Emily offers me my cup of coffee. “I warmed it up,” she says, the tiny act of intimacy I’ve avoided with other women remarkably welcome with her.
I accept it, the touch of our hands electric in a way I’m truly not accustomed to beyond the moment before sex. “Thank you,” I say, the air thickening around us.
“Of course,” she murmurs, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. “Why are you arguing with Jessica?”
“Because that’s what we do,” I say, taking a drink before setting the cup down and pulling up my e-mail.
“She’s pretty fiery.”
“What she is,” I say, “is a pain in my ass who’s insisting I look at a property today.” I find the photos Jessica has sent, download them, and angle the computer so we can both see them. “What do you think?” I ask, tabbing through shots of a blue glass building and an apartment with enough windows to make this one look like it needs light.
“I freaking love it. We both know you want out of this hotel and the ties that bind you here. You have to go look at it.”
She’s right. I do and I want to take her with me, which I can’t fairly do without her understanding that we’re under my family’s scrutiny. I face her, and she responds by doing the same with me, both of us resting an arm on the counter. “Go with me to look at the apartment.” The doorbell rings and I grimace at the poorly timed interruption I should have anticipated. “That will be your clothes.” I’ve barely said the words when my cell starts ringing again and I grab it to glance at the screen. “And that would be my mother.”
“I’ll get the door,” Emily says, already moving away, but I catch her arm, cup her head, and give her a deep, fast kiss. “Now you can get the door,” I say, releasing her to answer my call. “You’re up early this morning, Mother.”
“I don’t like it either, but it happens on occasion.”
“Well, since it happened and you called me, I hope this means you have information on Mike Rogers.”
“I’m working on it, but I thought we should talk about your father’s new assistant, Emily.”
It’s almost comical how fast my family works. “You offered her fifty thousand dollars to be a snitch and she declined,” I say, making it clear Emily is more than just in my bed. She’s in my ear. I’m claiming her with the intent of backing Derek the fuck off.
“While I commend your innovation, son, your brother knows she’s with you this morning. She’s no longer your secret source of information and he’s already planning to feed her a load of crap to repeat to you.”
Derek’s words from my dream come back to me. When something goes wrong, find a way to get something out of it. And I just did. I can assure Emily that Derek now sees her as a resource, not a target. “Does Father know?”
“You aren’t going to comment about Derek feeding you crap for information?”
“He’ll never hide everything,” I say, and again ask, “Unless Father knows?”
“I don’t know, but I assume he does. Derek seems more confident than usual about their alignment and his vote.”
“And you know this because he trusted you enough to tell you.” It’s not a question.
“I’m his mother. He’s my son.”
“Whom you’re betraying by telling me this right now.”
“I’m protecting our futures. And I’m protecting you or I wouldn’t be on the phone right now.”
And yet trusting her is becoming harder. “Protecting us all is about those stockholders. When will you get that information you promised me on Mike and the other stockholders?”
“Chemo tends to weaken your father and loosen his tongue.”
“You know his cancer has worsened.”
“Of course, I know,” she says. “He was a fool to try to keep it from me. Chemo starts Monday morning.”
“I know that. You’re seriously using his cancer to take advantage of him? Aren’t you the one who was worried I’d hurt him if I turned down the Bentley while he was weak from treatments?”
“That was before he used his cancer to pit my sons against each other. A mother’s wrath you do not want. And on that note, I’m going back to bed, but a word for the wise that I know you know, but might forget with Emily: Everyone is not who or what they seem, and once someone is in your bed, they’re dangerously close to you. Watch your back with that woman.”
She ends the call.
I can’t stand squealers …
—Albert Anastasia
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHANE