“Mr. Redthorne.” The man offered a curt nod, then climbed into the backseat with Charlotte, shutting the door behind him.
It was only after the SUV vanished into a sea of taillights that Dorian realized he’d never actually introduced himself.
Chapter Twelve
As much as she hated to admit it, Rudy’s ill-timed arrival was just the bucket of ice water to the crotch Charley needed. Tonight was a crazy fantasy, and she’d enjoyed every mouthwatering second of it, right up until the part where they nearly got mugged.
Even that felt like a fantasy—a blurry smudge of a story she could barely remember, no matter how hard she tried.
What was the point, anyway? Story time was over. Her clock had struck midnight, her stagecoach turned back into a pumpkin, and now Charley would return to reality, the man no more than a delicious memory of a life she could never have.
Resting her head against the tinted window, she closed her eyes and let the hum of the road vibrate through her skull, enjoying the last few minutes of silence before Rudy started up the inevitable third degree.
What do you mean, nada?
You didn’t find a single thing of value in that entire penthouse?
What’s wrong with you, Charlotte?
Are you sure you’re committed to this?
“What were you doing with Dorian Redthorne?”
The last question hadn’t come from inside her head, and Charley sat up, blinking away her thoughts. From the adjacent seat, Rudy stared at her, impatient and annoyed—his default setting.
“Who the fuck’s Dorian Redthorne?” she asked, but as soon as the name passed through her lips, she knew.
Her man. The formality in his mannerisms, the obvious money, the sheer power emanating from his every word and movement. Only a man like that would have a name like Dorian Redthorne.
She repeated it in her mind, the memory of his accent making her stomach lurch.
He still had her underwear, she realized suddenly. Stuffed into his pants pocket.
Biting back a smile at the image of him discovering them later, she turned back to the window, hoping her disinterest would send Rudy sniffing up another tree.
But he wouldn’t let it go.
“You’re telling me you spent the night with a man and never bothered asking his name?”
“I didn’t spend the night with anyone, Rudy. I’m here. With you. As usual.” Then, tempering her tone, she waved her hand in front of her face like she was shooing a fly. “I didn’t get his name because he’s nobody—just some rich guy from the auction. We left at the same time, and he offered to walk me to the park.”
Rudy glanced at his watch, a gold monstrosity that had probably cost more than a year’s worth of Sasha’s schoolbooks. “I may be old, kiddo, but I’m not blind.”
“How do you know him?”
He turned away from her and stared out his window, rubbing his thumb along his watchband. “He’s the CEO of FierceConnect, among other things.”
“FierceConnect? Never heard of it.”
He turned and leveled her with another icy glare. “You two clearly had a connection.”
“Sure. Keep dreaming, Uncle Rudy.”
“You’re wearing his clothes.”
Charley glanced down, shocked to find herself clutching the suit jacket around her shoulders. In the chaos of the near-mugging and the rushed goodbye that followed, she’d all but forgotten about it.
She released the soft fabric, folding her hands in her lap.
“You wasted precious time on a job you claim yielded no results,” Rudy said. “You ignored my calls and texts. You ducked out early, forcing me to waste even more time driving around the block looking for you. And this isn’t the first time you’ve turned up empty-handed lately. Not by a long shot.”
“I know,” she said softly, shame heating her cheeks.
“So I’ll ask you again. What were you doing with Dorian Redthorne?”
“Nothing—I swear. He… he bought the Whitfield,” she blurted out.
Rudy cocked his head, looking at her with renewed interest.
Shit. Why had she said that? God, she hated the way Rudy got under her skin. He’d been like that ever since she was a kid, needling her until she finally gave up whatever secrets he was after—what her parents had been fighting about, where her mother kept the stash of tips from her waitressing gig, where her father had hidden the whiskey.
Looking at him now, she wondered how he’d managed to survive the game these last five years without her father around to clean up his messes. Sure, he played the part—tailored suit, that blingy-ass watch, the formal tone he’d adopted in recent years to impress wealthier clients. To anyone else, he probably looked like a successful businessman. But whenever Charley looked at him, she saw the same old Uncle Rudy from the trailer park, dressed in worn jeans and a beer-stained Bon Jovi T-shirt with holes in the armpits, a cheap gold chain around his neck, banging on the door and asking her father for a loan, for help with another one of his schemes, for a place to crash for the night or the week or the month.
Despite the money they’d earned since, the high-class art scenes they’d worked, and their lavish Upper East Side addresses, most of the time, Charley felt as if they’d never left that run-down double-wide in Jersey.
And sometimes, in her darkest moments, part of her wished they hadn’t left.
“I asked you a question, Charlotte.”
His cold voice brought her back to the present, and she blinked away the memories.
“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
A deep sigh rushed out through his nose. “How much did Redthorne pay for the Whitfield?”
Charley thought about lying, but Rudy would find out soon enough anyway. Charley didn’t know all their methods, but somehow, when it came to the amount of cash trading hands in the world of fine art, the D’Amico crew always had their finger on the pulse.
“Three million,” she admitted.
Rudy’s eyebrows shot up, but then he turned away again. He was silent for a long time. Too fucking long, which meant one of two things.
He was plotting.
Or he was gearing up for an explosion—one Charley would catch, right in the face.
Not for the first time, she wished the damn SUV didn’t have a privacy screen separating them from the driver. Then again, the types of guys Rudy hired—the same types her father had hired—were paid not to notice. Not to interfere. Not to help, even when someone begged for it.
Charley did her best to remain still, to take up as little space as possible.
…and above all, don’t get noticed…
Even more than the threat of violence, this was the part she hated. Biting her tongue. Holding her breath. Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking, a little more each time.
One day, she might disappear entirely.
Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty. They were taking the long way home, a route undoubtedly planned to keep her in a state of constant unease. Charley longed to reach for her phone, to send a text to Sasha, but she didn’t dare move.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax, tried to remind herself that this was all part of Rudy’s game. She’d just started to nod off when the bastard finally decided to speak, his voice so loud and abrupt she nearly yelped.