Page 22 of Winning Bid

“Pity about your fiancé.”

I should be used to Andre’s wild subject changes by now, but I’m not, especially when he hits Anderson territory. “Pity?”

He takes my hand, examining my ring. Still smiling, but less so around his eyes now. “He has exquisite taste.” He looks into my eyes. “In rings, I mean.” He does not mean rings.

I’ve always wondered if Andre’s flattery is interest, and I still can’t quite tell. Some men just like to speak flirtatiously to keep a woman off her game. But he has no reason to do that now. So, I go with a neutral response. “Anderson picked well.”

“Truly, he did.” His lips twitch. “I hope he does not mind when you’ll be working late at the office. We’ll practically be on top of each other until this is done.”

I gulp the champagne, wishing it was whiskey. “He knows what my work entails. It’ll be fine.”

Andre closes the gap between us, almost in kissing distance, and I could not be less comfortable. But I don’t step back. If this is some kind of power play, I’m not giving in. His voice is quieter now. “I require a picture from my office, and I’d like you to get it for me while I handle some things here. It’s on a silver digital frame, one of those that changes the images every minute. Right on my desk. You can’t miss it.”

“Sure,” I almost frown. I fetch his personal things now? Weird. Maybe that’s a step up from ordering champagne, I can’t tell. “But I don’t have access?—"

He passes me his guest keycard. “Now you do. Thank you in advance.” With that, he strolls to annoy Harrison.

When it comes to Andre Moeller, I never know what to expect. But today has gone better than it has any right to, so I zip out with the keycard and go to his office. It’s huge and extravagant, just as I expected for someone of his stature. But I’m not here to stare, so I head straight for his desk and grab the picture frame. It’s the only one there, so that makes it easier.

But as I grab it, a word catches my eye on some papers on his desk. “E. West.”

I shouldn’t snoop. I know this. But when it comes to Anderson’s family, I don’t have boundaries. Quickly, I flick through the paperwork, and as I do, my stomach sinks. No, no, no, please, no.

Every company Andre has had me set up for him to take over is linked to Elliot West. He is the majority shareholder, or sometimes, the silent partner, or set up in one arrangement or another, and … he’s going to lose everything but West Media. If he loses all his other holdings, how long is it before Andre comes for that, too? How long before his shareholders lose their faith in Elliot? For that matter, how long before the West family is a relic from a bygone era?

I’m gonna be sick.

I’ve been working to tear the West family apart this whole time. What have I done?

13

ANDERSON

“… s

o the question becomes, who gave her the idea to do the Grainger picture?” Dad asks, while he already knows the answer.

There are times I hate being a West. Staring at my father is one of them. He looks like me but thirty years older. It is disconcerting to know my blue eyes, black hair, and strong jaw come from him. I like seeing the gray in his hair these days. It makes me feel less connected to him, given my hair remains black. But if I had my druthers, I wouldn’t be connected to my father at all.

Sure, we’ve become a little closer since I got shot. The old man worries about me in his own way. I can’t say how much of that is from him or from Mom, though. I have never doubted her love for me. She never gave me a reason to doubt her. His love, on the other hand, has been in question since the day I was born.

None of that matters now, though. I still want to destroy Elliot West for everything he’s done to June. And to me.

“We both know it was my idea, Dad. Why are you drawing this out?”

With his elbows on his massive desk, he steeples his fingers and huffs. I’ve never enjoyed being the target of his ire, but being the source of his irritation? No one does it better than me. But right now, I have too many things on my mind to enjoy getting his goat.

For one, the police harassing June. Two, being at my office feels like being a sitting duck, and I don’t like it. So, three, dragging things out with Dad means I don’t have to be in my office. The police would never barge in here. Aside from the fact Dad has a lot of powerful friends, enough of them know to steer clear of him.

I really wish that fear translated to me, but I doubt that it does.

He snarls, “Because, Anderson, that was my attempt to gracefully encourage you to explain yourself. In what reality is it a good idea for a teen actress to show her breasts? Maybe more, actually, given Grainger’s reputation. His excuse for arthouse is little more than pornography.”

“You mean, why is it a good idea to devalue her topless paparazzi pics? Aren’t you the one who taught me that move?”

He remains unconvinced. “It is the right call?—"

“See?”

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