I loathe her for still having the power over me.
“That’s your problem.” My voice is arctic.
She merely stares at me, light in her eyes dimming. Why is she trying to make me feel like the villain?
It takes two heartbeats before she places her palms on the floor and slowly pushes herself up. The tight tension in my gut eases, but only a little.
Her breathing is erratic. If it were anybody else, I might be worried that she’d pass out. She starts to undo the top button of her shirt, but her fingers shake too much.
I let out a cold laugh. “Sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself. A woman who’s been around the block as much as you isn’t my type. On top of that, you can’t even be faithful.” I rake her body insolently with my eyes. “You have nothing I want. Not anymore.”
Dropping her hands, she turns red, then white, then back to red. Her eyes lose focus and wander aimlessly, tracing nonexistent patterns on the carpet.
Two knocks at the door. I push myself off the desk. “Your time’s up.”
The words seem to jolt her out of the trance. “Bryce, you said you’d do me a favor!” she says. “Anything I asked!”
“Yes. Which is why I took five minutes out of my busy schedule, with a paying client, to listen to you, just like you asked. Now I owe you nothing.”
She turns so pale so fast, I ready myself to step forward and catch her. I don’t care if she gets injured, I tell myself. But I can’t have her injured on the premises, because that would be a lawsuit.
The door opens, revealing Amélie and two security guards.
“Take her away.”
“No!” Fiona reaches for my wrist, and I pull away. I’m not letting her touch me, skin to skin.
The guards take her, linking their arms with hers and tugging at her. She twists and flails. “No! You liar!”
I smile and wave. I suppose she’s somewhat right. Telling me what she wants as a favor shouldn’t countasthe favor. But if this isn’t the outcome she wanted, she should’ve tried to make an appointment, not that that would’ve done much good.
All the people near my office crane their necks to see the show. Let them. Why would I care that Fiona’s embarrassing herself?
“Where’s Bebe?” I ask.
“Miss Slinky Writhemore said she needed to touch up her roots and left. Apparently, she forgot a hair appointment.” Amélie doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s in her tone. “This,” she says. “This is why aliens kidnap us and stick things up our butts.” She shuts the door as she leaves.
I let out a soft breath at the restored peace. Where did Fiona ever get the nerve to demand anything from me?
I start toward my desk, then catch a glimpse of a black shoe. It’s a stiletto with a pointy heel. I pick it up. Not a designer item. Probably something picked up at a department store clearance or something.
Huh.The Fiona I knew always splurged on pricey shoes. She always had better footwear than clothes in her closet.
Still, it’s a sexy item. Guess her taste hasn’t deteriorated, even if she quit spending a small fortune on shoes. I start to toss it into the trash, then stop.If she comes back for it…I could ask her how I was supposed to know where she lost her shoe, but Fiona can be annoyingly persistent. She might even try to use it as a way to worm her way into my schedule again.
Two million dollars. What the fuck?
I open the bottom drawer of my desk, toss the stiletto inside and lock it. If she comes back for it, she can have it. Otherwise…
…it can rot there.
Chapter Five
Fiona
The guards aren’t rough as they drag me out of Bryce’s office, but they aren’t exactly gentle either. They take me to the staircase, make me walk down twenty-six floors—they’re so damn fit that they do it without breathing hard—pull me through the lobby and finally deposit me on the street outside the Huxley & Webber building like a piece of trash. They probably don’t normally drag unwanted guests out with such enthusiasm and thoroughness. Likely Bryce instructed them to do it, and if I go back to get my shoe, it’ll be a repeat of the humiliating scene.
Bryce has changed so much since graduating from Harvard. Sharper-edged, more aloof—meaner. But all that is hidden underneath an even more beautiful package—the stunning dark gray eyes that I can’t look away from, and the broader and more powerful frame under the expensive outfit and accessories worn like armor. But even if he wore rags, you’d think twice before approaching him. There’s a force of will and presence that sayback off…or pay the price.
