“Excuse me? Since when does the doorman ride in the limo?”
I feel Gordon trying to pull his arm away, and no wonder. Thomas Miller is a condescending asshole.
“Since he is like a grandfather to me, that’s when. Please vacate his spot.”
“For Christ’s sake, you aren’t seriously going to let him accompany you to the services instead of me,” he spat.
It takes almost a full thirty seconds of an icy glare from me to get the elder Miller to move to the opposite seat facing the rear of the car. I would rather he get the fuck out, but I’ll have to settle for him moving.
Only once the car pulls away do I finally speak to my father-in-law.
“Thomas, if you wanted to play the grieving father for me today, you should have behaved last night at the wake.” I deliver the veiled observation with a voice much calmer than I feel.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he objects, sounding exactly like his son used to whenever I caught him being indiscreet.
My laughter sounds out of place, but it’s genuine.
“Just like Tristan. Deny, deny, deny. I’d hoped you’d at least wait until we got his body in the ground before you started fucking his mistresses.” My vulgar statement jars him into silence, his mouth agape as I add, “Did you really think I didn’t see you working the room last night?”
“I was only trying to comfort Ms. Carrington. She’s actually upset my son is dead, unlike his heartless bitch of a wife.”
Gordon makes a move like he might lunge across the seat to punch the pompous ass, but I squeeze his leg to keep him settled in his seat.
“Careful, Thomas. Don’t forget how we got here, after all. I’ll tell you what I told your son many times. If you want my loyalty, you actually have to be loyal in return. Since the head of my security informed me that Ms. Carrington was your overnight guest, it seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I should have known you’d have your little spies reporting back to you.”
“They aren’t my spies. They are my employees. You were in my hotel. Take comfort in knowing that it will be the last night you’ll be spied on as it’s the last you’ll sleep under my roof. I’ve already asked housekeeping to pack up your things. You can collect your bags at the bell stand after the funeral.”
“But… You can’t do that. I’m planning on staying in New York for several weeks,” he whines like a petulant child. “I always stay at The Whitney.”
“You always used to stay at The Whitney. I’m sure you’ll miss the complimentary rate. Perhaps Ms. Carrington will let you move in with her, since you two have gotten so close.”
I shouldn’t be getting as much pleasure from humiliating Tristan’s father as I am, but he asked for it the second he cozied up to number eleven at the visitation the day before.
The buzz of my cell phone inside my clutch purse is the perfect excuse to end the pissing contest with Thomas, although I can’t think of one single person I want to talk to today, particularly since I’m going to be seeing almost everyone I call a friend in less than an hour at the funeral.
Caller ID tells me it’s William Stryker, our real estate lawyer.
Definitely not a friend.
I’m tempted to let it roll to voicemail, but answer it at the last second, if for no other reason than to avoid further conversation with my father-in-law.
“Hello William. You got my message about Tristan?”
“Hello, Ms. Belov. Yes, I was deeply saddened to hear of your husband’s passing. You have my condolences.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying what I really want to say, although it doesn’t stop me from thinking it. I’m sure he’s sad Tristan died because he probably knows I’ll be pulling all of my business from him and giving it back to the law firm my father had used instead.
“Thank you,” I mutter as politely as I can considering I don’t really care for the guy who tried to talk me into selling The Whitney in our very first meeting, even before Tristan and I got married.
“I need to see you as soon as possible. There are urgent matters we need to discuss now that Mr. Miller is deceased,” he says.
“I’m sure there are, but I’m on the way to his funeral. I haven’t even buried him yet. I think it’s poor taste to worry about the reading of the will,” I counter, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
“This isn’t about his will, at least not entirely. It’s more important to first reschedule the closing that was set for this afternoon.”
“I’ll be seeing his assistant, Mrs. Carter, at the funeral. I’ll have her reach out to push back any business meetings until after I return from France. I’m flying out tomorrow to spend a week or two in my Paris apartment. I’m sure any…”