After a night of taking out all my frustration on a rolling pin and my KitchenAid mixer, I carry an outrageous amount of baked goods to the twelfth-floor break room of Long Multinational headquarters. The one none of the executives ever frequent.
Not that I’m stingy with some of my best friends in the world, but because the last thing any of us need is the disastrous combination of copious amounts of sugar and addictive carbs.
The professional pink cake box is weighty in my hand, overflowing with my own take on the cinnamon roll, created by adding the slightest bit of orange zest to the dough and booze to the frosting. The additions increase the already astronomical calorie count, but are absolutely worth every ounce of gooey melt-in-your-mouth goodness.
I’ve pre-sliced it, with each piece being just right for a few bites, but not even close to enough for a meal, because some of these people have never heard of sharing and have serious portion control issues.
“More goodies?” a feminine voice behind me sings, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it belongs to. A greedy hand reaches across me straight into the box, snatching up two of the larger pieces.
“You always cut them so small,” Margot grumbles.
When I turn to face her, she’s already shoved one in her mouth. The moaning accompanying each of her bites fills me with a sense of accomplishment, but I scold her nonetheless.
“It’s so everyone has a chance at them before you hog them all.”
“You can’t blame me. This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth all day.”
I accept her dirty innuendo and counter. “Considering it’s eight in the morning on a Wednesday, that’s saying something.”
As she makes a grab for another, I snap the lid playfully against her manicured fingers. “Seriously, Margot?”
“Cinnamon, cream cheese frosting, still warm and gooey. Placing these in front of a carbaholic is like leaving crack out for an addict with a get it now before it’s gone sign. Next time, bring them to my office and I’ll fire up the Keurig.”
Margot leans in, whispering even though it’s just the two of us in the room. “We’ve always speculated that your baking rampages were a result of . . . ahem . . . sexual frustration.”
No denying facts.
My eyes narrow on hers as I select and swallow my own perfect piece of blue-ribbon-worthy brioche-style cinnamon roll. “And I always speculated that a man would need two dicks to satisfy your sexual appetite. Which makes me seriously wonder about the men in your life. Or is there just one—a unicorn among men—to quench the insatiable appetite of Margot the Maneater?”
With what I hope is the last word, I head out. Which, of course, I haven’t, as Margot’s elegant $5,000 heels clack their way toward me, catching up in no time.
“Fiancé woes?”
Slowing my pace, I shrug. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Margot lets it go but puts a hand on my shoulder. “Fine. Let’s talk about something else. Didn’t you say you bumped into a delicious distraction the other day?”
“Why do you think I still live at my place?”
“You . . . still live at your place?” she says, and I hear the wheels spinning in her head as loud as a freight train.
I hate how well this woman knows me.
“I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to explain.” I’ve done enough of that with my family.
“No explanations necessary, and no judgment,” she says, quickly skipping past my growing discomfort.
“Ms. Banks?” a man’s voice calls from behind us.
Margot and I turn around, finding a Long Multinational security guard followed by three men. Two large, intimidating men wearing expensively tailored suits, sunglasses that look absurd being worn indoors, and matching don’t fuck with me expressions.
And then there’s Alexei. With his mouth open. I’m pretty sure he never closes the damn thing.
Margot leans into me, whispering, “Friends of yours?”
Pissed, I growl, and she raises a brow.
“I take it that’s a no. Need me to—”
“It’s fine.” I wave away her concerns, letting a therapeutic long breath out my nose as I extend my hand expectantly. Alexei presents the box with both of his, as if it were a crown. Or a noose.
I snatch the box that’s significantly oversize for its contents, hoping that will be the end of it. But Alexei doesn’t budge. He just stands there. Waiting. As no doubt he’s been instructed to.
Before the small crowd that’s formed around us gets any larger, I open the box and quickly empty it, then hand it to Margot, who’s generous enough not to grill me on the spot. Then, in front of everyone, I slip on the oh-too-familiar engagement ring with a diamond the size of a golf ball.
After a barely perceptible bow of appreciation, Alexei heads away, followed by the two men and our own security guard, whose politeness masks his interest in making sure they don’t loiter. And possibly to return any firearms they likely had to check.
Margot’s stern expression sends all the lingering employees back to their jobs. I head straight to my office to die of embarrassment, with Margot keeping pace behind me.
“Now I know why you don’t live with him,” she says, the snark rolling off her tongue with enough sisterly care that it doesn’t bother me.
Exhausted before my day has begun, I slump into my chair, kick off my shoes, and drop my head on my arms on the desk.
“Evie . . .” Margot takes a second to shut the door.
I look up to find her keeping her distance, preferring to slump against the door she just closed rather than take a seat across from me.
A knot forms in my gut. With her brow creased and arms crossed, I’m losing patience by the second for whatever verdict she’s about to deliver. Quickly, I come to the only logical conclusion under the circumstances. The only alternative that makes sense.
“Are you firing me?” I toss the words out carelessly, half hoping they come out like I couldn’t give a damn, even though she and I both know a blow like that would shatter me. But now that Mrs. Fairborn is the proud mom of an adorable seven-pound, eleven-ounce bundle of pure bliss, the expiration date of my services is probably locked in stone.
Not that I should mind, but now, more than ever, I need this job. To work. To keep my mind focused. To get back to doing something I actually love. And to avoid the man I don’t.
With my father and Dimitri insisting that I set a wedding date, I’ve managed to push them off with every next big case that comes across my desk. What if there are no more cases? No more excuses? And I’m stuck wearing this ridiculous ring for the rest of my life?
Before I know it, Margot has rolled a chair next to mine, close enough to lay her hand on my arm. I’m already in a tug-of-war with a pathetic tear that’s winning.
“You’ll always be here as long as I’m here.”
I whip my head around to meet her eyes. Margot’s position as CEO is temporary, which makes her promise an empty one. “Really?”
As I give her a what the fuck glare, she huffs out a stifled laugh.
“I mean as long as any of us are here. As long as our name is on the building, you’re not going anywhere unless you want to. Period. Hell, you’re practically family anyway.”
With a sigh, I let the tension dissolve from my shoulders. “Really?” I say as she wipes my cheek.
“Yes, crazy head. And not just because you’re technically a volunteer, though that makes you staying all the more attractive.”
“Bite me.”
“I’m actually serious. One day, you need to actually let the company pay you. You’re the best lead counsel we’ve ever had. Jack Marley refused to retire until we found someone amazing. He said, and I quote, ‘Evie’s the best no-bullshit attorney I’ve ever worked with.’ No one can keep up with you. How a big law firm hasn’t snapped you up is beyond me.”
“I didn’t want to work at a big law firm. The politics and back-stabbing ladder-climbing pissed me off before I even started. But this isn’t work. It’s fun. You give me enough creative rope to hang myself, and I keep pulling one loophole after another right out of my butt. Win-win.”
“But you can’t work for free forever.”
I shrug away her concerns. “Sure I can. I don’t need the money. Donate it.”
In the silence between us, I think she understands. Hope she understands.
Don’t take this from me.
Margot’s hug reassures me that she’s not trying to cut bait and run, but it draws out so long that it creates a suffocating awkwardness. Now I’m wondering what she wanted to talk with me about in the first place.
“Then why the serious eyes and frowny face?” I ask. “You came in here to say something.”
With a final tight squeeze she does just for fun because she knows it will annoy me, Margot releases me. It lets me breathe, but I miss the warmth of it in an instant, and wonder how I go for such long stretches without the caring touch of another human being.
“It’s none of my business,” she says, which means whatever it is, she’s about to make it her business. “About your impending nuptials that I . . .” Embroiled in a mental tug-of-war, she searches for the right words.
I know where this is going, where she’s going, and I have to look away. The never-ending city view of impressive tall buildings grabs my interest, and I swivel to avoid Margot’s eyes and welcome the distraction of the familiar Dallas skyline.
When Margot doesn’t continue, her astute sensitive nature once again overtaking her need to pry, I let her off the hook.
“You don’t have anything to worry about, Mom. I’m a grown-ass girl and I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” she asks so tenderly that I fail to blink back a runaway tear. “There’s been talk,” she says, carefully sprinkling the lightest layer of salt on my fresh wound. “About Dimitri. The kind of . . . man he is.”
My heart sinks, heavy with unease, and I swallow the knot of nerves in my throat. I barely turn back toward her, because the truth is that I don’t know the man I’m engaged to.
Honestly, I tried to get to know him on a real and personal level. Not the sensationalized paparazzi level that twists and distorts every shred of truth into something that sells papers. And a rich Russian power-hungry playboy sells. Hell, Banks Multimedia is the spokesmodel for selling that shit.
But this is more than just a hot hunk who can’t keep his cock in a cage. There are stories. In the media game, there are always stories. But my own father had Dimitri investigated by his corporate bloodhounds. I saw his report, which said that nothing could be substantiated. Not one thing.
But I’ve known Margot a long time. Love her or hate her, she’s never wrong.
Sensing the tremble in my voice before I speak, I suck in a calming breath, tightening my words to avoid the stammer she’ll latch on to. “Like what?”
“It starts with how he made his money—theft mostly—that escalates to bribery.” Her words trail off, and I can see by her worried expression she’s deliberately holding back.
“Go on,” I say insistently, my gaze fixed unseeing on the skyline.
“When deals go wrong, people get . . . hurt. Go missing. There’s talk of trafficking. Drugs, as well as people.”
Her words die down for good because there’s more. A lot more. Too much more. But she’s said all she will, and I give her a solemn nod as if I somehow understand.
I pull myself together, clasping my hands tight in my lap as I softly respond. “Rumors. Conjecture. Even a shred of evidence, and the Feds would be all over him. But they’re not.”
The attorney in me has jumped in, arguing with the facts I can see. My voice is level. Speculative. Processing the words I just uttered, I replay them in my head, unsure if I’ve managed to convince the one person who needs convincing.
Me.
“Of course,” she says, and my desperate eyes find hers, pleading for some semblance of, I don’t know, approval.
Uncharacteristically, it’s Margot’s turn to turn those big observant eyes away for only the second time in our lives.
The first time was years ago, and it was worse. We weren’t exactly friends then, more like frenemies. When her eagle eyes turned from a momentary fascination from our math teacher to me, dread hit me in a wave. I knew she knew, because her eyes locked on me. On my lips.
She had to notice the color, a bright whimsical pink that made me feel pretty and feminine. Unfortunately, it left a smudge low on our teacher’s shirt earlier in his haste to shove me to my knees, but not low enough. Suggestively above his belt line.
It wasn’t my idea, but I did it. Went along. Played the fucked-up game I’m still playing today.
And then it was over.
Whatever suspicions Margot had, the A+ I earned out of it solidified my guilt as much as me vomiting and bawling my eyes out in the girls’ restroom. But the grade wasn’t for me, and she knew it. It was for Alan.
Even then, Margot never said a word, though she nudged me to. See the nurse? I wasn’t exactly hurt, and just needed to get over it. Call my dad? Yes, let’s call the man. Because Garrett Banks will never stand to let it happen. No, he much preferred being the man who made it happen. He would do anything and everything to preserve his legacy.
Still, there’s always the voice in the back of my head that gets louder when I think about the sins of my father. It’s my legacy too, because my brother is on the brink of losing the company, and here I am again, on my knees to save him. Preserving the Banks name and still having no idea how badly I’m about to get fucked.
Here I sit, perfectly postured in my Alexander McQueen suit, sporting a diamond as big as an iceberg, and in every way I’m seventeen all over again, with Margot holding tight to my secrets.
“You know I’m here for you,” she says, insistence strong in her gentle voice. “All of us are.”
The next tear slides free, and I let it. “I know.” Then I do what I do best. I cover. “It’s fine. Besides, I might not go through with it, which should really make dear old Dad proud.”
Impatient, Margot whips me around, locking my reticent eyes to her determined ones. “Evelyn Anne Banks, I’m proud of you. You graduated with honors in a career your father never wanted you to go into. Your father’s put more pressure on you to snag a rich guy, when we both know money means nothing to you. You’re a multimillionaire in your own right, and the last thing you want is to be under some man’s thumb. If you actually bothered to take the money owed you, you’d be earning seven figures a year just in salary, even if you blew off the bonuses that would likely triple that. So, why not just ditch Dimitri already and live for yourself for once?”
I can’t answer her. Or I won’t.
What could I tell people? That I don’t want to marry the ninth richest man in the world? Saying I don’t love him will get nothing but laughs from society, as if that means anything at all.
A long series of silent glances are exchanged between us before Margot gives up, and is gracious enough to lift the mood.
“So, the man who’s snatched your undivided attention from the privacy of his own bedroom. Sounds like a huge enticement to stay at your place.”
“He is not the reason I’m not moving in with my fiancé. I just . . . enjoy my independence.” Well, that and I appreciate not having surveillance cameras watch me like a hawk when I eat, sleep, and pee.
“I know you love your freedom. And possibly, not your fiancé.”
“You said you wouldn’t judge.”
“I’m not,” she says matter-of-factly as she effortlessly slips the ring off my finger and examines it up close. “But the damn thing looks like an oversize ball and chain cuffed to your finger like that. The band is too big for your finger and needs to be resized, so you should probably just pocket it. For safekeeping.”
A small smile blossoms on my lips as I hold my blazer pocket wide, letting her drop the ring in.
“Besides,” she says, “this way you get to enjoy your footlong neighbor across the street a little longer. Seems like all the incentive you need to stay hidden in suburbia. And a potential escort to our little soiree with the Alliance.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m not hiding.” Though it is the one place I know is safe from Dimitri’s annoyingly nosy bodyguards and perpetual eyes in the sky in every fucking room. “And second, it’s a corporate get-together, not a prom.”
“Don’t be brave. Every girl needs a man wielding a huge . . . personality. The entertainment value alone is worth it.”
“Watching you feign interest in Coop is entertainment enough. I don’t need an escort. Though it’s funny you should use that word . . .”
A naughty smile brightens Margot’s face. “Because?”
“Because the guy across the street might be one,” I say, boasting under my breath.
Margot’s eyes light with mischief. “The neighbor with the nightstick? Details.”
“Well, I met him. Twice, actually. The first time he was, uh, not wearing any clothes.”
Margot’s head cocks just so, and I’m pretty sure her ears perked up. “Did you just say that the first time you met the neighborhood man candy, he was naked?”
“As a jaybird.”
“Were you hiding in his closet?”
“Nope.”
“Professional lap dancer?”
“I wish.” I shake my head in a daydreamy state of remembering it all until Margot knocks me out of it with an ahem. “Oh, right. Well, he was sort of prancing down his driveway and back. I still don’t have the full story on that one.”
“Apparently, he’ll avoid tan lines at all costs. And the second time?”
“Oddly enough, that one’s even more of a puzzle. He was at Dimitri’s.” The alarm that crosses Margot’s face pushes me to add, “But I don’t think they knew each other. Apparently, he’s an architect. Dimitri was trying to hire him for me.”
“Maybe he caught you admiring his skyscraper.” Her joke is light, but concern underlies it. Margot sits back as a crease forms in her brow. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Dimitri said he wanted me to redesign the manor to my heart’s content. Maybe he’s genuinely trying to make me happy.”
That is, when he’s not banging other women in his Hästens Vividus bed. Goddamn him.
“Sounds like you’ll definitely be seeing a lot of him.”
“Only the glimpses I catch out my kitchen window. Seems the man stallion still has no idea that his mirror is perfectly angled to give any random onlooker—”
“You mean you.”
I smirk. “Any random onlooker in my kitchen gets a full view of his treasure trove, soaking in every smoking-hot angle of his chiseled body. I’ve become conditioned that when his hall light goes on, whatever the hell I’m doing comes to a screeching halt. All I can say is that man is a god.”
“But won’t you be seeing him all the time, with him working for Dimitri?”
Regretfully, I shake my head. “I doubt it. I looked him up in the neighborhood directory and sent him a text after the meeting. Since Dimitri led with his charm and I followed with my chatter, obviously I’m on permanent ignore.”
I don’t bring up my nagging concerns that the man isn’t who he says he is. I can spot a half-truth a mile away, and his lack of an answer to, “You’re an architect?” said it all. Which brings me back to my first conclusion.
Obviously, the man’s a hooker. And with the heavy ring off my finger, I won’t be ignored much longer.