Epilogue #3
My enemy, when he was alive, was a tall, skinny man who wore badly fitted shirts and trousers held up by braces. He had very little hair and yellow-stained fingernails from a nicotine habit he could never kick. A habit that killed him, in the end.
And while it's impolite to speak or think ill of the dead, I have no compunctions doing so.
Not when the wanker stole clients from my law firm and left me so broke, I had to ask my mother for a loan.
‘Course Margot gave me early access to a portion of my inheritance. Doing so put me firmly in her debt.
And now, she's collecting.
She’s made it clear I must marry within six months else I’ll lose the rest of my inheritance. No way am I letting that happen.
The woman I've been surveilling for the past month laughs at something the man behind the counter says.
Through my camera's zoom lens, I watch his body language—the way he leans in, grinning like an idiot.
He's entranced by her. And despite my loathing of her and her father, I can understand why she has this effect on him.
Her face, which I’ve grown intimately familiar with during the last month of having her followed, is heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and big blue eyes fringed with dark eyelashes, which give her an almost innocent appearance.
Her thick yellow hair flows down to the middle of her back.
So lush, so curly, it makes my fingers itch with the need to wrap them around my palm and tug.
The thrust of her tits indicates she’s at least a size D.
Combined with her tiny waist, those spectacular hips and the legs with attractive ankles and shapely calves bared by her skirt, Ms. Executive Barbie could drive a man crazy.
Not me, though.
She may be physically attractive, but she's still the devil's spawn.
Also, she must be at least two decades younger than me, if not more.
And a cradle snatcher, I am not. Besides, I don't want anything to do with the daughter of my nemesis. His blood runs through her veins. Which means, I hate her.
Period.
So why is it that watching her flirt with that tosser, I feel like I’m burning up. Fuck. Must be the heating in the car.
I lean over and switch it off.
When I look back through the viewfinder, she's laughing again at something the candy floss vendor said. She holds out her hand, and the man takes it and brings it to his lips.
The tightness in my chest takes me by surprise. What do I care that she's flirting with some muscled jackass who's half my age and closer to hers?
I curl my fingers around the camera and take a few more shots. She offers her cheek. He kisses it.
Bloody hell.
The tightness turns into a stabbing sensation. Perhaps, what I ate for lunch doesn't agree with me?
I glare through the lens at the man watching her with adoration on his face. Damn, she's good. She has him wrapped around her fingers.
She blows him a kiss, then turns and saunters on.
I start the Toyota Prius’ engine and wait.
I let her get thirty meters ahead before I ease into traffic, keeping two cars between us.
She's walking west on Stoney Street, headed back toward Southwark Bridge.
Probably returning to her office. I crawl along in first gear, keeping pace with her pink-suited form as she weaves between pedestrians.
My camera sits ready on the passenger seat, in case she stops again.
She finishes off her candy floss and tosses the paper cone into a recycling bin. She’s environmentally conscious; no doubt, in a bid to make up for the sins of her father. Though nothing she does can make up for the impact his wrongdoings had on my life.
She turns her face up to the sunlight that shines through the breaks in the clouds. It bounces off those wild, blonde curls, turning the strands into a riotous mass of gold. All that hair. It could make a man want to bury his nose in it and sniff. Not me, though.
Blondes don’t appeal to me, anyway. And my type tends toward those skinnier.
The last few women I dated happened to be supermodels.
They also couldn’t piece together a sentence, never ate, and often got wasted on alcohol. Yeah, definitely my type.
She looks over her shoulder and I freeze. She glances around, then seems to relax. Surely, she couldn’t have seen me; not at this distance.
When I'm thirty meters from her office, I pull into a parking spot. Perfect sightline to the entrance.
She's just reaching the building now. I watch her push through the revolving doors and disappear into the lobby. She didn’t buy anything else to eat.
Was that candy floss her lunch?
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t had anything for lunch. Soon. I’m going to have to take a break and get a bite. But first…I need to follow her in.
Which is stupid. I am opening myself up to be discovered.
But I’ve been following her for a month from afar, and now, I need to move onto the next stage.
Which is finding out more about her office routine.
Which means, I need to get a little closer.
I’m sure I’ll be able to do so without being spotted.
I park my car by the curb, then lock it. I head past the doors she entered in time to see her enter the elevators. I catch the next one.
When the doors open on the floor where her office is, I walk out. Heading to the receptionist, I flash her my most charismatic smile. The one which has always allowed me to get my way and get information from people. It seems to be working, for a dazed expression filters into her features.
I lean an elbow on her counter. "I’m—"
Her phone rings. She glances at it and shoots me an apologetic smile. "It’s my boss." She picks up the phone, listens to the person on the other end, then looks at me strangely.
"Of course, Ms. Whittington."
She puts down the phone and tips up her chin.
Her eyes are carefully blank. "Mr. Tristan Hamilton?"
"Eh?" I blink. The number of times I've been blindsided by events in my life is twice… The first, when my father died. The second, when Margot decided she wasn’t going to leave the running of the company to me.
This might well be the third.
"Are you Mr. Tristan Hamilton?" she asks again.
"And If I am?"
"Ms. Opal Whittington is expecting you."
Opal
He walks through the door of my office like he owns, not just the room, but the entire building.
Shoulders for days, broad enough that I have to tilt my head back to take him all in. His waist is narrow, his hips lean, and the suit—God, the suit—is doing things to me that should be illegal.
Charcoal gray. Custom-tailored. Molded to his body like a second skin.
That chest is obscene. Buttons straining. Fabric stretched tightly over a torso so muscular, I can see the ridges and contours through the jacket. This is not a man who occasionally works out. This is a man who treats his body like a weapon.
And then, there’s that face. Square jaw, prominent nose, high cheekbones that’d make a fallen angel weep. The gray at his temples, and the lines radiating out from his eyes, indicate the experience he’s already accumulated in life. I find it strangely attractive.
He’s probably one of those guys who’ll only get better looking as he grows older. Life truly is unjust.
He stops in front of my desk.
His arms flex as he folds his arms across his chest, and as biceps the size of my head test the limits of his sleeves.
Then there are his thighs.
Powerful. Thick with muscle. Moving beneath perfectly-tailored trousers in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.
The bulge at his groin shows the man’s packing.
I knew there was a reason for the air of audacity he carries like armor.
He dresses like a lawyer, but his energy is one-hundred percent that of a street thug.
The combination is heady. Erotic, even. Not that it’s any concern of mine.
Not when I caught sight of him following me a week ago, then saw him again today.
I intend to get to the bottom of what he wants.
I force my eyes back up to meet his gaze.
From the slight curve of his mouth, he knows exactly where I was looking, too. That’s okay. I wasn’t trying to hide it. It’s not only men who can assess the bodies of women they meet like they’re cattle.
"Take a seat." I nod to the chair in front of him.
"I’m happy to stand." He slides a hand inside the pocket of his pants. His attitude is one of casualness.
It means, I need to lean my head all the way back to see his face.
"You're tall. It’s giving me a crick to look at you."
He hesitates, then draws out a chair and drops into it. I still have to lift my chin to meet his gaze; that’s how tall this man is.
"Why are you following me, Mr. Hamilton?"
"What gave me away?"
He’s redirecting the convo by ignoring my question and asking his own.
He wants to take the lead in this conversation. Wants to own this impromptu meeting, no doubt. Not if I have a say in it.
"I spotted you following me when I came out for lunch. Gray Toyota Prius, tinted windows. Then you followed me into the office, which I did not expect."
He inclines his head. "How did you find that out?"
"I described you to the security guard and asked him to call me if you came in. I wasn’t surprised to see you walk into my office."
He looks impressed. "You’re observant." His voice is deep, rough around the edges, like whiskey over gravel.
"Careful." I tilt my head. "My father warned me about you." I set my jaw.
"Did your father also tell you that he stole from me?"
"That’s a lie." I force myself to be calm. Collected. Keep my voice even. "My father would never do something like that."
A bitter smile curves his lips, "You’re his daughter. Of course, you’d defend him. But it’s not going to help you."
"What do you mean?’
"Your father was my business partner. We started our law firm together. I invested everything I had in it. Two weeks after launch, he left and took all of my clients with him. I was broke. I lost everything overnight."
I set my jaw. "I don’t believe you."