Page 16 of The Re-Proposal

“You’re lousy at blackjack, Winnie.” My voice is dark and apathetic. “If you’d taken the money and made some investments, I would have had more respect for you.”

Winifred is choking back sobs. The sound rakes against my ears.

I’m not completely heartless, even if I’m three-quarters of the way there. It’s hard to see a man’s entire world shatter—no matter how much he deserves it.

But hewillhave to pay.

I check my watch.

It’s time to leave.

As I’m walking away, the bottom of my Armani soles rolls over something thin and cylindrical. I glance down, a stormy expression on my face, and notice a strange black wand. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not a wand. It looks more like the spiky end of a woman’s high heels.

Vargas sees me staring down at the ground and looks too. “What’s wrong?”

I bend to pick up the broken heel and lift it to the light. The color is the same as Clarissa’s shoes.

My heart starts pounding faster.

I noticed there was something wrong with her flats, but it didn’t make sense until now. Spinning around, I motion to Winifred while keeping my eyes locked on the heel. “Was Clarissa Maura in here?”

“Huh?” The man lumbers to his feet. Red splotches stain his cheeks.

“Was she here?” I bark.

“Y-yes.”

My lips curl up and I wrap my fingers around the broken heel. Without another word, I leave the boardroom.

Vargas catches up with me. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m perfect.” I swipe my thumb down the length of Clarissa’s heel.

“Mm. Perfect. Right.” Vargas frowns and eyes my new treasure. “Sane people don’t caress the trash they found on the floor.” When I don’t respond, he huffs, “A sane person wouldn’t survive as your assistant this long either, so I guess I’m not one to judge.”

I barely hear him.

My thumb moves up and down. “Vargas.”

“What?” He looks warily at me.

“I need you to buy me a pair of shoes…”

“Of course.”

“… size six and a half.”

“Six? You’re not a six.”

I face him, my excitement soaring. “The most comfortable you can find. A heel that’s about,” I check, “three inches. Stilettos preferably.”

Vargas’s eyes jump to the wand I’m holding and then to my face. His eyes dawn with understanding. “Do you have a style you’re looking for?”

“Buy them all.”

“All?” His eyebrows hike.

Doberman, who’s been listening intently, does a little eyebrow quirk too.

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