His heart thumped harder in his chest. “Thank you.” Stabbing the blinking button, he forced his agitation aside. “Clarinda, how are you?”
“Well, Mr. Dyson.” No words wasted. Typical Clarinda Simmonds. He respected that. “I’ve organized Friday night as per your instructions. The call will be made at approximately three p.m. today.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “I need some information. I’ll have my assistant email the details today.”
“Very good, Mr. Dyson.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” the woman who took all of Mason Xavier’s calls answered. “Thomas St. Clair is coming to town. He wants to arrange a meeting with the artist.”
A sharp stab of jealousy hit James straight in the chest. His breath caught.
St. Clair was not only wealthy and famous, he was good looking. Very good looking. Women threw themselves at him—and Thomas rarely said no.
“When?” he threw over his shoulder as he walked to the window, speaking a little louder so Clarinda could still hear him.
Thomas had a weakness for redheads, a fact he’d shared with James the last time he was in Australia on a book-signing tour. “This is the artist you told me about?” he’d asked, spying a photo of Sienna on James’s coffee table. “The one who did the painting now in my study?” James had nodded, wishing he’d packed away his research on her before Thomas had arrived. Even then, he’d been agitated by the interest in his friend’s eyes.
He’d distracted Thomas with a glass of Scotch and talk of his latest magazine acquisition. It seemed Thomas hadn’t forgotten about her, though. Damn it. One look at her in the flesh, and he’d turn on the killer St. Clair charm in full force.
Another stab of jealousy slammed into James, jarring and confusing. Why the hell would he be jealous?
“In eleven days.”
Clarinda’s answer pulled him back to the moment. He folded his arms, studying Sydney beyond the glass. Eleven days.
Eleven days. Could he achieve his goal in eleven days? Or should he factor Thomas St. Clair into his plans?
What if the man seduces Sienna away from me?
Away from him? Damn it, she’d done a piece on him already. Time to take back control. “Arrange it.”
“Yes, Mr. Dyson.”
“But not through me.”
“I understand, Mr. Dyson.”
He disconnected the call. Damn the rolling turmoil in his chest. Damn it.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that Thomas St. Clair was going to meet Sienna. He liked it even less that he was jealous about it.
He was treading on dangerous ground, and he liked that least of all. When he’d started this course of action, there’d been no threat to the outcome. His objective had been simple—destroy the woman who had destroyed Clinton. Somewhere along the line, things had gotten mixed up.
It had been easier, simpler, when cold retaliation and hot lust motivated his actions. What the hell was going on? What had she done to get to him? To disarm him, out play him?
The innocent torment in her eyes, the waver in her voice when she’d spoken to her brother, the clear affection in her eyes when she’d looked at him, regardless of his tirade. The way she felt so damn good in my arms.
His intercom buzzed again, saving him from contemplating the disarming suggestions. He balled his fists tighter in his pockets before withdrawing his hands. “So much for not talking to anyone.” At this rate, he would need to leave the office to get any thinking done.
“Yes?” The obvious frustration in his voice annoyed him.
“Good morning, Mr. Dyson.” Mrs. Downey greeted him through the machine. “Sorry to interrupt you so early, but there is a Sienna Roberts at floor reception. She says you will see her.”
He sucked in a swift breath, his pulse thumping faster.
She’d come to him. She’d left her safety-zone and come to him.
Another wave of happiness rolled through him, this one bringing a stirring tension to his groin as well as his heart.
Heart? Damn it. She has more power over me than I initially thought.
“But now we’re playing by my rules,” he murmured, smothering the memory of the innocence in her eyes.