I grunt. “Not the first time I’ve been told that. I’m sure it won’t be the last. Anyway, I apologize. I didn’t realize Evelyn was your sister until after I’d confronted her and asked her for ID, which she didn’t have.”
“What do you mean she didn’t have it?” He frowns, dropping forward and resting his elbows on the desk. “Or are you saying she dug in her heels and refused to show it to you?”
For some reason, it feels like a betrayal to say anything more, but Beck is my friend. Both he and Nick are responsible not only for my livelihood but for saving my sanity as well when they hired me a year ago. Hell, they probably saved my life. I can’t keep information from either one of them, especially when I’m being asked directly to provide it.
“Evelyn didn’t have her purse on her. She told me she lost it yesterday.”
“Lost it?” Beck looks concerned, even troubled. He and Nick exchange a glance before he blows out a short sigh and shakes his head. “Never mind, that’s a conversation I’ll have with her at another time.”
I nod, unsure what I’ve missed. “At any rate, I could’ve handled things better than I did. You hired me to be a professional, and I am. But yesterday I stepped over the line and I need you both to know it won’t happen again.”
“Relax,” Beck says, a wry smile on his lips. “It probably did my little sister some good to meet a man who didn’t trip all over himself to impress her.”
“Gabe’s possibly the first.” Nick strolls over to us, amusement in his eyes too. “Beck’s sister would attractattention even if she hadn’t once been the queen of the runways from New York to Paris.”
“Queen of the what?”
I’m frowning when I glance back at Beck again. “Her career was short, but meteoric. It’s been five years since she left modeling behind, but Evie still can’t go anywhere without being recognized.”
“Evie.” And just like that, my confusion is seared away, replaced with a dawning understanding that makes me feel like an even bigger jackass. “Ah, Christ. She’s your sister? That hot new supermodel everyone was talking about a few years ago . . . Eve.”
“One and the same,” Nick confirms.
“Was,” Beck adds. “As in, past tense. And thank God for that.”
I curse again, muttering it under my breath. “Jesus, I’m a fucking idiot. I didn’t know.”
What’s more, I would have never guessed. Not because Evelyn Beckham isn’t still a total knockout, easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s just that I wasn’t paying much attention to shit like that when I was overseas. Still, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have at least heard the name Eve.
Through the haze of my surprise, I register the subtle return of Andrew Beckham’s soberness where his sister is concerned. He worries about her. Part of me is intrigued to know why.
But it’s not my business to wonder about Evelyn.
I came here to deliver an apology and possibly grovel to keep my job. Fortunately, the latter doesn’t seem necessary, which is a damn relief because I’ve never been good at begging for forgiveness. God knows my father can attest to that. My ex-fiancée too.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, Evelyn mentioned she was here for a meeting with Avery. I hope it went well for her in spite of me holding her up in the garage.”
Nick grunts. “I’ll say it did. Last night I saw the invoice for the deposit on several pieces of custom lingerie Avery’s commissioned her to design. If the down payment is that impressive, I can’t wait to see the finished products.”
“Evelyn’s boutique, L’Opale, is in one of Nick’s buildings on Madison,” Beck informs me.
I nod in acknowledgment, but my thoughts are snagged on the uninvited mental image of Evelyn surrounded by corsets and G-strings and other lacy underthings. Is that what she wore beneath that body-hugging dress yesterday? I grit my teeth, trying to banish the curiosity—and the swift, hot streak of lust that ignites inside me at the same time.
When I blink and meet Beck’s gaze, it’s almost as if he senses the inappropriate direction of my thoughts. I can’t fool myself that he doesn’t. Nor can I deny the dark warning in his eyes.
She is not for you.
He doesn’t have to say the words. I hear them in my own mind, in my own voice.
Even if she didn’t hate me, I’d never consider laying a finger on Evelyn Beckham.
If I did, I have no doubt her brother would hate me. And with good reason.
Andrew Beckham and I met in passing a year and a half ago at a private club owned by an artist named Jared Rush. Rush’s gatherings cater to an exclusive, invitation-only crowd—men and women who either require or prefer to seek their pleasures outside the boundaries ofconvention. BDSM. Voyeurism. Role play, group play, and everything in between. There were rumors that a certain billionaire had once been a frequent attendee at Rush’s club, and while I don’t exactly doubt it, I don’t particularly care if it’s true, either.
And as Beck stares at me now, I trust he knows that while I won’t apologize for the choices I make in my life, I am disciplined enough not to drift outside of my lane where his sister is concerned.
I hold my friend’s unflinching gaze. “Like I said, I know what’s expected of me here, and I promise you I take it seriously.”
