Page 47 of Cruel Hearts

His corner office is bigger than mine, and two of the intersecting walls are made completely of glass. His view of King’s Crossing is spectacular, and I stand at the window, looking over the city.

What is it like to be Ashton Black? He’s always been a little darker than me. A little meaner. I’ve always accepted that at face value because Clayton Black can be just as mean. Sometimes I wonder how he and my dad were even friends. What I know of Clayton and the way he does business isn’t the way my father did his.

Perhaps they balanced each other the way Ash and I do. I remind him he doesn’t have to be such an asshole all the time, and he reminds me I need a backbone to get anything done.

Stella helped me do that, too. Every man should run a company with a broken heart.

Things get clear real fast.

I pour another drink.

My phone vibrates. The PI’s calling me, and I bare my teeth.

“I still haven’t found her, sir,” he says, his pack-a-day habit turning his voice rough. Maybe he’s too busy smoking to look for her.

Fucking hell.

“I don’t know how that’s possible. She was at Quiet Meadows this morning sneaking past some of the tightest security in the city.”

He blathers something incoherent. He sounds just like my fucking lawyer.

“Clayton Black recommended you, and you’re supposed to be the best. How can you let a little blonde get the better of you?”

“She’s been underground, sir.”

“That’s a lie. I saw her myself.”

The private investigator wisely says nothing.

“You’re done.” I disconnect. There’s no reason to keep him employed if he’d rather smoke and jerk off.

I need to find Stella. I can stake out her apartment and hope she shows, or I can hire another PI.

In the past, I’ve left that to Clayton, but the resources he’s been recommending have not worked to my favor. Reining in my annoyance, I calculate the time change and call Nigel.

“What can I do for you, kid?” he asks, his voice thick, with ah... Helena mumbles in the background. Shit.

I wince. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Nah—”

Helena objects—loudly.

Nigel chuckles. “What’s going on?”

I’m lucky he answered the phone. “I need a private investigator here in the States. Someone who knows how to do their fucking job.”

“Let me think.” He groans, and a mattress squeaks.

Helena mutters, “Fuck.”

“Hush,” Nigel says, his tone amused. “I got someone. You’re not opposed to a woman?”

“Can she get the job done?”

“Best in the business.”

I resist scoffing. I’ve already heard that song and dance.

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