Travis nodded, surprisingly non-confrontational. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. As far as Charley knew, Rudy had never fenced cars before, but Travis’ involvement seemed to change things.
“So that about does it,” Charley said, rising from the chair. “I’ll get you the list of pieces once I’ve had a chance to think about everything again, but this should give you a pretty good idea of what’s going on over there.”
“Very informative,” Rudy said, unable to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice.
Charley finally relaxed. All in all, her presentation had been pretty convincing—she could see it in the way Rudy smiled now, greedy and eager, eyes glittering with the promise of a hot score.
But like a flower kept in the closet, Charley was fading quickly. It wasn’t just the double life, the lies, the scamming.
It was that she missed him.
Somehow, in their short time together, Dorian Redthorne had gone from random hot hookup, to phone sex fantasy man, to Rudy’s mark, to a real person, to an immortal vampire, and right back to a real person again—one she desperately wanted to know. To be near. Now, she wasn’t just fantasizing about him; she was thinking about him. Remembering him and their conversations, the breakfast spread, the drive. Craving Dorian’s touch, the sharp sting on her bare flesh, the soothing kisses that followed.
“Nice work, Charley.” Travis pounded on the table, startling her from her thoughts. “You’re quite the resourceful little slut.”
Charley flashed him a carefree smile, refusing to take the bait. “I know, right? While you were jerking off alone last night, I actually got some useful information. As a matter of fact, I got more intel in one night than you managed to cobble together in all your months of surveillance.” Then, turning to Rudy, “So when are we making a move?”
“You’re on a need-to-know basis,” he said. “The moment you need to know, I promise you, you will.”
But that was the thing—Charley did need to know. Right fucking now. If she had any chance of throwing a wrench into the works, she needed to know exactly how and when those works would play out.
Fuck.
There was only one thing left to do.
It was a risk—one she’d never before taken. Not once in the five years since she’d been working for Rudy. But now, it was her only shot. And when she thought again of Dorian, of how quickly he’d opened his home to her, his bed, hell—even his heart—Charley knew she couldn’t back down.
Popping her hands on her hips, she looked her dickbag, asswipe, shithead of a boss straight in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Uncle Rudy, but that’s bullshit.”
His eyebrows lifted, his lip already curling into a sneer. He was T-minus five seconds from erupting, but Charley couldn’t pull back now.
“Look,” she said firmly. “You guys sent me in there almost entirely unprepared—no mention of the family members in town, no mention of the size and scope of the fundraiser, and worse—no mention that the host was a man I’d already met before—one who obviously recognized me.” Charley shook her head, still steamed about that particular trick. “Despite all that, I still managed to do my job. Now, out of everyone in this room, I’m the closest one to Redthorne—the only one who might be able to wrangle some additional info out of him, or lure him out of the house at the right time. Even with all the surveillance in the world, you two don’t stand a chance without me.”
“Careful,” Rudy warned. “You’re getting dangerously close to insulting me.”
Charley’s chest tightened, but she wasn’t done.
“Dorian Redthorne isn’t some drugged-up celebrity or bratty kid spending Daddy’s trust fund. He’s a serious collector, and he’s not going to be taken so easily. Face it, guys. You wanna get close to that cache? You’re gonna need me, every step of the way.”
“Fuck.” Travis tried to shove a hand through his hair but gave up when he couldn’t break the gel barrier. “We haven’t mapped everything out yet. We’re still waiting on more surveillance photos from my other guy.”
“Just how many other guys are in on this?” she asked.
No response.
“Fine, figure out the logistics,” she said. “But when it’s time to go in, I’m going in with you.”
Rudy remained silent, and inside, Charley cheered. It was as close to agreement as she was going to get out of him.
Today’s small victory achieved, Charley picked up her bag and headed for the door, tossing one last barb over her shoulder. “Call me when you boys are ready to stop measuring your dicks and start making a real plan. Until then, have a fan-fucking-tastic weekend!”
Chapter Forty-One
What a fucking nightmare.
By the following Wednesday, Dorian was little more than a caged animal on display, pacing his office while Aiden ushered out the corporate investigators they’d spent the morning trying to appease.
Lucien Armitage’s sons had sent them. In the wake of the attack on Charlotte at the fundraiser, they had new concerns about Dorian’s ability to, quote, “manage his competing priorities.”
And—rubbing a bit more salt in the wound—Lucien was still considering Renault Duchanes’ bid for Armitage Holdings. On the advice of his sons, the offer wouldn’t be dismissed unless Duchanes was found guilty of ordering the attack.
So Dorian had endured the investigations—two in as many days, with more lined up tomorrow—wasting precious time discussing his corporate and personal financials, his plans for integrating Armitage Holdings into FierceConnect’s existing structure, how he saw their technology fitting into his current product offerings. They’d asked about his beta testing procedures, how many employees had access to his proprietary development schematics, whether his home and office facilities were secure. Today, they’d gotten even more invasive, assaulting him with questions about everything from his employees’ schedules to how much unsupervised access his housekeeping staff had at Ravenswood, where they might uncover sensitive company data.
If he didn’t need the merger to help smooth the way to a partnership with Isabelle Armitage, he would’ve called the whole bloody thing off.
And worse, despite Aiden’s insistence that he play the consummate professional during these inane investigations, Dorian could hardly concentrate. His mind was utterly incapable of veering away from Charlotte for more than thirty consecutive seconds.
After trailing her and Jameson on Saturday, he knew she hadn’t gone home—Jameson had dropped her at an address on Water Street, nowhere near the Park Avenue address Dorian had spied on her driver’s license the night he’d found her purse in the gardens. Sitting in his black BMW M8 like a bloody stalker, he’d watched through the tinted windows as she entered the building. Then, no more than half an hour later, she exited and hopped into a taxi.
Again, Dorian followed her—this time, straight to Park Avenue.
Satisfied she was safely home, he took off, hoping they might catch up on the phone later that night. But in the four days since, he’d barely spoken to her. She’d ignored all of his calls, offering no more than a handful of noncommittal texts in return—empty promises about wanting to see him again, followed soon after with excuses about why she couldn’t.