Page 122 of Cashmere Cruelty

“I told you to let me through, you oversized excuse for a chimpanzee!”

April’s pupils shrink. From the guestroom, a lanky figure emerges, just as sleep-mussed as his sister. The siblings lock eyes.

“Mom’s here,” they whisper in unison.

It’s a day of firsts. Before I’ve had a chance to assess the situation, April jumps up, ready to assume her battle position. “Charlie,” she calls firmly. “Hide.”

But Charlie shakes his head. “It’s me she wants,” he rasps, like some tragic hero from a comic book, ready to face his demons.

I decide I’ve had enough of the dramatics.

No demons are getting through my door today.

I stand, grab my jacket, fix my tie. Then, once I’ve made myself presentable again, I cross the distance between the couch and the door with swift steps.

But, just as I’m about to throw the door open, April rushes over, stilling my hand.

“No!” she pleads. “Let me handle this.”

I don’t want to let her handle this. I don’t want to let her handle anything. Worse, part of me wants to bundle her up and turn back time a few precious minutes, bring her back to that couch, pick up exactly where we left off.

But I’m way too familiar with that look. It’s the look my men get in their eyes when they cross paths with an old foe, finding a score to settle.

Right now, April needs to be the one to settle this score.

So I give her a nod, step away, and let her handle this.

The second April pulls the door open, a woman-shaped hurricane storms into the penthouse. “You!” Eleanor Hill barks, jabbing a trembling finger at her daughter.

And there’s truly no mistaking it. Her eyes, her freckles, her height: everything about her screamsApril’s mother.If not for the disdain on her face, they could almost pass for half-siblings themselves.

Almost.

“Hi, Mom.”

April’s voice is calm, clear. But Eleanor isn’t so easily pacified—wagging her finger like a weapon, she starts yelling at everybody in the room, starting with her wayward daughter. “How dareyou steal my son?”

April’s taken aback. She gives Eleanor her trademark customer service blink, the one that seems to say,I beg your fucking pardon?but doesn’t actually spell it out. What was her phrase of choice?“No body, no crime”?

“Mrs. Hill,” I greet impassively.

Eleanor gives me a cursory scowl. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Mom!” Charlie scolds. He sounds every bit the embarrassed teenager whose mother is making a scene in front of everyone—which, considering the situation, really isn’t far off the mark. Even the bodyguards are leaning in close to eavesdrop, those lazy fuckers.

“Oh, don’t you ‘Mom’ me!” Eleanor snaps, whirling around to face her son. “You think this is funny, don’t you? Disappearing on me, yelling all those mean things?—”

“I wasn’t yelling; you were?—”

“Quiet!” she hisses. “You are in a sea of trouble, young man. Go pack up your things right this second. We’re going home.”

“Mom,” April interrupts, her tone still placating, “let him explain.”

“Don’t think I’m done withyou,” Eleanor snarls, not even looking at her daughter. “You’re lucky I could track Charlie’s phone. Otherwise, you know who would’ve shown up at your snazzy door? That’s right: the fuckingcops!”

“You tracked my phone?!” Charlie shouts.

“Pack. Your. Bags,” Eleanor cries back. “Now. Or else, I’ll make your dad come get you.”

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