Their Virgin Secretary (Masters of Ménage #6)(33)

His call went straight to voice mail. Damn it. He thought about hanging up, but as her greeting played, he considered that maybe keeping interaction about business on a professional footing would relax her. That would seem normal to her, right? And hopefully, if he played along, she would realize that none of them would pounce on her in front of clients. Then maybe she'd be comfortable enough to join them.

"Belle, the Hughes brothers should be here soon. We need you for the meeting. We're in the hotel café. I snagged us a table in the back. See you in a few. Thanks."

Frowning, he touched the button to end the call.

"She's not here?" Tate scowled as he wandered into the room and searched it as he sat. The lack of sleep showed on his face, just like Eric knew it was reflected in his own.

"Maybe I should go to her room and talk to her." Kellan pulled out a chair, but hovered over it, seemingly perplexed and less confident than Eric could ever remember. "We might have to clear the air before she'll feel comfortable working with me again."

Eric shook his head and gestured for them to sit. "If you go to her room, Tate and I should come along. We all need to talk to her at once and get on the same page. But Oliver and his brothers are due any minute. Damn it!"

"Maybe she'll show up first." Tate sounded hopeful, then he glanced at his phone. "Except … she sent me all her notes about their business dealings at two this morning."

"Well, they're your clients. Belle always sends notes about a meeting to the lead." Eric tried to encourage him-and maybe himself a bit.

Tate scanned her message, his finger brushing up the screen of his phone. Then he frowned. "They're very thorough, far more than normal-everything we could possibly need to conduct the meeting."



       
         
       
        

"She's not coming." Kell gritted his teeth and gripped the back of the chair, looking ready to lose it. "Shit."

Eric scrubbed a hand down his face, worried like hell that Kell was right. Still, he looked for any reason to refute his friend. With a cold chill of dread spreading through his body, Eric looked over Kell's shoulder as he took the phone and quickly skimmed the notes.

"I'm right." Kell looked so damn bleak. "Her notes are way more than we'll need for this meeting. Goddamn it, she's left."

Tate frowned. "Belle doesn't have a car, and she's booked on the same flight we are. She can't have gone far, right?"

"Right," Eric assured absently. "Maybe she's just with Kinley."

She'd had a rough evening. Maybe she'd needed some girl time. Or maybe she'd overslept. He wouldn't blame her if she showed up at the very last minute to avoid any chance for personal talk, then attempted to leave the minute the clients did so she could be assured there'd be no confrontation. They couldn't allow that. They needed to have a very in-depth chat with her-one that ended up with her right back in bed where she should have been last night.

The three of them had stayed up damn near all night discussing how to deal with Belle. They'd made progress, though he still didn't think Kell saw the big picture. Right now, they all had to put their energy into a little groveling and begging, but Belle was a reasonable woman. She wouldn't be any different in this situation. He hoped.

Kell shook his head. "Belle doesn't pout. I don't see her skipping a meeting to cry to her best friend. Whatever's wrong is bigger." He put a fist to his lips as if trying to hold in another curse. "This isn't good."

Eric looked for a logical way to refute him, but he couldn't find one. Kell was right. He wanted so badly to run back to Belle's room and see if she was there, if she would talk to him.

But an approaching man in an impeccable navy suit and severely short blond hair approached, flanked by two men who looked very much like him-minus the severe expression.

"Good morning."

Oliver Thurston-Hughes had gained back some of the weight he'd lost after his wife's death, but there was no way to mistake the grim look in his eyes. Yasmin had been a cousin to the ruling family of Bezakistan, but she'd also turned out to be a murderous traitor. She'd sold her cousin, Alea, into slavery. When the poor girl had figured out that her own flesh and blood had nearly ruined her life, Yasmin had attempted to kill her. She hadn't cared that Oliver got caught in the crossfire. The incident had turned the once happy-go-lucky aristocrat bitter. 

"Thank you for meeting us," his brother Rory, the youngest of the three, greeted them in his equally upper-crust British accent.