43. Cassidy
I sit on the edge of Ethan’s bed, drumming my feet against the base. I can’t believe Ethan sent me to his room like, like…
They were having a grown-up conversation?
I scowl at the bedroom door. It stands open a crack because it has some kind of magic hinge that won’t let me slam it. That was infuriating, because I wanted him to know how pissed off I was when I stormed in here.
Asshole!
I stare at the sweater I’m wearing, my stomach tightening at the red stain on the wool. Serves him right for treating me like a child.
Annoyed, bored, I go fetch my purse from his walk-in closet and take out my phone. I haven’t even looked at it since Friday morning, but honestly, it’s been a relief to be off the grid for a day or two. But I might as well go through my messages while I’m sitting here doing nothing.
Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Edith left me a few sweet messages asking if I was feeling better, if I knew when I’d be back, begging me to work a double shift on Friday…and then fired me.
At least there’s a final paycheck waiting for me.
I ignore the two missed calls from my dad.
Detective Lewis left a message asking that I call him, and then a voicemail a day later. He’s in hospital with pneumonia, but he promised me that someone would look into the Remington lead I’d found before the week was out.
Well, that didn’t happen.
I put my phone on charge before it dies again, and go put my purse back in the closet. I intend to head back to the bed, but I pause near the door, straining to hear what the men are saying.
Why are they whispering? I can’t hear a thing. Even when I creep up to the door, I can’t make out a thing.
Exactly how much trouble am I going to get in if I eavesdrop? I mean, the vibes I got from Ethan were more that he was protecting me than trying to hide something, right?
I can look after myself.
Easing the door open, I pad down the hallway, keeping my shoulder so close to the wall that I brush the wallpaper. I stop as soon as part of the kitchen comes into view, and strain to hear what they’re saying.
Myles says, “Remember Cordelia?”
Who the hell is?—?
His voice drops low enough that I can only make out a few words.
Heiress, husband.
Smith says, “She asked for you.”
This stops me short. She asked for him? What the hell does that mean?
“Of course she did,” Ethan says, sounding annoyed.
My chest puffs out a little. Damn straight, you’re not available. I don’t know what this thing between me and Ethan is, but there’s definitely no room for other women in our fucked up relationship.
“What about your friend?”
My attention snaps back to the conversation. Friend…as in me? My heart picks up speed, and I risk creeping just a little closer.
Ethan’s voice is barely audible, but I hear enough to know that he’s not happy with Myles. Which seems kind of dangerous. I’ve only just met the man, but this Myles guy doesn’t seem to be someone who hears ‘no’ a lot.
“Your friend could earn a little something on the side. The IRS doesn’t have to know.”
My skin prickles. Just what the hell are they talking about?
Ethan’s a jeweler.
“It’ll be our little secret.” Myles sounds exactly how I’d imagine the Devil sounds, trying to tempt someone to sin.
“You leave her out of this,” Ethan snaps. “Cassidy isn’t interested.”
I straighten, mouth wide in an indignant O.
Not interested in what, Ethan Remington?
I stand there for a moment, hoping to hear another snippet of conversation, but there’s just silence.
I don’t know what comes over me. I guess it’s the frustration of still not having a fucking clue what’s going on. You’d think for a bunch of people who obviously know each other, they wouldn’t be speaking in code like they’re worried the apartment is bugged.
When I step into the living area, Ethan is the last to look at me.
His gray shirt makes his eyes seem that much darker, almost the color of tarmac.
I get the distinct impression it’s because he hoped that everyone else in the room was hallucinating. Because the look of frustration on his face when he sees me rips into my heart like talons.
“How about you let me decide what I’m interested in?” I say.
“Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with this,” Ethan says.
“Why?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Is it porn or something?”
I meant it as a joke, but suddenly everyone in the room becomes very, very serious. Even Myles isn’t smiling anymore as he walks a little closer. He studies me for a moment, and I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware of just how much skin I have on display.
“Well… you would be naked… and there would be a camera…” Myles shows me his teeth. “But we prefer the term ‘performance art.’”