By the way, what is he doing?
When the engine starts, it becomes obvious. He’s probably worried I might suffocate in his car and disposing of my body would be a big inconvenience. Not to say the horrific impact my funeral costs might have on the bottom line.
“I won’t be long. Hit the lock button,” he commands, and then closes my door.
“Yes sir,” I murmur under my breath.
Now he can’t possibly hear me, but I swear he turns and gives me a look like he did.
Not really interested in the game after a few minutes, I go to tuck my phone back in my purse, but it slips from my hands.
Turning on the interior lights, I twist around and search the tiny backseat, which is loaded with the hottest spring and fall looks from Simon Warren. You might as well get the crash cart ready now because when I see Keen wearing these, I think I might just have a heart attack.
Carefully moving the garments so they don’t wrinkle, my hands land on something smooth and shiny. Running my palms over it, it feels an awful lot like a catalog.
No, it can’t be.
Yanking it out, sure enough in big, black bold letters the cover reads, “Simon Warren Fall Collection.”
Switching off the car, I take the keys and the catalog and get out.
That son of a bitch!
What the hell is he up to?
Maggie
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing” is an idiom of biblical origin used to describe a person playing a role contrary to his or her real character, with whom contact is dangerous.
I know this because I Googled it this morning during one of the at least half dozen times Keen Masters walked away from me in mid-sentence.
The thing I realized is that he isn’t playing any role contrary to his real character. He is simply just a wolf.
An arrogant, cocky one at that.
The hallway is dark as I make my way down it, and then up the stairs. Moonlight from the windows on the top landing illuminates a path along the linoleum steps, which feel cool under my bare feet.
Yanking open the door, which leads to the workroom and Jordan’s office, I come face-to-face with Keen for the second time today.
Startled, I jump back.
He reaches to grab me and yanks me forward before the door slams in my face.
Irritated by his constant chivalry since it deeply contrasts with his arrogant attitude, I quickly thank him and then hold the catalog up for him to see. “Looking for this?”
He looks at me blankly. “Where did you find that?”
“In your car!” I shout, losing all cool.
With his hand sizzling against the bare flesh of my back, he reaches for the door with his other hand as if to leave. “Obviously I was unaware. Jordan must have put it in there when he loaded the car.”
Uh . . . wait one minute! I hold my hand up, palm facing out to stop him. “You’re lying. Admit it. Admit you knew it was there the whole time. Admit that you just wanted to get me away from Elliot. To make me leave the club for some twisted reason I can’t even begin to figure out.”
“I don’t lie,” Keen hisses.
“No, you just disappear!”
Resignation riddles his face. “I tried to explain myself more than once. I won’t do it again, Maggie. It wasn’t about you. But you can’t accept that, and I’m sorry that I can’t make you. Now let’s go.”
I have fire in my blood and there is no way I am letting him tell me one more goddamn thing to do. Brushing past him in my bare feet, I march down the hall in the opposite direction of the exit.
“Where are you going?” he asks incredulously.
The air around me crackles dangerously. “To the bathroom. You can just wait for me right there,” I order, or huff might be a better word.
This man . . . he infuriates me. Gets under my skin. And turns me on at the same time. How can that be? He disappeared on me. Left me. No one has done that to me before, not anyone that I cared about, anyway. Besides, he’s so bossy. And I do not take bossy well. I prefer to be the one giving the commands. I do not take orders—from anyone.
You know, the only-child thing.
No father.
They go hand-in-hand—somehow.
Once inside the ladies’ room, I flick the light on and force myself to take my time to let my beating heart settle. After washing my hands, I soak a paper towel with cold water and hop up on the counter, kicking my feet a little as I remember what he said. Maggie, I can’t make you.
It sounded so heartfelt.
So real.
I’m not heartless. I get that he went through something, but I don’t know if I can, or want to, forgive him.
I just don’t know.
Gah!
Thoughts of him confuse me, and for some reason it seems to be a million degrees in here. I can actually feel myself starting to sweat.
Someone must have turned the heat up before leaving and forgot to turn it down. I draw my hair over one shoulder and hold the towel to the nape of my neck to cool myself down. Rivulets trickle down my bare back, and I ignore the memory of when it was his fingers there and not the drops of water.