Page 3 of Beautiful Beast

His manners are about as good as his owner’s.

It would be easier if Belle called me an asshole rather than just sounding sad. Then a burning pit of regret wouldn’t be in my gut as I close the door behind her, unable to resist a final glance at her heart-shaped ass through the peephole as she heads back to the elevator.

Fuck, if only she had appeared in the foyer before I boarded a plane to Syria.

I kick my boots off and drop the duffel bag from my shoulder to the cold marble floor, the loud thud echoing in the cavernous space.

Home, or as close to one as I’ve ever had.

At least it beats the desert with strangers trying to kill me.

There are numerous missed calls and texts on my phone because apparently word travels fast that I’m back in the city. But I ignore them all and call Enrique instead.

“Mr. Townsend. Welcome home. How were your travels?”

Travels.

He makes it sound like I was on a tour of Europe rather than dodging bullets while bombs exploded overhead.

“Great,” I lie while pacing around the penthouse, re-familiarizing myself with the surroundings. “Listen, I know I’m not exactly known as a social butterfly, but I’m going to need even more privacy than usual. Can you make sure no one else comes to the top floor without my explicit authorization?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you care to explain how someone got access to my private elevator?”

“You must mean sweet Belle. She said that she’s Mrs. Alliston’s granddaughter, and she has all the proper documentation to prove her story. I told her which elevator to take, but she must have gotten it wrong.”

He should have escorted her and not let her out of his sight, but I guess even building managers aren’t immune to pretty girls batting their eyelashes.

“Please make sure it doesn’t happen again. This apartment is worth over a hundred million dollars. Surely, that should come with the guarantee of some privacy.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. My deepest and most sincere apologies.”

I disconnect the call and stare at the white zigzag staircase. There’s a shiny stainless steel railing with square glass lookouts at each ‘zig’ and ‘zag.’

I’ve never appreciated the functional appeal of those boxes until just now when my battered body won’t make it to my top-floor bedroom without resting.

Most New York City apartments are postage stamp sized, but I’ve got twenty-five-foot ceilings, 19,000 square feet of living space, and another 4,500 square feet on the covered wraparound roof deck.

It’s way too much extravagance for one person, especially someone like me who is rarely home, but I took it from the old man anyway as partial compensation for my fucking horror show of a childhood.

It’s still not enough, but at least he’s dead.

And now I’ll have somewhere to hide from the world in style.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and instead of braving the stairs, I collapse on the grey suede couch in the main level seating area facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. There are 360-degree views of mid-town Manhattan from every room.

Another buzz.

I stare at the Empire State Building and wish everyone would leave me alone.

Yet another buzz.

With a sigh, I palm my phone and watch the messages appear like rapid-fire.

Uncle Dennis: I know you’re back in the city. Please call me. It’s important.

Uncle Dennis: Adam, I must see you – soon.

---