But there is one question left.
Who’s going to play Mrs. Walker?
The elevator dings, announcing my arrival at the top level. I step out into the sleek, modern hallway. The rest of The Songbird is classical French Renaissance style—pinks, creams, and gold. Lavish and opulent. But up here on the top level where Griffin’s office is, it’s a different world. All glass, chrome, and minimalism.
I head past the main reception desk, greeting Griffin’s head of hotel administration, as he talks with the receptionist. I come here often enough now that no one announces my arrival to Griffin anymore… well, except Harley. Today, just like normal, she makes me take a seat in the waiting area by her desk outside his door until she checks he isn’t ‘too busy to see me’. I swear she’s messing with me. But as I take a seat and admire the pink pencil skirt and white blouse she’s wearing with a pair of hot pink heels, I don’t give a shit about having to wait.
I remember meeting her for the first time, when she first came to work for Griffin. Eyes full of wonder, like she was Dorothy, and she’d just stepped into the Emerald City. Typical small-town girl in the big, bad city. She was more innocent then, but never naïve. She has this girlish charm about her. Maybe it’s the way her voice is light and breathy, like every teenage boy—and fully grown man’s—fantasy. She sounds like she’s purring when she says certain words. I’ve tried to get her to use the word ‘cock’ in conversation before. Talking all sorts of shit about chickens and cockerels, and people keeping them as pets. But my efforts have been futile. Probably for the best really. I’m not sure I can hold myself in a degree of appropriate decency in public should I hear that word come from her pink, pouty little lips.
I glance over at her working at her computer, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she re-reads whatever it is she’s just typed. Then again, maybe it’s her hair that gives her this sweetness. It’s light blonde, a natural blonde. Unlike any other woman I’ve met. And I’ve met a lot of blondes. But hers is just… different. Whatever it is, that, and the way it has this slight curl to it as it falls around her shoulders…
I can’t deny she’s beautiful.
And I noticed it the first time I met her.
But she’s also Griffin’s PA. The best one he’s ever had, apparently. The first time I met her, he told me in no uncertain terms was I to get ‘ideas’ that might lose him one of his most valued staff if I fucked up.
I was living in LA then, and only visited a couple of times per year. So that nipped any ideas I might have had in the bud. Probably for the best, because God knows what I would do to her if she was mine, all the ways I would ruin her… the way I would—
“He’s off his call now.” Harley looks down at the display on her desk phone, which is linked to Griffin’s, and then back at me. “You can head in if you like. But he has another meeting in half an hour. So please don’t keep him talking.”
“Noted.”
I stand and do the top button of my suit jacket up with one hand as I approach her desk. I stop as I draw level with it and gaze down at her.
“How have you been? Since Thursday?”
Her shoulders stiffen as she looks up at me, her brow furrowing. “Thursday?”
“The guy. Your arm. His hand.” I arch a brow as I hold her gaze.
“Oh.” She shakes her head and looks back at her screen. “That was nothing.”
“Anothingyou’re intending on repeating?” I try to keep my voice level and calm. But the thought of her going out and meeting these fuckers makes my blood boil. Maybe she thinks she’s doing a service to other women or something. Or does just really need the money for rent, like she told me. Either way, I know the idea of her doing it again and getting someone worse next time makes me want to unleash hell.
“What exactly does that have to do with you, Reed?” She sighs as though bored, before fixing her blue eyes on me again. I imagine grabbing her in my arms and— “Exactly. Nothing,” she says when I don’t reply.
“How much?” I grit out before my brain registers what I’m saying.
“For what?” She stops typing.
“A trap. How much do you make from each one?”
“Seven hundred dollars,” she answers without missing a beat.
“Seven?”
A frown darkens her face.
“It’s a very skilled business. It’s not just a case of showing up in a low-cut dress, you know. I have to ask the right questions, gather evidence, maintain my cover. And nothingeveractually happens.”
Fuck. Seven hundred? Really?
The agency has it all wrong. They should charge so much more for a knockout like Harley to work for them.
“And you do this what, two or three times a month?”
“About that.” She narrows her eyes at me as I do the math in my head.