Page 26 of Twisted Truths

“We’re going to be traveling for a few days next week. Someone at the head office will take care of the arrangements, but you’ll need to make sure you have the proper attire.”

She swivels around in her chair to face me, and I force my gaze not to dip down to her bare legs. “Where will we be going?”

It’s possible that she looks as horrified at having to spend time alone outside of the estate as I feel.

“Washington, DC.”

She nods. “What type of events will we be attending? Is what I normally wear insufficient?”

“Your cheap polyester skirts won’t cut it. And we have a fundraiser ball to go to. Talk to Marcel, and he can get you something that doesn’t look like it came from Walmart.” I’m deliberately cruel to make her want even less to do with me.

I steel myself against the flash of hurt that shines in her blue eyes, holding her gaze and daring her to say something. But she only nods, and weirdly, I find myself disappointed that she didn’t come back at me. Tell me what a rich prick I sound like and that not everyone is born into money.

“I’ll make sure to talk to him about it today,” she says before she turns back around to her desk.

Why do I feel an impending sense of doom like no matter what I do or how mean I am, nothing is going to change the fact that I’m drawn to the woman in this room with me?

There may be a constant lonely ache inside me, but that doesn’t mean that I want to fill it. Despite how I might act, I don’t want to hurt anyone. The idea of being what my father was to my mother is utterly soul-destroying to me. And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I’m becoming more like my father than ever.

My mood deteriorated as the week progressed. Basically, the more I found myself wanting Ariana, the bigger a dick I became. She never said anything, though, quietly going about her duties and making herself infuriatingly indispensable.

It’s Saturday night, and yesterday she told me that Marcel had acquired her clothing for our trip. Ever since then, I’ve been imagining what she might bring with her. She’s been running a fashion show in my mind, and with every hour that passes, the articles of clothing get smaller and smaller, more and more see-through.

I fist my hand and bring it to my mouth, groaning. This needs to stop. I know it does. But if that’s the case, why the fuck am I home on a Saturday night? I could easily make a few calls, take the jet to a nearby city, and work her out of my system with someone else. There are more than a few women who are willing and able. But for some reason, the idea doesn’t appeal in the least.

So here I am, walking down the hall to Ariana’s room, making up a bullshit fucking excuse to see her—like wanting to make sure what she has for our trip is appropriate.

I rap loudly on her bedroom door. I hear no movement from behind the door, and when she doesn’t answer, I knock again. Louder this time. Screw her if she’s trying to avoid me.

Once again, she doesn’t answer the door, so I try the handle, and the door opens.

“Ariana?” I step inside. “Ariana?”

It smells like her in here—like a tropical beach. The ocean.

With sure steps, I check the en suite and the walk-in closet and find both empty. It’s not as though I keep track of her coming and going, but where could she have gone?

I leave her room in search of Marcel, who always knows what’s going on within Midnight Manor. I find him speaking to Finn, his boyfriend. Finn’s in charge of the housekeeping staff in the manor.

Marcel straightens when he sees me. “Sir, can I assist you with something?”

I give a nod to Finn in greeting. “Do you know where Ariana is?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but she did ask me to have one of the drivers take her into town. I can check with him if you like.”

“Please.”

I wait while Marcel calls the driver on his cell phone, and after a brief conversation, he hangs up and slides the phone back into his pocket. “He said he dropped Miss Clarke off at Black Magic Bar. Apparently, it’s the same place she went last Saturday night.”

There’s no helping the frown that tilts my lips down. What the hell is she doing in a dive bar? Is she there to pick someone up for the night?

My hands fist at my sides at that thought. “Thank you, Marcel.”

Without even attempting to stop myself, I head straight for the front door, grabbing my car keys as I go, and slip into my Rolls Royce.

Chapter

Twelve

---