Page 8 of Nathan

I hold back a nervous giggle at the formal greeting and the absence in mentioning the late hour. Maybe visitors at any time of the day and night isn’t unusual for Bernard.

“It’s Nate O’Reilly. I need to see Mr. Sullivan urgently.”

“One moment, sir.”

Nate flashes a grin at me. I decide chewing on my nails might quell the violent churning in my stomach.

Within thirty seconds, the wrought-iron gates open inward, and Nate steers the car up the driveway. He parks directly outside Bernard’s front door and climbs out. When I remain frozen in place, he dips his tall frame and looks inside the car.

“Coming?”

“Do I have a choice?” I grumble.

A low rumble echoes through his chest. “You’re welcome.” He slams the car door behind him and heads for the front door.

On heavy legs, I get out of the car and trudge after him. By the time I catch up, a uniformed maid is waiting to greet us.

“Mr. O’Reilly. Mr. Sullivan is in his study. Follow me, please.”

I wait for her to ask who I am, but she simply motions for us to enter and closes the door. Maybe this isn’t the first time Nate has visited Bernard late at night with a girl in tow. Jealousy nips at my insides, but I immediately quash it. I have no right. Besides, feeling jealous over a movie star is stupid and pointless. They live in a different realm from us regular people.

The interior of Bernard’s home is as opulent as the exterior. Highly polished marble floors lead to a carpeted staircase, with the fanciest balustrade I’ve ever seen. In the center of the hallway, an oversized vase is filled with enough flowers to stock a florist, and above, a sumptuous chandelier hangs from an ornate ceiling.

The maid’s soft-soled shoes don’t make a sound as she leads us to the other side of the hallway. I keep my head facing forward, even though I’m dying to have a good look around. When she stops in front of a thick, oak door, Nate’s fingers touch mine, sending a shockwave of electricity shooting up my arm.

“Say nothing. Let me lead,” he whispers as we’re ushered inside.

Bernard is sitting behind an enormous desk—also oak—with a green lamp providing additional lighting. His head comes up when we walk inside. He spots Nate first, and his eyes narrow. Then his gaze falls on me.

“What the hell is going on?” He gets up from behind his desk. Unlike in the office where he wears suits, Bernard’s casual attire clings to his large frame, his stomach protruding over the top of a pair of jeans.

“I need a quick word, Bernard,” Nate says, casually strolling over to a couch and folding himself onto it with a gracefulness that takes my breath away. He really is beautiful. I should have taken the opportunity to study him up close on the drive over, but nerves had gotten the better of me, and they still do. Butterflies, not the good kind, swarm my stomach, and I covertly wipe my clammy hands on my jacket.

“What the fuck is this bimbo doing here?”

I lock my spine, cross my arms, and clamp my jaw shut…with immense difficulty. Bimbo? The gall of the man. I’m about as far from a bimbo as you can get. I can’t remember the last time a guy got up close and personal with my kitty.

“She’s with me.” Nate’s tone drips ice.

His fingers curl around my forearm, and he tugs me down beside him. His words, as well as his touch, send a delicious tingle spreading through my chest, and goosebumps spring up everywhere. Even though it means nothing, I’ll file that “she’s with me” away for later and use it in a fantasy about my favorite actor while I lie alone in the dark, my fingers inching inside my panties.

“And you’d do well to mind your language and your fucking tone,” he adds.

Bernard’s face reddens. “If you’re here for another conversation about my cut, you’ve wasted your time.”

Nate laughs. “No, I think a fifty percent reduction in your cut is enough for one day.”

I withhold a gasp. So, that’s what put Bernard in such a foul mood.

“Then, what the hell do you want, because I wasn’t bluffing, Nate. You can only push me so far, and you’ve hit the limit.”

Nate rubs his chin and studies Bernard’s face. I find my eyes drawn to his long, slender fingers. I bet they’re skilled hands. What a shame I’ll never get to find out how much pleasure they can give.

“Dex tells me you fired her today.”

“So what?” Bernard shrugs dramatically, splaying his hands for good measure. “She couldn’t follow a simple fucking order.”

Nate slowly rises from the couch, and in three long strides he reaches Bernard. The men aren’t too different in height, but something about the way Nate holds himself makes him the more threatening figure, despite Bernard’s considerable bulk. I shiver and hope I’ll never be on the other end of Nate O’Reilly looking at me with such menace.

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