Page 24 of Scarlet Angel

He steps closer once again, so close the scent of flowery perfume invades my nostrils.

“Of course, I’m not averse to mixing business with pleasure?—”

“I am,” I interrupt.

He’s silent, and I force myself to swallow, then step into the open kitchen to escape the tight alcove and the aroma of a perfumery.

He stays put, leaning against the counter, watching me like I’m exotic prey.

“The stories are true,” he says thoughtfully. “Your husband abused you.”

I look to the ground, to my cup, anywhere. This man is not someone I wish to share the sordid tale. Not that there’s any need to, as my story precedes me. Everywhere, it seems.

“I would never raise a hand to a woman,” he goes on. “You have my word. And, unlike your uncle, I value the feminine gender.”

“Good to know. Is my second latte done? You have a meeting to get to, right?”

“I hate you endured abuse. That’s…” He huffs, and I tear my gaze from the floor only to meet his steady, intrusive focus. “Have you seen a therapist?”

I angle my head, taking him in with a different perspective. In all my years at home, no one asked about my mental health. “Years of therapy. Still jumpy. You should see me around a spider.” I force a brightness I don’t feel. “You said you have meetings?”

“I do.” He offers me a ceramic cup and saucer, and as our fingers brush, I fall into his steady gaze. It’s warm and kind and not at all what I need.

“You need to shower.”

What the hell possessed me to say that? His brow crinkles.

“The perfume. It’s rather strong,” I explain. “Unless you’re not meeting?—”

He smiles, flashing brilliant white teeth, and it’s so unexpected and disarming my thoughts fragment.

“Vestiges of where I spent the night.” He sips his coffee, and when he lowers it, he licks his lower lip, looking amused.

Why am I watching him so closely? What is it about this man? Frustration churns within my ribs.

“You’re quite right. I need a shower. After a certain point, you can’t smell yourself. Am I right?” He walks away, taking the perfumery with him. He gestures to the alcove. “Make yourself at home. I’ll come and find you when I’m able. I know I mentioned breakfast, but the morning got away from me. If you check the pantry, there should be pastries. Quiche in the refrigerator.” He stops in the doorway. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve got. Bloody brilliant.”

His eyes sparkle with what? Relish?

Then he’s gone.

CHAPTER7

NICK

A news alert catches my eye. Subsea cables that cross the Atlantic and carry public and private network data for wireless internet are being damaged, sometimes cut straight through. Russian fishing boats have been observed fishing over the damaged areas.

My fucking arse, they’ve been fishing.

No doubt it’s a long-term strategy. The Russians are figuring out how to hamper communications should a war break out.

I should call Dorian. See what he’s observed via his satellite network.

Wonder if he’s done with his meeting? We can discuss it over lunch.

My Sectra Tiger vibrates. I have ten of the mobiles lined up behind my desk on a shelf. The one vibrating is one I always check.

Halston Moore

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