Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(117)

He glanced over his shoulder, giving my wife another of his inviting smiles. “Did you have a nice summer?”

Apparently, he’d recovered from the near-heart attack inducing shock of our marriage.

“Yes. Thank you.”

The tightness in her voice had me checking on her. She looked at me, her eyes big and solemn, like she was frustrated. Arranging my eyebrows into the universal expression for, Are you okay? Kat nodded quickly in response, squeezing my bicep, and placing her head on my shoulder.

Hmm . . .

I shifted my coffee to my other hand, covered her fingers with mine, and placed a kiss on her temple. She sighed, sounding content.

Good.

Turning back to the doors, I spotted the guy watching us, his forehead’s wrinkles and his lips’ slight sneer communicating loud and clear that he found the idea of us confusing.

Narrowing my eyes, I asked, “And how was your summer?” Get a chance to visit the club with mummy and daddy? Take the yacht for a spin down the Cape?

“Great,” he replied, giving too much emphasis to the “T.”

Thank Christ, the doors finally opened. Our tour guide stepped out first, and we followed. I spotted the stairway immediately and made a quick mental map of the layout as we walked. It must’ve been the executive level because everything was quality, from the art on the wall to the plasterwork on the ceiling.

But there was too much glass for my liking—glass doors, glass walls—something I hated about Cypher Systems’s offices as well. Seemed like a safety hazard.

He led us to a big set of wooden double doors, knocked twice, and then entered without waiting for a response. He held the door open.

The barney stopped in his tracks as the sound of arguing voices—wicked pissed voices—greeted us. Frowning, I peered around our escort’s shoulder and found Eugene yelling at another guy, and I caught the tail end of the rant.

“. . . unacceptable, Sharpe. You can’t make these decisions, and you can’t just show up here, minutes before a scheduled meeting, and drop this on me. The Caravel-Tysons are my clients.”

“You’re retiring, Eugene. You need to let us handle it.”

“You’re not handling it, you’re fucking it all up.”

“It’s time for you to—”

Kat cleared her throat loudly, cutting off whatever Sharpe was going to say. She stepped around me and the barney, strolling into the office like she was the Queen of Sheba. “I have an eight-thirty appointment, Mr. Marks. It’s eight thirty.”

I followed her in, coming to stand at her shoulder. Her back was straight and her voice dripped with disdain. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could only imagine the ice she was sending their way.

The guy named Sharpe seemed to sigh, his attention moving between us. I didn’t miss the disapproval forcing his eyebrows lower as he inspected me.

Eugene was pissed. He didn’t look at us. He continued glaring at Sharpe.

Belatedly and unnecessarily, the barney said, “Mr. Marks, Ms. Caravel-Tyson is here.”

While being scowled at, I surveyed the layout of Eugene’s office. Right away, I spotted the closed door to the left of his desk. My money was on private bathroom. The first thing rich people wanted to do when they achieved any success was stop shitting on the same toilet as poor people. Or other rich people for that matter. They wanted their own damn toilet.

Fucking weirdos. Regardless of how much money I had in the bank, I was never going to be one of these people.

“Thank you.” Eugene, standing by his desk and still shooting daggers at Sharpe, dismissed Aiken with a lift of his chin. He then walked around his partner to us, his eyes on me, and then moving his attention to Kat.

“Ms. Caravel-Tyson.” He nodded his head, not reaching out to shake her hand. “You know Mr. Sharpe, my partner.”

His use of her last names hit an off note with me, but she didn’t seem to care.

Sharpe stepped forward, making no effort to shake her hand either. “You’ve made the trip for no reason. According to the wishes of the inheritor designate, we are unable to—”

“Inheritor designate? What are you talking about?” Stepping away from me and walking past the two men, she took a seat at a medium-sized conference table, setting her coffee on the surface. “I’m the sole beneficiary.”

Eugene was grinding his teeth, the corners of his mouth at an unhappy angle. He looked tense and I got the impression he wanted to say something.

Sharpe opened his mouth to respond, but just then the door on the left side of the room opened, revealing Tiny Satan. I heard the telltale sounds of a toilet recently flushed. Of course the shitbag didn’t wash his hands. Disgusting.