Page 43

“Arrogant.”

“Observant.”

Then he walks toward the entrance.

Asshole.

I follow.

Carefully.

Because the shoes really are trying to murder me.

The inside of his sprawling mansion is somehow worse. Or better.

I'm not sure.

Because I expected a billionaire showplace.

Instead, it feels...

Lived in.

We walk through the hallway into a room that smells clean and fresh.

There are books.

Actual books.

A sweater hanging on a hook. A blanket tossed across the back of a chair. Two tablets charging on a side table. Framed paintings and photographs hang on the walls. Rugby memorabilia line the shelves. A ridiculously expensive-looking sound system.

There's more art, but it doesn't look chosen by a decorator trying to prove the owner has taste.

It looks chosen because Mitchell likes it.

Again, my brain starts cataloging. This man is not matching the profile I've built.

Which means either my research is wrong...

Or Mitchell Knight has spent a very long time making sure the public only sees what he wants them to see.

Now that's interesting.

“Drink?”

I turn. He's already removed his jacket.

Oh. Bad. Very bad.

White shirt.

Broad shoulders.

Dark trousers.

No jacket providing even the illusion of professional distance.

“Water.”