“Yeah. Is she new?”
“No. I don’t have a—” Suddenly the confusion cleared from Zandra’s face, and she heaved an exasperated breath. “That wasn’t one of my escorts. That was Skylar.”
Remy frowned. “Your friend Skylar?”
“Yes. She was impersonating one of my girls. Long story,” she added with an impatient wave of her hand. “The point is, your mole—”
Remy winced at the biting accusation in her voice.
“—didn’t expose anything more than the fact that Skylar has a weakness for hot guys.” She smirked. “It’s a flaw we both possess, unfortunately.”
Guilt assailed Remy. “Zandra—”
She pushed her sunglasses up on her nose, reinforcing the barrier between them. “We’d better leave before my father or Johanna call the police.”
Remy scowled. “Let them. I don’t give a fuck.”
“I do.” Her lips twisted cynically. “God knows I have enough damage control to tackle without adding an arrest to my troubles.”
Remy felt another stab of guilt. “Zandra—”
“Go home, Remington. There’s nothing left to say.” With that, she turned and walked to her waiting car. When Norman opened the back door for her, she hesitated.
Remy held his breath.
After another moment, she lowered herself into the backseat, dashing his hopes.
“Damn it.” Clenching his jaw, he started determinedly toward the vehicle. He couldn’t just let her leave like this. “Zandra, wait, damn it—”
Norman closed the door, then stood there protectively as if to say, If you wanna get to her, you’re gonna have to go through me.
Remy held the older man’s stern gaze for a tense moment, then scowled and backed down. He couldn’t very well fault the man for doing his job, especially when Remy was the one who’d interviewed and hired him in the first place.
“Take care of her, Norman,” he growled.
“Yes, sir. You know I always do.”
After the Phantom pulled off, Remy climbed into his truck, slammed the door and roared away from the mansion, determined to get some answers from Keegan.
Robyn, Racquel, Lena, Morgan and Skylar converged upon Zandra’s penthouse that evening. They surrounded her with their arms wrapped around her waist, their eyes full of gentle concern and righteous anger as they fussed over her bruised cheek and hissed scathing invectives at her father.
Since Cora was on vacation, Robyn bustled into the kitchen and whipped up a chicken casserole that soon had the whole apartment smelling like heaven. Under normal circumstances Zandra would have been the first in line to get a helping, but tonight her voracious appetite was nowhere to be found. She had to be prodded and bullied into eating the modest portion that Robyn served her, then she’d curled up on the sofa with her legs pulled up to her chest. Someone draped a warm blanket over her at some point, and a glass of red wine on the table beckoned her to sip and soothe her frayed nerves.
Though no one turned on the television, the conversation centered around the story that had headlined the day’s local news broadcasts. The women were so outraged at the injustice Zandra had suffered, she wouldn’t have been surprised if they simultaneously broke into a chorus of Helen Reddy’s rallying anthem “I Am Woman.”
Throughout the spirited discussion, they cast worried glances at Zandra as she sat with her head leaning back against the sofa, staring vacantly at the ceiling. They weren’t used to seeing her like this. They were used to her being a tough, feisty fighter—the first to smear on the war paint and charge into battle.