Page 56 of The Devil's Torment

The watch on my wrist buzzes, and I manage a quick glance. Nicholas. Again. I silence it before fixing my attention on the man sitting opposite. Right now, he’s far more important than Nicholas. For one thing, he gave me his time when my husband couldn’t be bothered, and for another, he may be the key to launching my business well.

I’m aware Nicholas will have more connections than Anthony Davidson, but I don’t want to succeed because of the De Vil name. I’d never be sure whether clients were using me because they liked my ideas and thought I had talent, or because they were afraid of the De Vils and what would happen if they didn’t hire me. That’s the main reason I decided to keep my maiden name, and it doesn’t appear Eloise’s dad has told Anthony I’m now married, either.

Probably because it happened so fast, most of the guests are suffering from whiplash.

My hands are sweating as I hand over a plan I’ve spent more than a year writing, tweaking, and rewriting. I only mentioned my business to my parents a couple of times. They showed such little interest in it that I never brought it up again. Now I’m married to Nicholas, they probably envisage I’ll spend my time hosting dinner parties and popping out babies.

I’m convinced Anthony must be able to hear my heart hammering against my ribcage, but as I start to talk through my ideas for Montague Interiors, I relax into it. I hope my enthusiasm and excitement for what this could be comes across and Anthony sees me as a serious contender and worthy of passing on my details to his contacts.

Once I’ve finished, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. He taps his thumbs together. “You’ve thought this through. I’m impressed.”

I positively preen at his compliment. I’m not used to praise, and it soaks into me like rain on dry, cracked earth. “Thank you.”

His hands come up to steeple beneath his chin, and he pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. I’m not sure what he’s searching for, but I hope he finds whatever it is.

A few more seconds pass before he speaks. “I’ve recently bought a property in Surrey. It’s in dire need of a complete makeover, and my wife is too busy with her own career to take on such a large project. I’d like to hire you for the job, and if you make a success of it, I’ll recommend you to everyone I know. Make a mess of it, on the other hand…”

He lets his sentence tail off, but his message is clear: make a mess of it and my career is over before it’s begun. His subtle warning only galvanizes me, and I beam as a rush of excitement and adrenaline fills my veins.

“I won’t let you down, Mr. Davidson.”

He stands and fastens the single button on his dark gray jacket. I stand, too, scooping up my business plan and stuffing it back into the leather folder.

“I’ll be in touch.”

We shake hands again, and I virtually skip back to the lift. By the time I exit on the ground floor, I’m beaming wider than a lottery winner. I may as well have won the lottery. Sure, Eloise’s dad opened the door, but it was my hard work, diligence, and belief in myself and my business plan that landed me the job.

For once in my life, I’m proud of myself. I should learn how to cheer my successes. God only knows, my parents are unlikely to.

I check my phone. Ah, crap. Four missed calls from Nicholas, and a text sent twenty minutes ago.

Nicholas: Where the fuck are you?

My stomach churns and a pang of regret takes hold of me. Maybe I should have messaged or called. Then again, he could have called me, too. We’re both at fault. After what happened to Imogen, though, and his sister all those years ago, it’s likely he’s more sensitive when someone he’s trying to contact goes silent.

It’s better to have the clear ensuing argument in person rather than over the phone. I reply via text, keeping it short without directly answering his question.

Me: On way back.

Stuffing my phone in my bag, I cross the lobby toward a constipated-looking Andrew.

“Mr. De Vil wants you home right now, ma’am.”

Great. When he couldn’t get hold of me, he must’ve called Andrew, and from the looks of my bodyguard, Nicholas probably gave him an earful.

“We can go now.” Halfway to the exit, I stop, and Andrew does, too. “I’m sorry.”

“What for, ma’am?”

“For whatever my husband said to you that’s made you look as if you’re walking to the gallows.”

His lips quirk briefly, then revert to their previous position. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

I’ll bet he can, too. “Well, my apology stands. And can you please call me Vicky? I’m not a fan of ma’am for anyone below the age of sixty-five.”

Another twitch of his lips is followed by, “As you wish.”

Once I’m in the car, I reach for my phone again. Briony is excellent at conflict resolution, and I need to figure out how to deal with an enraged husband without his pissy attitude activating my pissy attitude and resulting in me stabbing him in the eye with the nearest sharp implement.

---