Page 57 of Savage Lover

That’s just a coincidence, I’m sure.

“Hey Vic,” I say. “How rare is that dis—that mutation?

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe one in fifty million?”

Well, shit.

That’s a pretty big coincidence.

I’m supposed to be working in the auto bay, but instead I’m downtown, in the financial district.

This is where Bella’s father works. He owns Alliance Bank, on LaSalle Street. Or at least, that’s what Google tells me. It’s confirmed by the company directory located over by the reception desk.

I’m not stupid enough to talk to the haughty-looking receptionist. I know there’s no way on god’s green earth that she’s going to send me up in the elevator to whatever stunning corner office Raymond Page occupies. Bank managers don’t meet with random mechanics who come wandering in off the street.

In fact, the receptionist is already eyeing me suspiciously, based off the fact that I’ve been poking around the lobby for about ten minutes, and I’m dressed in jeans and a hoody, instead of the suit and briefcase apparently required to gain entry to the upper levels.

After setting down the receiver on her most recent phone call, she fixes me with an icy stare and says, “Can I help you?” in the tone of voice usually reserved for telling people that their fly is undone.

“I’m waiting for . . . my uncle,” I say lamely.

She raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

I turn my back on her, looking around for someplace to lurk out of sight while I wait for Raymond to come down.

It’s almost lunchtime. Unless he’s planning to eat in his office, he probably goes out for a steak and martini in one of the many fancy restaurants in a three-block radius of this place.

The lobby is all black marble and sleek, reflective surfaces. There are no good places to hide. Not even a potted plant to crouch behind. I can see the receptionist getting antsy, casting glances in my direction more and more frequently. She looks like she’s going to call over one of the uniformed security guards any minute.

At that moment, the elevator pings. The gold doors part, and three suited men step through. The one in the middle is tall, bald, and obviously in charge.

Raymond Page.

I hurry over to intercept him.

I can see the security guard hustling toward us from the opposite side. He knows who Page is better than I do, and he has no intention of letting me talk to him. Unfortunately for the guard, I’m closer. I position myself right in front of Raymond, so he has no choice except to stop or run right into me.

“What?” he snaps, breaking off his conversation with the other two men.

“Mr. Page?” I say.

“Yes?” he says coldly.

He’s looking down into my face, his eyes as dark and stern as a hawk’s, with those drawn-together brows and his beak of a nose between them. His face is coarse—thick-skinned, and heavily lined. But there’s no mistaking that incongruous double row of lashes that line his eyes like kohl.

“What is it?” he barks, again.

“I . . . I know your daughter Bella,” I stammer.

“Then you should know better than to interrupt me at work,” he says.

He pushes past me and sweeps through the doors to the outside, the other two men hurrying after him. The security guard blocks me from following him.

“Time to go,” he says, arms crossed over his chest.

“Already leaving,” I reply, heading for the opposite door.

I can’t believe that. The mention of Raymond’s daughter didn’t interest him in the slightest. He had no curiosity. No concern that something might have happened to her.

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