Page 10 of Dirty Deal

The look Lena slides me is pure scorn. “An hour ago. It’s hardly rocket science, is it?”

No. No it’s not, but I expected so much less of her. I figured she would bitch and moan and be completely clueless, someone easy to mock—instead, Lena is working through the task I set her with an irritating amount of grace.

“You can’t be comfortable,” I try next. “Hunching over like that.”

Lena straightens her posture, but ignores me otherwise.

“And your nails are ruined.”

“Oh no,” Lena mutters, just loud enough for me to catch. “However will I go on?”

And Christ, this is not what I intended for this first night of vengeance. I wanted the Merritt family humiliated, wantedtheir precious princess to go home a shadow of her former self, stained and stooped and miserable. Instead,Ifeel like the fool.

“There are more shoes coming,” I warn.

“Good.” Lena picks up yet another pair. There are tiny labels tied around the laces, so that the staff members can reclaim them again. “I’d hate to get bored, and we have hours together yet. Don’t we, Weston?”

Yes. Hours and hours until dawn, stewing together in this cloud of shoe polish fumes, as Lena sits prouder than a queen on my office floorboards. Even the smears of polish on her bare arms and legs aren’t as satisfying as I hoped—a ridiculous part of me wants to wipe them off her gently with a warm cloth, to restore her smooth, olive skin to its satin perfection. To carry her over to the nearest armchair, settle her on my lap, and knead the stiffness from Lena’s shoulders.

Madness.

I push to my feet and stride away, head spinning.

Five

Lena

Istumble through the next day like a tired, stiff-shouldered zombie. Every movement makes my bones creak and my head throb.

Of course, Weston James can’t takeallthe credit for my bleary eyes and hunched back. It’s not all from my shoe polish adventure. There’s also the jet lag after flying here from Switzerland and barely sleeping since, along with the stress that kept me tossing and turning even after I finally crashed into bed around dawn.

I’m done. I’m toast. So tired that when the realtor I invited comes to tour the townhouse after lunch, I keep yawning every few seconds, clapping a hand over my mouth each time.

“Don’t mind Lena,” my father says cheerfully after the eighth yawn. “She’s jet lagged, poor girl.”

The realtor, a woman in her forties with a sharp suit and sharper eyes, glances at me. “Would you like to go lie down? I’m sure your parents can take it from here.”

Can they? I’m way less certain.

But as we all gather in the foyer, I’m swaying on my feet, and there are little spots of light floating in my vision. The realtor keeps looking at my hand whenever I cover a yawn—at the shoe polish stains that I couldn’t scrub out of my skin. It’s not the image that we want to project right now, that’s for sure.

Another yawn climbs up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth.

The realtor squints at my ruined nails.

Shit.

“Okay.” My vision wobbles as I back up, hoping and praying with all my might that my parents really can handle this. That I can trust them to do the right thing even when I’m not hovering nearby. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll go… I’ll go take a nap.”

The realtor nods briskly, already turning away. She’s probably wondering why she needs to deal with me at all when my parents are right here—but she has no freaking idea. Those two couldn’t even drum up the initiative to call her office this morning. “Good idea.”

Back in my bedroom, I close and lock the door, then rest my head briefly against the painted wood. It’s blessedly silent in here—cool and clean and quiet.

As I stumble to the bed and face-plant on the mattress, my last waking thought isn’t of the realtor or the house tour or even my parents’ financial situation.

It’s a memory from last night, pin-sharp and vivid: Weston crouching by my side amid the sea of shoes, the heat from his body tickling my bare shoulder and thigh. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make the little hairs on my arms stand on end.

The handsome bulk of him. The way he loomed over me. The deep rumble of his voice, and his fresh, cedar scent, nearly muffled by the stink of shoe polish.

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