As a flare of surprise registered on that disapproving cat-eye-glassed face, Anne wanted to go home. And as she went back through the main reception, got to the elevators, and hit the down arrow, she wondered if she had the guts to put the lobby to good use and walk away from the building, tossing the steno pad in a municipal garbage bin—
“Psst.”
Anne glanced to the right, to the head of a back hallway that accessed the service facilities and freight elevators. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Charlie.”
“Charlie—”
“Shh.” A disembodied hand shot out and its forefinger crooked at her. “C’mere.”
Anne glanced at the receptionist, who had her phone up to her ear and her eyes down on whatever she was writing.
“What’s going on,” Anne murmured as she scooted out of view.
R. Charles Byrnes III was a Mr. Thurston in training, with the same bone structure, same Brooks Brothers wardrobe, probably the same family tree, if you went back seven generations of white bread. The difference was thirty years and maybe a little bit of true conscience, although whether the latter would last as time went on, who knew. The guy had it now, though, and that was why she’d gone to him when she’d found out about the wage garnishment.
Plus Bruce had been his paralegal.
“Did you take the money,” he demanded as he brushed back his thick blond hair.
She did a double take. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me you didn’t take the money and you didn’t sign anything.” As she struggled to follow, he got impatient, but kept his voice hushed. “That’s why I saw you walking into Thurston’s office, right? The full story is out—not by me—and he wants to pay you off.”
“Ah—he said the firm would like to take care of my medical bills.”
“Did you take it?”
“Oh, I don’t need the money—”
“It’s not about the cash to them. They want you to sign a release. McDonaldson was an employee and so are you. That asshole might have attacked you off-site, but the partners are not going to want trouble in the press or with their blue-chip clients because a hire they failed to do proper due diligence on assaulted one of their backroom girls. They’ll throw a little cash your way in the hopes this will go away, but you need to hold on for more—”
He stopped talking and looked over his shoulder as a uniformed maintenance worker came out of the stairwell.
In the pause, Anne felt compelled to lean back and check to make sure the Brooke Shields at the reception desk was still busy and no one was by the elevators. Yup. All clear.
“Listen, I appreciate your concern,” she said when they had some privacy again. “But—”
“You’re going to want a twenty-times multiple of whatever their first offer was. At least. If you were my client, I’d go for fifty times over.”
As her brain got scrambled, she thought absently that Charlie’s upset seemed very honest.
“I’m not going to take their money. I’m fine.” She frowned as he glanced across his shoulder again. “Why are you talking to me at all if it makes you so nervous?”
The man’s eyes returned to her and locked in on her banged-up temple. “Because it’s wrong, what happened to you when you went to Bruce’s, and on top of that, the firm’s trying to screw you over to their advantage. The way I see it, you’ve been hurt enough, and someone needs to give you some good advice.”
Anne glanced down at her steno pad. “But Mr. Thurston didn’t ask me to sign anything.”
“You didn’t take the money yet. Don’t kid yourself. He’s going to be back and he will force your hand.”
“Then fine. I’ll do whatever they want, I don’t care. I just need to keep my job.”
A hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “Consider this advice from a friend, okay? I’m loyal to this place as long as they’re playing fair, but they aren’t with you. You’ve got leverage. You need to use it. This is a cold, hard world, and money makes a lot of things easier.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I, ah, I have to go—”
“And there’s one other thing.”
“What.”
He tilted to the side and looked around her. “Meet me down by the loading dock, six o’clock tonight. I want you to take a look at something.” When she hesitated, he rolled his eyes. “I’m a happily engaged man, and I’d be a fucking fool to mess that up. Just meet me out back, okay? Six o’clock. I can’t go into it here.”
Charlie gave her shoulder a little squeeze and then hustled away.
As Anne watched him go, she knew she was not going to be anywhere in the building or outside of it at six p.m.
She had a date tonight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
So we’re clear? You know what to do?”
As Darius spoke up, he was inspecting his reflection in the gold-leafed mirror over his bathroom sink, and he was not satisfied with what was staring back at him. His hair was still damp from his shower, and it was a little long, in his opinion—but no time for Fritz to give him a trim now. He’d also managed to nick himself while shaving, and couldn’t wait to get rid of the piece of toilet paper he’d tacked onto his chin to stop the bleeding. And he wasn’t sure about the outfit.
“Oh, yes, sire.” The doggen bowed in the background. “I understand my duties.”
“Good.”
“And the meal has been prepared as you requested.”
“Thanks, Fritz.” He turned around. “How do I look?”
Fritz clasped his hands in worry. Then the butler blinked a couple of times as if he might be having a stroke.
“Spit it out,” Darius muttered. “I command you to speak.”
“Ah… forgive me, sire. But it was my understanding that you have a guest of the female persuasion coming this evening?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And might I extrapolate, based upon the detailed instructions you provided me concerning the finer points of the meal and the dessert—indeed, this house as a whole—that you wish to impress this female?”
“Yes.” He glanced down at his black-on-black ensemble. “I really want her to—well, have a good evening.”
“May I please speak with a bit of candor, then.”
Darius fought the urge to curse. “If you don’t, I’m going to put my head through this mirror.”
“Sire, I would not advise that. I fear that I would have to wrap your face in bandages, and I am not certain I have sufficient Neosporin—”
“What is wrong with my clothes,” he demanded. “Now.”
The old doggen sprang into motion, rushing to the carved wardrobe that filled most of one of the bedchamber’s walls. “Mayhap I might suggest”—he opened both of the doors—“one of these suits. I would think a double-breasted gray, paired with a cheerful tie, and a—”
“No, I can’t do formal. This isn’t a formal thing.”
“Oh.” The butler paused. And then seemed to fall into a sartorial mourning as he slowly closed the doors. “Well. Then.”