugging it off. “So, yeah, Cam is working from the office, pretending to be you working from home, so no one thinks you’ve been missing.”
“Oh, good,” I said, exhaling hard. I guess I could survive the embarrassment of a stomach bug that kept me home. Did it fit the perfectly crafted public persona I’d worked so hard to cultivate? No. But it was better than everyone knowing the truth, that was for sure.
“I, ah,” I started, waving toward the hallway.
“Really need to wash the hospital off of you?” he asked, sounding almost like he completely understood the feeling. Which didn’t make sense.
“Yeah, actually,” I agreed, nodding.
“Go ahead. Lock the door if it makes you feel better, but you’re safe with me here,” he said.
I immediately believed him.
I was someone who only put a small amount of weight on things like gut feelings. In my world, many of the people I was around had been groomed from the cradle to put on an ironclad persona that no one could see past. It was an old-money thing that took me years to truly understand, since I hadn’t come from that world. And it had been a tough lesson to learn. I’d lost money and friends along the way because of it.
But it was a valuable lesson to learn.
Now I knew that if someone gave me the ick immediately, then I could generally trust that. But if someone made me feel comfortable and safe at first blush, then that was a sign to tread carefully, to look for cracks in the corners where you could peel back the mask and see what was truly underneath.
Jaded?
Yes.
But a solid defense mechanism.
“How many people have you killed?” I asked.
That was another trick I’d learned.
If you asked a shocking, somewhat invasive and unexpected question, you were both showing confidence and dominance as well as putting the other person in a position to scramble.
When people scrambled, they tended to show parts of their true selves.
“Sixty-three,” he answered immediately. No hesitation. No fumbling over his words. He didn’t even break eye contact. Though those stormy eyes of his went darker at the admission, and the smirk fell from his face.
“Okay then,” I said, nodding. “If you’re going to hang around, though, would you mind…”
“The coffee maker is set. And the food is ordered,” he informed me.
“Cam?” I asked.
“Cam,” he said, nodding. “Go on. Get that ick off of you. I’ll be here to talk when you’re done. Take your time.”
With that, I did exactly what he suggested.
And I absolutely did not think about his hands being the ones rubbing the soap all over me.
Nope.
Because that would have been wildly inappropriate since he was going to be working for me.
An abuse of power, even.
But, God, did that sound like fun…
CHAPTER FOUR
Brock
There hadn’t been any pictures of her in her apartment. Which was something that experience told me to expect.
Hell, I’d fucked my way through most of the wealthy women in the country. Every single one of them had at least half a dozen pictures of them around the house. Smiling on a tropical beach, on a tennis court with a racket in hand, at a charity event in a flowing gown.
But Miranda Coulter had no pictures around her lavish apartment, just art. And a lot of it.
The apartment itself was both expected and a surprise.
First, she had the penthouse. And when you were closing in on being a billionaire, you tended to splurge for the top level. She didn’t share the floor with another penthouse, either. Oh, no. Instead, she had an apartment that had to be over four thousand square feet. With it’s own private corridor and elevator and a balcony that wrapped nearly around the whole building.