It’s more of a “how dare you touch me in such a manner?”
My hand immediately falls away.
“We need to talk,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. The professional, cultured tones in his voice seeming to be exaggerated to the point he sounds imperial.
“So talk,” I snap.
“At my place,” he replies, taking my arm at the elbow again. “Where we can have privacy.”
I try to pull away with no success. He’s simply too strong, but I lean back and scrabble my feet backward to indicate I’m in complete disagreement with the way he’s handling me. “I’m not going anywhere with you, most certainly not to your place. You could be a psychotic killer or something.”
Never in a million years would I think a man supposedly as rich, accomplished, well known, and respected in Seattle would pull an immature move, but he actually rolls his eyes at me. “Psychotic killer? Really, Miss Porter? Are you always this dramatic?”
I stubbornly glare at him, but inside I admit that when I’m upset about something, I can certainly be dramatic. My dad used to say it was all related to my Irish heritage and my crazy red hair, which produced not only incredible tempers but extreme emotions.
With a sigh, he releases my arm. “Suit yourself. But you’re not crazy, Miss Porter. You’re somehow able to see under a magical glamour. Marcus is but a daemon, but I suspect you can see fae, too. Oh, well.”
Oh, well? That seems to be an ominous warning.
He turns for the stairwell door and opens it. Glancing over his shoulder, he offers, “If you change your mind and want some help trying to figure out this gift—or curse as the case may be—come see me.”
And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut.
What in the hell?
I can see daemons, and I don’t even know what that means. And did he say “fae”? He implied I could be cursed.
And clearly, he knows something about all this.
“Wait,” I cry, but there’s no way he can hear me behind the closed metal door. Flinging it open, I immediately see him starting to step into the elevator. I yell this time. “Wait.”
His hand shoots out to hold open the elevator door, his head popping out to watch me run his way. The expression on his face is smug.
Coming to a skidding halt, I smooth down my skirt and look him in the eye. Sounding slightly recalcitrant, I say, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to learn more about this.”
“By all means,” he murmurs, sweeping his hand to indicate I should enter the elevator with him. “But if it makes you feel safer—you know, because I could be a psychotic killer—you could always text your sister and tell her that you’re visiting with me at my home.”
Yeah… I am absolutely not doing that. Fallon knowing I spent time in the company of the great and powerful Carrick Byrne, whom she practically swooned over at her gallery opening, would invite a bazillion questions and curiosities.
But as we take the elevator down to the ground floor, I do send a text to Rich that says: Olympic Dreams owned by Carrick Byrne. We’re continuing the interview at his home office. Wish me luck.
I realize that text could imply something unprofessional because, honestly, why would he move a professional business interview to his home? In fact, I bet Rich is getting blustery just thinking about Carrick Byrne trying to take advantage of me… or maybe offering me a grant in exchange for sex. I’ll have to dissuade Rich of that notion later since he’ll want to know exactly what the hell happened. But at least someone knows where I am this evening just in the off chance a psychotic killer murders me.
Or something worse.
I turn my phone off as I bet he’ll start blowing it up with texts or calls.
When Carrick and I make it down to the street, there’s a black sedan waiting, complete with a driver holding an umbrella to keep us dry. A moderate rain is falling, and I’m chilled as soon as I step outside. I’m not sure if it’s the weather or the fact I might not be as insane as I once thought, but I’m definitely probably more scared than crazy.
“Give me your address, and I’ll meet you there,” I say before we leave the dry safety of the building’s overhang.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Porter. It’s raining.”
“Well, no kidding. This is the Pacific Northwest.”
Mr. Byrne doesn’t reply. He merely takes me by the upper arm again, then leads me toward the car. The man with the umbrella covers us and when the back door opens, I’m urged inside.
I slide to the opposite side of the backseat, providing plenty of room for the enigmatic and slightly off-putting Carrick Byrne to settle in beside me.
The ride to his building takes about fifteen minutes, which has nothing to do with distance and everything to do with rush-hour traffic. The entire time he surfs on his phone and ignores me, which is fine. I’m not sure how casual conversation would go at this point.