The apartment feels different somehow—lighter, as if I’ve set down a weight I’ve been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there. I touch my lips, still faintly swollen from Conor’s kiss, and realize that for the first time inyears, thoughts of Devon don’t overshadow the promise of something new.
My phone chimes with a text message. Conor:
Still thinking about you. Sleep well.
I smile and rise from the floor, leaving the ghost of what might have been behind me as I walk toward my bedroom, toward tomorrow, toward seven o’clock.
CHAPTER 11
CONOR
Islam my palm against the dossier on Devon Cook, jaw clenched as heat rises up my neck. The bastard’s life is spread across my mahogany desk—surveillance photos, text message transcripts, credit card statements. Nicole outdid herself. Each document builds the profile of a predator who hunts vulnerable women, uses them, then discards them like spent shell casings.
“Twelve conquests in three years,” I growl, knuckles whitening around a photo of him with his arm slung possessively across Betsy’s shoulders. “Then back to her when he strikes out.” The pattern hits me like a sucker punch. Devon circles new territory, disappears from Betsy’s radar, then crawls back when his latest hunt fails. And she—Christ—she opens the door. Every. Damn. Time.
My fingers crush the edge of the paper, mangling it. The transcript swims before me—Devon’s smug voice practically echoing through the typed words: “Betsy? She’s my reliable backup plan. Always waiting in the wings like a good little understudy.” White-hot rage floods my veins,my jaw clenching so hard my teeth might crack. That manipulative bastard. I slam the file shut and jam it into my desk drawer with enough force to rattle my pens.
My breath comes in short, controlled bursts as I fight the urge to put my fist through something—preferably Devon’s self-satisfied face. This isn’t just about gathering information anymore. This is about rescuing someone valuable from the clutches of a man who treats her like a convenience, a goddamn placeholder until something better comes along.
I chose Aria’s for our dinner—intimate but not overwhelming, with amber lighting that softens the edges of everything it touches and a pianist whose melancholy jazz makes even waiting feel like part of a story worth telling. I arrive fifteen minutes early, sliding into a corner booth where the leather sighs beneath me. My reflection in the polished silverware shows a man I barely recognize—hopeful, nervous, alive.
When Betsy finally appears in the doorway—twenty minutes late, an eternity—my lungs forget their purpose. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder like spilled ink, and her burgundy dress clings to curves I’ve imagined too many times in the darkness of my bedroom. She stands framed in the entrance, a painting I could stare at for years, though I notice immediately how she holds herself—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes darting across the room like a deer sensing danger.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, sliding into the booth across from me. A cloud of vanilla and spice settles between us. “A client meeting ran long, and the traffic was terrible.”
I study her face. The slight tension around her eyes tells me there’s more to the story.
“Is that really what happened?” I ask quietly, making sure there’s no judgment in my tone.
She stares at her menu for a long moment before her shoulders sag like wilting flowers. “No.” Her voice is barely audible over the clink of silverware and murmured conversations. “Devon showed up at my apartment again. Pounding on the door. Calling my phone until I had to silence it.” She twists her napkin between trembling fingers. “I was afraid he’d follow me here. Embarrass me in front of you.” The admission hangs between us, heavy as the crystal chandelier above our table. I reach across the polished mahogany, not quite touching her hand with its chipped burgundy nail polish, but close enough that she can bridge the gap if she wants to. The scent of her perfume—vanilla with something spicier underneath—drifts across the table. “Betsy, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” I tell her, my voice a low rumble that won’t carry to neighboring tables. “Devon is the one making a fool of himself. That’s what idiots do—they stumble around making spectacles of themselves while blaming everyone else for the mess.”
A small smile tugs at her lips, the first genuine one I’ve seen tonight, creating a dimple in her right cheek that I hadn’t noticed before. “Is that so?” she asks, her voice warming slightly.
“Scientific fact,” I reply with exaggerated seriousness, placing my hand over my heart. “Documented in numerous studies by the world’s leading idiologists.”
Her laugh—soft but genuine—ripples across the table like the first sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The tight line of her shoulders loosens, and she leans forward slightly, no longer poised for flight.
We order wine—a rich cabernet that arrives in balloon glasses, catching the amber light in ruby pools. Each time she sips, it paints her lips a deeper shade of red, leaving a crescent moon stain on the crystal that I find myself watching too intently.
“Tell me about growing up in the city,” I prompt as our entrées arrive, steam rising between us like morning fog.
Her face lights up as she describes summers in the Hamptons. These architectural wonders first inspired her career choice, the brownstone where her family lived, and the close relationship she shares with her grandmother, Teeny. I watch her hands animate her stories, the way her eyes dance when she talks about the first skyscraper that made her want to become an architect. Each story reveals another facet of the woman across from me—her determination, her eye for beauty, the quiet strength that has carried her through difficult times.
“Your turn,” she says, pointing her fork at me. “What was little Conor Campbell like?”
I laugh, sharing stories about my childhood in Boston, my father’s carpentry shop where I first learned to appreciate craftsmanship, and my disastrous first attempts at entrepreneurship, selling “enhanced” lemonade to unsuspecting neighbors.
“Enhanced how, exactly?” she asks, leaning forward with interest.
“Let’s just say my mother’s perfume collection suffered mysterious losses that summer,” I admit. “I thought it made the lemonade ‘fancy.’”
Her laughter hits me square in the chest, a sound I want to bottle and keep. We order dessert—a dark chocolate torte that arrives like a declaration of war againstrestraint. When Betsy takes her first bite, her eyes close, and a small moan escapes her throat. My grip tightens around my fork. I track the movement of her throat as she swallows, the delicate way her fingers dance around the stem of her wine glass, the flush of pleasure coloring her cheeks.
She’s transformed since we sat down—the hunted look replaced by something alive and electric. “You know,” I say, the cabernet burning courage through my veins, “hiring you was the best business decision I’ve made in years, but meeting you...” I hold her gaze, refusing to look away even when it would be easier.
“Meeting you has rearranged everything I thought I knew.” Her blush deepens, spreading like wildfire across her skin. She drops her eyes to the tablecloth, suddenly fascinated by the pattern.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says, eyes downcast. “I’m not... I don’t hear things like that very often.”
