Page 30 of Twisted Little Thing

CHAPTER XI

Evan

That girl is in dire need of a good spanking. While I’m flattered to see how nervous I seem to make her, I’m also annoyed at her childish behavior. Calling me, not saying anything, and then dropping the phone to the floor while laughing like an idiot?

I’m not impressed. If anything, I’m disappointed. I don’t care for infantile behavior such as this.

Although I’m quite sure that the laughter I heard in the background wasn’t hers. The fact that she wasn’t by herself when she called me doesn’t make things any better, though. I don’t like to feel like I’m being made fun of, and this incident provoked exactly that kind of feeling.

I was just about to leave home when she called. After finishing a leisurely breakfast on top of the hotel, I called my driver to take me home so I could change before heading back to the office. It’s the weekend, but work never really stops for me. Besides, I have nothing else to do, nothing else that I’m passionate enough about to devote my weekend.

I don’t have time for silly games and decide to leave Nicky a message instead of calling her back. Who knows if she’d even be able to speak properly?

I slip the phone into my pants’ pocket as I head out of the high-rise building that has become my home and slide into the back seat of the black limousine waiting for me outside.

"The office, sir?" my driver asks, casting me a quick look over the shoulder.

I nod. He hardly takes me anywhere else. Office, the occasional hotel, the penthouse, other people’s homes – and that club a few days ago. That was an exciting change, and not only for me, I assume.

My penthouse still feels a bit alien to me. I just moved there a short while ago and have only recently begun to decorate the place. Of course, I hired someone for that. Home décor is not part of my many interests, and I prefer to leave these decisions to a professional. And preferably a woman.

There has never been another woman at that place except for my interior decorator, and I intend to keep it like that for a while. Privacy has become a rare commodity in my life these days.

A short jingle coming from my phone announces an incoming text message. I produce my phone from my pants pocket and feel my heart sink when I see the message. When I see that it is from Nicky and has an attachment, I’m excited for a second. That is, until I see what it is. It’s one of those dreadful articles that I couldn’t prevent from being published. The kind of article that will only provide the most ludicrous details about me.

"We need to talk."

I sigh. Yes, we do. But not now.

I return the phone to my pocket, determined to give myself a while before I get into that conversation. I knew it was only a matter of time until she would find out. Who knows, maybe the girl who was giggling next to her was the one who told her. It was surprising enough that Nicky had no idea; I had to expect that she knows someone who does.

I lean back into the soft leather seat and close my eyes. Regret. I hate that feeling, but it keeps coming back to me every time I’m faced with the consequences of that failed relationship.

Sheila. I’m not even mad at her, not anymore. I loved that woman, but she destroyed more than she knows. The scars and repercussions she left me with after our break-up are so deeply rooted within me that it’s impossible to move on. She casts her shadow over everything, and my encounter with Nicky was no exception.

As if things weren’t already troubling enough, my phone rings, and it is the last person I want to talk to right now.

Roy. My publicist. I hate the fact that I had to hire him in the first place, because I don’t enjoy the hoops he makes me jump through. In fact, sometimes I feel like his presence only makes things worse for me.

"Yes," I say, as I pick up the call.

"Evan," he says in his annoyingly flat voice. "Glad to get a hold of you. How are things going?"

I hate small talk. I know why he’s calling me, and I hate that he’s not getting straight to the point.

"I’m not doing an interview for those people," I say, repeating my standard response. "Nothing has changed."

I hear him sigh at the other end. "Yes, yes. I know. I’m not calling to press you about that again. I got your point."

I arch my eyebrows in surprise. "What’s this about then?"

"The event," he says. "The charity event. You promised me that you’d attend, and I just wanted to remind you."

"I promised?" I say, puzzled. "That doesn’t sound like me."

"Evan," he pleads. "Please. This is not about some girly magazine and satisfying a bunch of horny single ladies. This is business. You’re involved with that charity, and it’s important that you show your face there."

"I understand that," I say. "But if even one person approaches me for an interview, I’ll—"

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