by Marie James
“I thought she was still asleep.” I’d assumed she’d sleep half the day away after staying out so late last night, but apparently not.
“You seem flustered.”
“Are you still watching her? If you are, that’s creepy and against the law.”
“Accessing the Blair’s system is against the law, but you wanted me to do it.”
“I wanted you to see if her stepdad was a pervert.”
I learned long ago that victims of sexual assault act out, and before Wren confirmed that Charles Blair is more concerned about what people see from the outside of his home is more important than what is going on inside, I was certain he had hurt her in some way.
“I don’t think he’s perfect by any measure, but I can’t find anything that suggests he’s creeping on his stepdaughter.”
“That’s a relief. Still doesn’t explain four cameras in the pool area.”
“The system has been updated, but from the looks of it, it’s been in place for like fifteen years. Oh shit. That may be why.”
“What?”
Silence fills the line.
“What, Wren?”
“His son drowned in that pool before he met Remington’s mother.”
I was happy to hear he wasn’t a creep, but now I feel like shit for jumping to conclusions.
“So the cameras were put in place after?”
“Looks that way. Is that all you were concerned about?”
“Yeah.”
“Not concerned about the blind spots around the outside of the house?”
“Blind spots?” I haven’t had the chance to walk the property yet.
A chuckle fills the line. “She’s tampered with every angle. Does she have access to the system?”
“I’m sure she has an app like her parents do.”
“Even with twelve cameras, the estate is really too big to get full coverage, but scanning through shots from a year or so ago, I can tell they’ve been moved. I have her on video on two different shots where she’s angled the camera slightly. Either the woman is technically smart or she has a lot of time on her hands.”
I get the feeling it’s a little bit of both.
“Can you get a team out here to update it and add more on the outside?”
“I can,” he confirms. “Is it because she’s sneaky?”
“Yeah,” I answer, but my eyes are on the stack of threatening letters on the desk.
At Blackbridge, we’ve worked with some pretty high-profile clients. Although Remington isn’t an actual celebrity, she’s famous by association and her antics. I’ve seen people act crazy over much less.
Hanging my head with exhaustion, I give Wren the specifications I think will work with this system. Before hanging up, he assures me that he’ll have a team over no later than tomorrow.
Glancing back up at the monitors, I reluctantly pull up the poolside shots. Knowing she has clothes on makes it less creepy, right? Besides, I’m not perving after her. I’m simply checking to make sure she’s there and safe.
Only she isn’t there. All four shots, including the one directly on the calm water are empty.
I spring from the desk chair and run out of the office. I don’t think she’d jump in her car in a bathing suit, but I don’t know her enough to completely rule it out either.
We nearly collide with each other in the informal living room. Either Wren was lying about her wearing a full suit or she took her top off before walking back into the main area of the house.
Somehow I once again manage to keep my eyes above her shoulders. She smirks at me, not hiding her own eyes as they sweep down my torso. I’m fully clothed but somehow her perusal makes me feel like I’m standing in the middle of the room without a stitch of clothing on. My body reacts like it would if any gorgeous girl looked at me like she wanted to nibble on me for a snack.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t deter her.
“What are your plans for the day?”
I don’t anticipate her telling me the truth, but at least my voice doesn’t crack and it gets her head to lift, eyes meeting mine. The exotic green surrounding her pupils would have the ability to mesmerize a mere mortal, but I have more self-control than that.
At least I thought I did until I hear her say my name, making me realize she’s been talking and I haven’t heard a single word she has said.
“What?” I opt to look over her shoulder because I know my own limitations and watching her mouth while she speaks wouldn’t work out in my favor either.
“I said I have an appointment.” I can read the smirk in her tone, but I still don’t look at her face. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. You can drive me.”
I narrow my eyes as she walks away, hating myself that I can’t look away from her curvy ass. Hating her for somehow managing to be a seductress even with her back to me.
It’s a game. She’s playing with me. It’s only another ploy to distract me enough to get away and do something stupid enough to get me fired.
Fired may be the best way to go. I doubt Deacon would fire me for a single incident. So long as Remington survives unscathed from whatever her latest hijinks are, I think I’ll still be okay.
I give her two minutes to get upstairs before heading up to grab a quick shower myself.
Her quick shower isn’t quick. I mean, I don’t know a person alive that would consider an hour and a half quick, but I don’t complain when she shows her face again. Only a fool would complain when she walks into the kitchen looking and smelling like a million bucks. Her hair falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, light and dark streaks of perfection, looking like corn silk. I keep my distance when she walks past even though every cell in my body is urging me to bend closer as she walks by to get a whiff.
That’s fucking creepy. I’m a creep. I’m a bigger creep than Wren who spent weeks cyberstalking his girl only to end up catching her because they’re both kinky as hell.
And now I have kinky shit in my head. Not necessarily a bad thing but Remington is a client and I’m not into many kinky things.
“Ready?” she asks sweetly, and it immediately makes me suspicious.
“I’m driving,” I clarify when we leave the kitchen and head into the garage.
I know she told me earlier, but I want to make sure she knows I will never ride as a passenger with her again. I don’t know who taught the woman to drive in the first place, but they should be taken out back and beaten because it wasn’t done correctly.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a driver,” I mutter as I walk toward the car. She reaches for the passenger door rather than the door to the back which surprises me, but I reach around her and open it. It’s easier to keep an eye on her up here anyway.
“Charles has high standards,” she says before I close her door. She continues when I climb in behind the wheel, “The pay is great. The benefits are excellent. All things that look great on paper, but he’s a lot to deal with.”
“You don’t call him dad?”
I open the garage door and check my mirrors before backing out.
“He isn’t my father.” The fake smile she’s been giving me since she came down the stairs disappears before she turns her face to look out the window. “He’s never acted like one.”
“You don’t get along?” I pry as I make my way out of the huge gate at the edge of the property. Despite what Wren said, I still can’t get the thought out of my head that he’s hurt her in some way. I blame the ways I imagined killing the man last night while I couldn’t sleep for my inability to accept the truth and move on.
“I don’t exist.”
Her words are flat and practiced, but I get the feeling she isn’t sharing to get sympathy. The tone suggests she’s resigned to the fact her mother married a man that shows no familial interest in her.
She’s missing a huge part of what people are supposed to have, and I’m just lucky that he hasn’t acted like a predator around her.
“Back to having n
o driver,” I say, because getting to know her on a personal level isn’t something I need to get tangled up in, “what’s the parking situation like where we’re going?”
I’ve traveled to New York City multiple times and driving is pointless. Walking or taking the subway will get you anywhere ten times faster, but the Blairs live so far from the city proper, that those two modes of transportation aren’t an option.
“They have valet.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter as I turn at a stop sign. “Can you put the directions into the GPS?”
She obliges, and for some reason she seems cordial this morning, talking and laughing, sharing stories and bits and pieces of her life. I know the game. She’s trying to loosen me up, trying to make me comfortable so I’ll drop my guard. What she doesn’t know is she’s never going to be able to pull one over on me. I’m too damn good at my job to fall for that kind of stuff.
Chapter 4
Remington
“You can wait in the car.”
“Fat chance,” he huffs as he hands the key over to the young valet attendant. “What is this place?”
His head tilts back as his eyes rove up the side of the building.
“I have an appointment. They’ll give it to someone else if we don’t hurry,” I say without answering his question.
People smile and say hi, placating me with false intentions as we walk across the foyer to the elevator. I ignore everyone as I usually do, and I know it makes me come off like a complete bitch, but at this point in my life, I don’t care. I don’t do fake, and even though I was chatting in the car like I was in the middle of a manic episode, I’m in a terrible mood after the brief conversation with Flynn about my parents, more specifically, Charles.
Still acting like a gentleman, Flynn reaches for the smoked-glass door of the salon and holds it open for me. I nearly tripped over my jaw when he did that in the garage. The man who used to drive for my family did it all the time, but only him and those in valet that are working for tips. I don’t think I’ve even had men I’ve dated pull open the door for me.
I hide my grin by rolling my lips between my teeth as I enter, walking to the last chair and taking a seat. The technician greets me in her native language, and I return the words to her even though I have no idea what I’m saying. I tip well, so at least the women at the nail salon seem happy to see me.
She says something else as she begins to run the water in the foot basin, looking over her shoulder at Flynn who’s standing awkwardly against the far wall. I just shrug when she peers back in my direction. I feel like it’s a rude way to respond to my inability to understand her language, despite the fact I ignored every English-speaking person on the way into the building. I’m selective in my hypocrisy, apparently.
Kim, my technician today, says something over her shoulder and all the other women in the room begin laughing, speaking over each other, and taking glances at Flynn. His cheeks heat, pinking on the apples, and I don’t bother to hide my grin this time. He’s smoking hot. His arm and chest muscles are obvious, even with the button-down shirt he’s wearing, and I happen to know for a fact that his ass is exceptional in those navy slacks. Of course he looked great in lounge pants earlier, but I get the feeling he’d look phenomenal in anything or nothing at all.
The employee at the register finishes up before arrowing directly to Flynn. He tries to pull away when she clasps his hand, but somehow the tiny woman tugs him across the room even as he’s reluctant to do so.
“No. That’s not for me. I’m not doing that,” he says when she waves her hand to indicate he should take a seat beside me.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats until he sits down with a huff of frustration.
His jaw clenches in irritation when she doesn’t miss a beat, reaching down and tugging off his socks and shoes. She pets his foot like it’s an exotic animal as she says something to the other women in the room. My technician looks at his feet before nodding in approval.
I mean, he does have nice feet, I guess. It’s not something I’ve ever paid attention to, honestly.
He’s watching my face when I look in his direction, but the irritation he was showing when he was ushered over is no longer visible. A tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“I think a French manicure would look amazing,” I tease.
“What color are you going with?” he asks instead of telling me to take a hike.
“A turquoise to silver ombre.”
His eyes dart down my legs to my submerged feet before looking across the room.
“Excellent choice.”
Like a good sport, Flynn lets the technician massage his feet and calves, flinching every once in a while when she hits a ticklish spot. He doesn’t complain or grumble, and several other clients swoon at the sight of him. He doesn’t argue when I tell them that we’ve been together for two years, and we always get pedicures together, explaining further that our intimate couples massage is scheduled for later in the afternoon.
Despite having a great time at the salon with him, it doesn’t stop the impulse to bolt when I leave him to use the restroom. Being on the ninth floor really isn’t a problem because the design of the building means the salon shares a central restroom with a spa on the other side. Slipping out and back into the elevator alone is easy.
I don’t care that he has the valet ticket in his pocket or that I may have to Uber home later. I just need a break—a true break.
I can get away from him in the house, but knowing he’s near just does something to my nerves. I need some time to myself, some time to decompress and get him out of my head.
The ride down in the elevator is spent with a chic-looking woman with an overgrown poodle on a leash. The rhinestones, or possibly real diamonds, sparkle in the overhead light, and as cute as the thing looks, I keep my distance. The dog holds its head up the same hoity-toity way its owner does, and I have no doubt the thing would bite my hand if I tried to touch it.
As to not draw attention to myself, I walk slowly across the lobby before exiting the building and entering the crush of people on the sidewalk. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of New York City has always been fun for me. No one pays much attention to each other. We’re all on a mission to get somewhere and fast, too busy to care who’s walking beside us or what celebrity they may spot. Tourists learn quickly to get out of our way, and that’s just the way I like it.
“You forgot your shoes.”
I freeze at the first brush of his fingers on my arm, but I don’t attempt to pull away. I’ll never admit out loud that I like the warmth of his skin.
I look up at him before glancing down at the foam flip-flops on my feet. I didn’t even think about footwear when I bolted earlier, and walking around without protection in NYC is never a smart idea.
He doesn’t shy away as I grab the sandals from his hand in a huff and use his arm to lean on as I pull on my shoes.
“Thank you,” I say before turning and walking down the street.
He sticks so close to my side, his arm bumps mine periodically, and when someone in more of a hurry than we are nearly knocks me over, I become obsessed with the way he wraps one arm around my back and uses the other in front to protect me from getting shoved.
Of course, he pulls away the second the threat is gone, but I have a good imagination and can easily recall the heat of his touch.
Lunch isn’t nearly as fun as the salon. He doesn’t smile or laugh while we wait in line. He doesn’t even order anything to eat when we get to the counter. When I slide into a recently vacated seat with my food, he walks a few feet away and props himself up against the wall, never taking his eyes off me.
I hate the scrutiny. It doesn’t have the same light-hearted feel it did last night while I was drinking my shake. There’s nothing sexy about devouring a Caesar-stuffed pita with extra sauce, but I’m starving. I refuse to be one of those girls that refuses to eat in front of a man, especially one who I hav
e no intention of taking things in a romantic direction.
I stare right at him as I take a huge bite of my food, chewing like a horse as he watches me. He doesn’t seem impressed, but the glint in his eyes makes me think otherwise. Ignoring the sauce I can feel dripping down my chin, I take another big bite, nearly choking when he licks his own lips.
When I finish, at a speed that’s sure to make me sick later, I ball up my trash and drop it in a trash receptacle on my way to the restroom. I don’t see Flynn following me down the quiet hall but can feel his presence as I disappear behind the door marked Women.
Eating like an animal matches my appearance when I look in the mirror over the sink as I wash my hands. Sauce has dripped down to my shirt, and no amount of damp paper towels is going to get the stain out, I realize after dabbing at it for over a minute.
I chose this place for a reason. Not only do they have the softest pita bread I’ve ever tasted, but it also has a floor-level window. I first used this window to skip out on a check at the dare of a few friends in junior high, and I’ve used it several times since I returned to New York City after discovering college just wasn’t for me. Phillip caught on very quickly which places I could easily bolt from, and I haven’t been here in months. Apparently, he didn’t share a list with Flynn because he’s none the wiser standing in the hall as I slip out into the alley.
I whimper in pain when the drop is higher than I recall. My hands hit the filthy concrete as my right knee makes contact with a crack. Pain radiates to my hip, but I’ve gone too far to turn back. I’m committed to getting away from him for no other reason than bragging rights at this point.
Limping toward the sidewalk, I refuse to look down at my leg, even when I feel the trickle of blood slide behind the strap of my sandal.
“Remington!”
Jesus! I turn and bolt in the opposite direction of his voice, a feat on its own considering the pain in my leg.
I squeal when strong arms catch me from behind, and for some reason, tears burn the backs of my eyes. I don’t know if it’s from the pain or the embarrassment I feel with getting hurt while acting like a damned diva.
