“Thirteen billion dollars’ worth of merchandise is shoplifted annually.” Sloane couldn’t help herself. “I’d estimate your share of that to be less than point-zero-zero-zero-one percent.”
Clearly, the man hadn’t expected an actual answer.
“She wasn’t shoplifting.” Lia made it sound like the very idea of Sloane stealing anything was worthy of an eye roll. “She had a panic attack. She went outside for air. She came back in. End of story.”
Lia’s lie skated close enough to the truth that even with security footage, they would have trouble arguing her interpretation. Sloane had been agitated from the moment we’d entered the store. Sloane had gone outside. Sloane had come back in. All true.
“Victor.”
The head of security looked up. The rest of us turned toward the door of his office. Aaron Shaw stood there, looking every bit as self-possessed and in control as he had the day we met him.
“Aaron,” Victor greeted him.
Not Mr. Shaw, I noted. When it came to the hierarchy at the Majesty, it wasn’t entirely clear which one of them came out on top.
“Can this wait?” Victor’s tone made that sound more like an order than a question.
“I was just checking in on some of our VIP guests,” Aaron replied. “These girls are staying with Mr. Townsend in the Renoir Suite.”
The words Renoir Suite had Victor stiffening. Big spenders, leave them be, Aaron might as well have said.
“Let me do my job,” Victor told Aaron.
“Your job is harassing teenagers with anxiety issues?” Lia asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure a variety of news outlets would find that fascinating.”
Once Lia had given life to a creative interpretation of the truth, she was fully committed to it.
“Why don’t we hear from the girl in question?” Victor said, narrowing his eyes at Sloane. “Were you, as your friend claims, having a panic attack?”
Sloane stared at the front corner of the man’s desk. “Patients with panic disorders are more than ten times more likely to be double-jointed than controls,” she said clearly.
“Victor.” Aaron’s voice held a note of steel. “I’ll take care of this. You can go.”
After a tense moment of silence, the head of security walked out of the room without a word. Clearly, Aaron held the upper hand here. I might have breathed a sigh of relief, but when Aaron closed the door behind the man, he turned back to us.
“Let’s chat.”
Aaron took a seat on the edge of Victor’s desk instead of behind it. “What’s your name?” he asked Sloane quietly.
Beside me, Sloane opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“Her name is Sloane.” Lia’s chin jutted out as she answered on Sloane’s behalf.
“What’s your last name, Sloane?” Aaron’s voice was gentle. I thought of the way he’d responded to Sloane’s statistics with a smile the day we met him. And then I thought about the brief, heated exchange we’d seen between him and Tory.
“Tavish,” Sloane whispered. She forced her gaze up, her blue eyes wide. “I meant to steal that shirt.”
I groaned internally. Sloane had no capacity for deception whatsoever. Then again, I thought, she’s sitting here across from her father’s son, not saying a word.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Aaron told us, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. It was hard to reconcile the man in front of us with the one we’d seen in the alleyway.
You know Tory. She knows you. Emotions were running high—I was struck, suddenly, by a possibility. Maybe you really know Tory. Maybe Camille wasn’t the one you were looking at that night at the sushi restaurant. Attraction, affection, tension—maybe you were watching Tory.
What if Tory had chosen the Majesty for drinks that night because she wanted to see him? She’d lied to Briggs and Sterling about choosing the restaurant.
What if she’s not afraid of Aaron? What if she’s afraid he’ll leave her? Or afraid someone will find out they’re involved?
Someone, I thought, like Aaron’s father.
“Tavish.” Aaron repeated Sloane’s last name back to her, then paused, like his mouth had gone dry. “My father had a friend once,” he continued softly. “Her name was Margot Tavish.”
“I have to go.” Sloane bolted to her feet. She was trembling. “I have to go now.”
“Please,” Aaron said. “Sloane. Don’t go.”
“I have to,” Sloane whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to tell.”
She wanted him to like her. Even panicked, even trying to get away from him, she wanted him to like her so badly that I could feel it.
“We have the same eyes,” Aaron told her. “They call them Shaw blue, did you know that?”
“A chameleon’s tongue is longer than its body! And a blue whale’s weighs two-point-seven tons!”