Page 62 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Oh yes,” he continues, “I looked up your social media accounts. He’s giving you quite a life.”
Cocking my head to the side and shrugging, I say, “Sort of. His kindness has me all confused. He’s given me house staff and a driver…but I’m sure it’s all so he can keep an eye on me.”
“This sounds dubious.”
I blurt out, “He’s killing me with kindness–.”
“–And a black AMEX card.” Jack finishes my sentence. When he looks at me, all I see is his disappointment. We were a team, and now I’m abandoning him.
“Oh Jack, please, I was genuinely scared but still kept my part of the bargain. When those men shot at me on the boat, Rashid tried to protect me. Whatever is going on, I don’t think he’s behindallof it. I’ve been thinking about that man at the races and what you told me in France about buyers already set up. What ifhe’s the buyer? What if something went wrong or Rashid changed his mind or...or...I don’t know.” My voice ends in a high pitch.
Jack looks like I just punched him.
I place my hand on Jack’s, give it a light squeeze. “Don’t give these to Favreau. I mean, you passed along the flash drive and, if he hasn’t found anything yet, then maybe there’s nothing to find.”
“Charlotte, what did he offer you?”
I let out a forced laugh. “Nothing.” Then in a low whisper, I say, “All I’m saying is what if there’s nothing there, and it’s all smoke and mirrors. Or maybe it’s a one-time job. Or he was forced to do it by...by that scary dude at the races whose men are trying to kill me.”
“Charlotte, just tell me the truth.”
I can’t escape his eyes. “I’m having second thoughts.” I search his face for a hint of surprise, but find none. “Hear me out. After the theft, I felt like a total mess, and everything was jumbled – thoughts, feelings, memories. I’m not sure anymore that it was Rashid who...who–”
“–stole the painting and kidnapped you, then tossed you from a helicopter.” His voice grows loud.
“I fell!”
“If you say so, but everything else I said is true, and you’re not even refuting it. I can’t believe this. He has upended your life, ruined your reputation, and you’re perfectly willing to go along with what was supposed to be a fake life with him.”
“My reputation has been repaired.”
“What makes you think that? We haven’t deliveredanythingto Favreau that’s been worthwhile.”
“Rashid set up new social media accounts for me, and the tide is changing. People wish me well in my new endeavors. I’m no longer a pariah.”
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t wish to pursue this any longer because you’ve been cleared via Trial by Influencers?” Jack asks, voice serious.
“What? No, that sounds so stupid.”But is it really stupid?In a small voice, I say, “It’s just that I used to have my whole life figured out, and not once did I stray from that path to success. Then Paris happened, and my friends turned out not to be my friends, and my career disappeared in minutes, the career that I gave upeverythingfor. I know I’m placing too much importanceon what strangers think of me, but…” I sigh heavily. “I’m just tired of trying to stop a tsunami with my bare hands.”
Jack is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if anything I’ve said has expressed my emotional turmoil.
“Charlotte, do what you feel is necessary, but I’m doing this.”
“What are you doing in my room?”
Rashid’s tone is frighteningly calm and seething. Omar lingers behind him. Rashid’s eyes drift from me to Jack to the exposed wall safe. The roguish grin on his face seems playful and expectant that this moment would come. “Omar, please cancel Ms. Milton’s car for the evening. She’ll be indisposed.”
I clasp Jack by the arm.
Chapter 36
Huddled on a setteein the office, Jack and I stare at the painting propped against the sofa opposite us. TheMistresswinks at me as though she, too, was in on this little joke of Rashid’s. She had been under our noses this entire time. Tilting my head, I look atMistress in a Red Dressfrom a different angle. Centuries later and she still has men falling in love with her.
“Is she the reason those men on the boat tried to kill me?”
“I’m afraid so,” says Rashid, sitting on a modern, white leather chair between us and the painting.
“But why? I don’t have the painting. I don’t know anything.”
