Page 35 of Spooked

“Grey? As in Greyson Meyer?”

“Yes.”

“After the whole ‘best man’ fiasco?”

“I apologised.”

“Well, I still think Grey was a dick. Even if your friend’s marrying a total bitch, you should support them. I mean, I couldn’t stand the conniving shrew, and I still managed to send a wedding present.”

“She’s allergic to shellfish, and you sent a gift certificate for the Grand Banks Oyster Bar.”

“It’s the thought that counts. And speaking of shellfish, have you considered slipping a piece of lobster into her dinner?”

“It’s only a mild allergy. She just comes out in hives.”

“Shame. How did Grey know about the hookup? It wasn’t with him, was it? I can imagine him having hate sex if he’s in a particularly shitty mood.”

“No, it wasn’t with him. It was some friend of Ruby’s.”

“Interesting. Ruby told him about it? Or did Grey know the guy personally?”

“Ruby told him, which means it happened before we got married.”

“Okay, well, good luck with the one-night-stand thing.”

Alexa hung up, abrupt as always. Now Brax needed to find yet another man willing to have sex with a woman for money and report on the sordid details. There should be an agency for this kind of thing. If Brax ended up giving in to his baser instincts and losing Nyx, then maybe that was a business idea for the future.

But in the meantime, he’d just have to distance himself further from Meera. Make her stay out of his way. Of all the women who’d crossed his path in recent years, she was the one who gave him sleepless nights.

CHAPTER13

THE ASSISTANT

Yesterday, I’d been picking up birthday gifts for two members of the housekeeping team, making arrangements for Mr. Vale to travel to a board meeting in San Francisco for a tech startup he’d invested in, and finalising the details of the dinner party he planned to hold next weekend.

Today? Today, he wanted me to research the gem trade in Colombia. Just a high-level paper, he said, and if he needed more, he’d engage a specialist to prepare a detailed report. But where should I start? With the logistics? The ethics? The finances? Last week, he’d wanted details of the wheat trade in Eastern Europe, and when I’d emailed him the facts I’d pulled together, he’d given me no feedback whatsoever. Had it been mediocre? Good? Were there improvements I could make? At times, I felt as if I was shouting into the void with this job.

After the shoe-vomit incident, I’d spent two full weeks keeping out of Mr. Vale’s way, and he seemed content to communicate by email. But enough was enough. If I was going to do this job properly, we needed to have some kind of personal interaction. A short meeting each day, or even a phone call.

I read the brief again, as if somehow in the past five minutes it might have sprouted extra words, more helpful ones. But it was no good. I’d have to speak with him. Perhaps if I sweetened the deal with coffee? Usually, I just placed the mug on his desk and backed out of the room. At least he hadn’t complained about the temperature recently, so I had to be doing something right.

When the drink reached 140 degrees exactly, I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

“Your coffee, Mr. Vale.”

“I didn’t ask for more coffee yet.”

“I know, but I was hoping we could talk over the brief you just gave me.”

He checked his screen. “Did you email me a question?”

“No, but I thought…”

“You thought what?”

“Sometimes it’s easier to go over these things in person, face to face. And quicker, especially since I’m only sitting next door.”

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