"How much is my answer worth to you?"
I gesture at the check. "The extra not enough for you?"
"You know I can't tell you anything without commensurate remuneration."
I snort. Commensurate remuneration. "I'm not owing you anything after I just got out from under."
"At least you aren't a complete idiot." Amusement glitters in his eyes. "You used to be pretty … impulsive."
"What I was was desperate, and you took advantage of that."
"You would've done the same if you were me." He picks up the check between thumb and forefinger. "Last chance. You really want to do this?"
"Yes."
He pockets it. "Then we're finished. Don't ever contact me again, Annabelle."
I blink as every muscle in my body abruptly goes lax. "That's it?"
He turns mildly snide. "What did you expect? A drill to the kneecaps?"
I recoil. He's closer to the truth than I'd like. Kneecaps weren't on my list, but I've been bracing myself for something unpleasant.
He laughs. "I'm not in that sort of business. I am, after all, a gentleman." He stands and starts to walk past, then leans over and whispers, "Don't come crying to me when things don't work out with Elliot."
I watch him leave, trying to process what just happened. I'm grateful he didn't get violent or nasty, but he seems awfully confident about me and Elliot breaking up. I shake my head. Of course he is. He wants me destitute again so he can offer up some money and turn me into a puppet. I'm not going to let his poisonous remarks get to me. Elliot and I just made a commitment to each other, and I'm not giving Mr. Grayson that much power.
I toss the coffee, which has gone lukewarm, and leave. Paige and I have a lunch appointment in half an hour.
Although we don't know each other well, she suggested lunch when I called and asked to see her. She chose a venue and texted the info to me along with a note that we have a reservation for twelve thirty. Being Ryder Reed's wife undoubtedly comes with some perks-mainly getting a table at any restaurant in the city.
The Italian bistro is pretty, with black wrought-iron gates and a faux-ivy fence around the outdoor seating area. The intricate workmanship evokes an old European feel, and the interior is bright and sharp, with terra cotta walls and tables covered with pristine linen cloths. The chairs are large and padded, and a crisply dressed hostess takes me to a corner table immediately. I glance through the window. It's pretty outside, the usual fabulous L.A. weather, and there are plenty of empty seats. Then I remember Paige probably doesn't want to be photographed. As Ryder Reed's wife, she's a person of great interest in Hollywood, and often hounded by unscrupulous "media."
"Your party isn't here yet," the hostess says as she pulls out my chair.
"I'm early." She places a leather-bound menu in front of me. Another staff member comes over and pours water. "I'll just wait until … " I gesture at the empty chair opposite me.
"No problem."
I flash her a quick smile and sip the cold water. The operatic duet coming from the sound system is lovely, male and female voices soaring effortlessly, complementing each other. I browse the menu, flipping through the thick, expensive paper. The script is elegant and moneyed. Everything about the bistro says wealth.
I'm perusing the long list of salads when Paige arrives. She's nothing like your usual celebrity type. Her face is pretty in an everyday woman kind of way, and she's curvy and soft, with a silhouette that reminds me of a voluptuous beauty from the past. She fits in perfectly at the bistro.
Right now she is obviously pregnant. A teal-blue pleated dress drapes over her rounded belly and stops two inches above her knees. A pair of blue topaz chandelier earrings and a matching necklace sparkle on her.
"Hi, Annabelle. Have you been waiting long?"
I put aside the menu. "No. I just got here."
"Oh good. I hate it when I make people wait."
"Not your fault that I'm early."
She grins. "Still."
When the server arrives, we order. I was planning on being healthy, but then I spot the angel hair pasta with clams in a truffle cream sauce. Paige gets pizza with fresh mozzarella and prosciutto.
"I'm surprised you called," she says after we get our drinks-a pitcher of peach-infused iced tea. "I didn't think you would."
"Really? Why not?"
She flushes. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem pretty reserved, nothing like what I imagined."
"You mean, I don't fit the stereotype of a brash stripper who also does cake work?"
Paige's flush deepens.
"It's fine," I say. "Please."
"I feel bad because I judged … albeit unconsciously."