“I don’t mean to be rude ...”
Which means you’re about to be rude as hell, but go ahead, sir.
“But I don’t know you, and you’re not in our relationship. I refuse to believe she would send a ... a proxy to break us up ... for what? Some bullshit reason like she’s a different woman from the one I started dating? Hell, it’s only been four months!”
He has a point. The excuse is weak. But “You’re a controlling, belittling, loudmouth bully whom she’s smart enough to get away from now before she does something damaging like marrying your abusive ass” seems like a nonstarter. So I went with “different woman.”
Smile. Keep smiling.
I’ve practiced this in the mirror, so I know it appears halfway between “I sympathize with you” and “I have a Taser in my purse and am not afraid to use it. Don’t let the knockoff Manolo Blahniks fool you.” It’s a careful but effective balance.
Still keeping my smile fixed and my voice low and calm, I lean forward. “She regrets if you believe she wasted your time and wants you to know that she values the months you two spent together.” Mainly because next time my client becomes involved with another person, she will recognize the signs of an asshole earlier and not remain in an abusive relationship a moment longer than the first veiled insult or ridiculous demand. Lesson learned. “Sheila wishes you well and wants nothing but the best for you.”
“I’m not listening to any more of this bullshit,” he growls, digging in his suit jacket for his cell phone. After tapping the screen, he holds the phone up to his ear. “Yeah, Sheila, what is go—” His head jerks back, and he holds the phone away from him, gaping as if it hissed and spit at him before swinging a venomous glare my way. “She’s blocked me. She’s actuallyblockedme!”
Alarm shoots out jagged spikes, embedding them in my belly, my chest.
Of course, this is one of the hazards of the job—potentially facing irate exes. Which is why, though we seek to protect the other person’s dignity and pride, we always arrange the meets in public places ... or at homes, but we never enter them. And we employ a one-person security detail as added protection. But as I slide a glance over my shoulder toward the bar, where Doug, my backup for the evening, is supposed to be sitting and keeping watch, a tight coil tautens, then unfurls insideme, spilling a slick, oily dread through me. Because unlike when he accompanied me to Cyrus Hart’s house, he’s not maintaining a careful eye on me. Instead, Doug’s careful eye is focused on the cleavage of the redhead he’s chatting up at the bar.
Dammit.
My heart slams against my rib cage, a sledgehammer wielded by panic. I stare at the narrowing of his eyes, the blotching of his pale skin, and the curling of his mouth, and sweat prickles on my skin; a white noise crackles in my ears.
Deliberately, I draw in a deep heavy breath and imagine circulating it around my lungs, then push it out my nose. In my head, I carefully and quickly erect a white padded wall around the razor-sharp, jagged edges of the anxiety threatening to jerk me out of this chair and have me racing for the restaurant door.
I won’t give in to it. I refuse to surrender to it.
“Like I said, Sheila thought a clean break would be best for both of you. Make it easier for you to move forward. If you have a message you’d like me to—”
“Is this fun for you?” He slams his cell on the table, leaning forward and jabbing a finger toward my face. “Do you get a little sick thrill out of sticking your nose where it doesn’t—”
“Is everything okay over here?”
Relief washes through me like a swollen river. Thank God I’m sitting down, because even though I’ve managed to clutch on to my composure with a clawlike grasp, my knees have given up the ghost.
Oh, Doug. Earlier flirtation with the redhead’s breasts forgotten. And I see a huge tip in your future for this timely save.
I am a woman who’s perfectly capable of rescuing myself, but screw it, I’m not above grabbing hold of this life raft.
I turn, looking over my shoulder. “Thanks, I—”
Holy shit.
Blue. The color of his eyes.
I hadn’t been able to see them in the photograph that day in my office, but the moment he opened the door at his home, I couldn’t help but notice. They’re not your run-of-the-mill blue. His eyes are the deepest, hottest heart of a flame. The brilliant blaze of a sky when the sun is at its highest. Those eyes are dazzling in their intensity, damn near blinding, and difficult to look at. There’s no way I can forget them. Forgethim.
Cyrus Hart. The Cyrus Hart I broke up with on behalf of his girlfriend. Beauty-in-hard-golden-flesh-and-harder-muscles Cyrus Hart, who nearly had me tossing professionality to the wind on his doorstep.
A shallow breath shudders free from my parted lips.
DefinitelynotDoug.
“Is this the night for people not minding their business?” Richard snaps. “There’s no problem. You can leave.”
“I’m not talking to you.”
A shiver that isn’t altogether unpleasant trips down my spine at his flat tone. But then again, I’m not on the receiving end of it. Dick—I mean, Richard is.
