by Amelia Wilde
Tick, tock.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Annabel
“Annabel.” Beau’s voice is sharp. I didn’t hear the elevator. It’s a top-of-the-line, well-maintained thing, almost impossible to hear unless you’re standing at the end of the entry hallway in the penthouse.
I suck in a reflexive breath. I’ve been reading—Beau has a library, naturally, and books of every kind on the shelf. I pulled one down after he left. Something about J. M. Barrie. I let myself get pulled in. It wasn’t easy. My entire body hurts to be with Beau. Or else it just hurts. It’s getting hard to tell.
An afternoon away with him should do wonders.
He rushes around to the chair I’m sitting in and kneels in front of it, pulling the book from my hand and tossing it to the floor.
He does not look happy.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s going on?”
Beau’s face softens, his eyes on mine. He breathes in, then out, but there’s still a tension there. It makes my heart beat faster. “I rushed all the way here.” He reaches for my hands, pulls my knuckles to his lips, and kisses each one in turn, a staccato burst. “Where is it you’d like to go?”
“I didn’t—” I shake my head. I let the book carry me away, and it’s hard to resurface. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
He pulls his hands away and stands, then runs one of them through his hair. “All right,” he says, and there’s a sharp edge to his tone again that doesn’t make any sense. “All right. Let’s go.”
This is too strange to not mention. In his eyes is a mix of relief and irritation. At me? My stomach falls. I’ve done it this time. I’ve stayed too long, and the cracks are starting to show.
Fight it.
I stand up from my chair. “Beau, come here.” He’s a couple of steps away. I move closer, reaching for his arm. “Were things busy at the office?” It sounds so pedestrian, so trophy-wife, but if it’s not me, there’s one other explanation.
“Yes,” he bursts out. “They were extremely tense.” His green eyes flash with an emotion I can’t name . . . or don’t want to name. He glances out the window and then back at me. “I should have stayed.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us, and my face goes red. I drop my hand. “Go back.” I swallow my disappointment. It’s sharp in my throat. “Go back, Beau. You can say you were on a lunch break. Don’t let me get in the way.”
“No,” he growls, and then he sweeps me into his arms, his grip tight, his mouth hard on mine. God, he tastes so good. Even in the intensity of his kiss, I can feel myself relaxing. This is where I’m supposed to be. “Don’t ever say that, Annabel. You’re not in the way.” I try to lean forward, try to taste him again, but he puts a hand on my cheek and holds me back. “Do you understand me?” I’m wet at his urgent tone, at the fire in his eyes while he waits for my response. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. I sound breathless. I don’t care.
Beau searches my face. He reaches to touch my bottom lip; the pad of his thumb brushes against the skin there. My pussy pulses. He kissed me so hard that my lip is tender, but his touch against it is electric. Possessive. I thought I’d seen Beau stripped of all his manners before. I was wrong. “God, you’ll be my undoing.” He says it almost to himself. Then his lips are on mine, his tongue battling mine for dominance. I let him have it. I want him to have it.
I want more.
I twist in his arms and get enough space to tear my shirt over my head. My bra goes next. “Yes.” Beau’s hands are back on my waist, this time running upward, taking my breasts in his hands, pulling me back against him. He’s so solid and strong—and hard. Every inch of him is hard, but his cock pressed against my ass through our clothes is the hardest of all.
He buries his face into my neck, and I arch back into him, threading my arms around his shoulders as he kisses and licks. If he doesn’t have my pants off soon, they’re going to be ruined, absolutely ruined, and I’ll need another pair from his closet drawer. He is water in the desert. He is rain after a drought. I need him.
There’s no time to go to the bedroom. He strips off my jeans, then my panties. Something cracks inside my chest. “I’m so fucking sad about that job.” I choke out the words. It’s senseless to say them now. It’s not even what I’m broken-hearted about. There’s more. There’s always more, but I need some kind of shorthand.
Beau doesn’t miss a beat.
“I know, sweetheart,” he says. He moves me toward a chair, hands sliding down to my wrists, tugging. I go where he wants me to go, my hands on the smooth leather, knees pressed against the seat, totally exposed to him. He takes his hands away for long enough to take off his own clothes. They fall in a pile next to the chair, and then he runs his hands down my back, stopping to squeeze at my hips, stopping again to kiss the ridges of my spine. “Feel it all you want,” he says. “But feel this, too.”
Then the head of his cock is teasing my opening. My grip goes tight on the leather chair, pleasure rushing over the pain.
“Yes.” I hiss the word and push against him, and he knows it’s an invitation. He knows it’s a plea.
He takes me with one brute thrust, filling me completely, and I feel it all. I let it crash over me.
I tell myself this will fix everything. What could go wrong after this?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Beau
Annabel won’t admit something is wrong, but it is.
She doesn’t want to leave the city. Instead she insists on an afternoon in.
I don’t argue. How could I? There are few greater pleasures in life than seeing the curves of Annabel’s body under a tank top and shorts, tantalizing under those thin layers of fabric.
But her eyes are distant. She sits close to me on the sofa or in my bed. We watch one movie, then another, and then she switches to a British show about baking. “Do you remember this kind of thing?” she says suddenly while a woman onscreen agonizes about toasted almonds.
“British reality shows?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. It should be light already, given that we’re watching people compete to bake the best cake, but Annabel is jumpy. “No. I’m not sure what I did, but television wasn’t a high priority.”
“That’s probably why . . .” She starts a sentence, but her voice trails off.
“Why what?”
She gives me a look like she has no idea what I’m talking about and snaps back. “Oh, probably why you’re so successful. You never wasted very much time on TV.”
“It does free up time in my schedule,” I tell her. She looks back at the screen with a sigh. “There will be other jobs.”
Annabel smiles at me, patting my leg. “I’ll start looking tomorrow. I needed another day, I guess. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” I reach for the remote and pause the show. “I’m worried about you.” I run a hand over her hair. “There’s nowhere you’d like to go? We could even go to New Hope.”
“We can’t,” she says. “It’s two hours away, and I haven’t showered.”
I throw my feet over the side of the bed and tug her after me. “Simple solutions,” I say, and Annabel laughs.
It still doesn’t sound right.
*****
At the office the next morning, Linda is on edge. She stands up quickly next to her desk outside my office. Is everyone on edge? “Good morning, Linda.” Out with it.
Her eyes are worried. “Mr. Bennett, Mr. Sykes is here, waiting for you.”
My stomach turns. Waiting for me in my office? Why would he do that? He’s never had a problem calling me at every hour before. It seems ominous. It is ominous.
“Thank you.”
I set my jaw and head into the office.
He’s sitting in one of the chairs across from my desk and turns when I come into the room. “Bennett,” he says. The sound of my name from his mouth is exhausting. I’m already exhausted. We didn’t get back from New Hope until two in the morning. I’m not at my b
est, and I know it. Do not get irritated. Sit down for the meeting, whatever it’s about, and get through it. That’s all.
I reach out and shake his hand, then move around behind my desk. Edgar still hasn’t stood up, so that means this is a sit-down talk. Fine. All the better. My heart beats harder, adrenaline rushing through my veins, and I hate it. I don’t want to be this excited over anything except Annabel. “I didn’t get a call,” I say simply.
“That’s right,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his eyes hard on mine. “I’m here because I have some concerns to discuss with you in person.”
What would happen if I got up from my seat right now and left? I want to be back at my penthouse. I want to be sleeping in bed or doing something else in bed with Annabel. I do not want to be doing this. But years ago I considered all the options, and this was the best one. For me. For my business. For my legacy. I’ve done good work. This morning none of it seems to matter. “Concerns about the properties?” I try my best not to let any hint of irritation show in my voice. I’m not sure if I succeed. I have spent hours with Edgar on this project. I have accompanied him all over the city. I have accommodated every one of his requests.
“Concerns about you.”
I shake my head, barely resisting the urge to cover my eyes with my hands. “What possible concerns could you have with me? I’ve been vetted year after year. I’ve always done the best possible work for you, Edgar.”
“Bennett, we need people who are reliable.”
“I’ve always been—”
“We need people who aren’t prone to erratic behavior.”
This is the last straw, but I swallow the outburst that rises in my throat. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You must know that we . . . check in frequently.”
I know that. “And?”
“And there have been reports.”
I want to slam my fists on the surface of the desk. Instead I fold them neatly and glare across at Edgar. “Reports about what, exactly? Let’s get this all out on the table.”
“Behavior that isn’t in keeping with your usual habits,” Edgar says. “Missing appointments with friends. Leaving the office at odd hours. And the woman—”
Annabel. Jesus Christ, how could they have a problem with Annabel? “She has nothing to do with this.”
“There is some concern that she has a negative influence on you.”
“I have never, not once, betrayed your confidence. Not to her or anyone else.”
“That may be,” Edgar says, his tone mild. “But I don’t take chances. I can never take any chances. Do you understand, Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes, I understand, but—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Edgar is rising from his seat and gathering up his briefcase. “Good. There will be no further work for the time being between our two organizations. I wanted to tell you personally.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “Thank you for your discretion.”
That’s all he says. Then he turns his back on me and walks out.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Annabel
I jump back into the city with both feet.
What’s my other option, with Beau at work all day? Lounge around in his luxurious penthouse in my tank top and shorts? Yes. That is, in fact, an option. But the urge is rising in my veins to do something. Even an evening cruise to New Hope wasn’t enough to slake my thirst.
So I put on my snappy casual outfit, namely my black slacks, black shell, and gray blazer, and go out. Beau has put together a drawer full of clothes that are perfect for lounging and day trips but none that will entice people to hire me. Maybe it’s on purpose. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’ve taken the time to dry my hair and style it in what I hope is an elegant twist.
I start in my old neighborhood after riding the subway to get there. Best not to tempt fate with Beau. Though would it be the worst thing if I came home with a job around the corner from his penthouse? I laugh out loud. There is nowhere on his block that would take me. Not with my pink hair and non–brand name blazer.
This is what I’ve been missing. That seat-of-your-pants, anything-could-happen energy that’s racing through my blood. Everyone on the street looks like an opportunity.
There’s a small theater in my neighborhood—much smaller than the Pearl and definitely not as wealthy—with a janky Help Wanted sign posted on the front door.
Bingo.
It’s a little on the nose, but it’s a start.
The guy at the box office is frazzled and pops up when I come in, hitting his head on the counter. “Uh, hi. What can I do for you? Are you here to pick up tickets? I don’t even remember where—”
“No tickets,” I say, giving him my most charming smile. “I’m here about the sign out front. What kind of help are you looking for?”
He’s still rifling through various papers and boxes on the counter in front of him. “A production assistant. It’s actually posted online. The sign—” He looks sheepish. “The sign is more of an inside joke. We’re not getting many applicants for the position.”
“So what’s the job?”
Now he stops and looks curiously at me in the dim half-light of the lobby. “Production assistant.”
“Yes, but what does that entail?”
The man sighs deeply. “Some work on the production—moving set pieces, coordinating some of the other assistants, and then helping in the box office before and after the shows. Light sweeping and cleanup.” He purses his lips. “Listen, I’ll be honest. It’s mostly sweeping and cleanup.”
“That sounds more . . . janitorial.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But we’re trying to fill the job.”
The next lead is slightly more promising.
I strike up a conversation with a woman in a sharp suit at the Starbucks two blocks down from the theater. Turns out she works for a huge multinational corporation. That doesn’t appeal to me at all, but she’s so cool that she buys my coffee, and there are openings in her department. I could work for this woman a year, put some money in the bank, move on. Six months, and I’d have enough saved up to start over somewhere new, if I wanted.
Or I could stay.
Before she leaves she scribbles down a number on a business card. “It’s the HR department rep,” she says with a big smile. “Tell them I sent you. They’ve got some special email address where you can send your email, but don’t worry—it’ll get through the filters.”
I give her a knowing smile, but I have no idea what filters she’s talking about. What I do know is that I’m not going to let a moment pass by before I jump on this thing. I pull out my phone.
Thirty percent battery.
That’s what I get for driving around with Beau until the middle of the night and forgetting to put my old-ass phone on the charger. Still, it’s enough for one phone call.
The young man on the other end of the line is named Paul, and he greets me like we’re old friends. I name-drop Kathy, the woman who paid for the iced coffee I’m currently clutching, and he turns on more charm. “Oh, Kathy, I love her. She’s always finding the best people. Where’d you run into her?”
I tell him about the coffee shop, and he laughs, a rich, hearty laugh. “That’s Kathy for you.” It’s all so squeaky clean, so shining corporate. Normally I’d hate that, but it’s the opposite of the Pearl, and that’s what I need right now. “What’d you order? I haven’t had any coffee today, and I’m dying,” Paul says, and then somehow we fall down the rabbit hole of our favorite secret menu drinks, and before I know it, I’ve talked to him for half an hour, and my old-ass phone is dying.
I hang up with a triumphant whoop. I’ve got a good feeling about this.
“Annabel! What are you doing here?”
I whirl around and come face to face with none other than Cynthia. “Job hunting. Wait—what are you doing here?”
Cynthia gives me a sad l
ittle smile. “I was checking in on the old place.” Her mouth twists into a frown, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her face. “I’m glad I ran into you, because . . . with the lease up so soon—”
“And your sister’s place being so much better . . .”
Her face lights up with relief. “You don’t want to renew, either?”
Is it me, or is the city telling me to run straight into Beau’s arms? It must be a sign. It must be a sign that I should take the leap right now.
“Not really.”
“Yes.” Cynthia pumps her fist, but then her eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean—I don’t want you to think—”
I throw my arm around her shoulders and pull her into a hug. “I totally get it. Time to move on.”
“Exactly. But—” She checks her watch. “Look, it’s my day off. You want to catch up awhile? Have a couple of drinks somewhere?”
Things are looking up. Why not celebrate? “Yes! I do. One last roommates’ day out.”
“I don’t know about last,” Cynthia says.
“You’re right. But we can always party like it is.”
She doesn’t turn me down.
Chapter Forty
Beau
Where the hell is Annabel?
I’m rattled to the core by Edgar’s sudden dismissal. I don’t know where it’s coming from. I don’t know how being with Annabel ever jeopardized any of my work, aside from needing an extra cup of coffee once in a while. For God’s sake, I’m on the verge of asking her to move in with me permanently. She’s not some fling. She’s not some distraction.
Fine. She is a distraction. But not like that.
I spent the entire day swinging wildly between abject confusion and a pointed, angry focus on all my other work. How am I going to explain this to everyone at Hawthorne International? Most of my business comes from contracts arranged by Edgar Sykes. I’ll be able to recover—I never put all my eggs in one basket—but I wasn’t prepared to spin up every other aspect of my business. Why would I have been? Up until this morning, everything was fine.
