Page 75 of Sinful Lies

I didn’t bother looking back; I didn’t need to. The heat of his gaze burned against my skin, unmistakable and furious.

No doubt he was already running through a dozen calculated ways to make me regret every teasing second of this.

Good.

Let him stew.

The man could use a lesson in loosening up, even if it killed him—or better yet, drove him mad first. Besides, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t downright delicious to leave the man who had destroyed my life smoldering like that.

James Greg entered, nearly bumping into me.

At sixty-seven, the silver in his hair and the lines on his face didn’t make him look old—just more intimidating.

His suit was impeccable, his gaze even more intense, and there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes as he took me in. Like he knew my deepest, darkest secret, and couldn’t wait to use it against me.

He took my hand, pressing a kiss to the top of it.

“Beautiful Jade Whitenhouse,” he said smoothly. “Always a pleasure to see you. Shame it doesn’t happen more often.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Greg.”

The playful spark in his eyes dimmed for a beat, his voice lowering to something more serious.

“I’m here to offer my condolences on Pauline Dupont,” he said, softer now, but with an unsettling calm that prickled under my skin. “I heard you two were close.”

My posture stiffened, the mention of Pauline’s name tightening something inside me.

I forced a tight smile. “We were… close enough, yes. Thanks for the kind words, Mr. Greg.”

His eyes lingered on me for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

“I know loss can be… complicated. But I’m sure you know how to handle it. After all, you’re a strong woman, working for the explosive Angelo Lazzio.”

Lazzio’s dark gaze flicked to him.

“I can handle a lot more than you think, sir.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I excused myself with a smile that was polite but didn’t quite reach my eyes, casually mentioning that I had work to finish. It was a subtle, yet clear signal that the conversation was over.

I added that I hoped to see him and his wife, Laurie, at the upcoming exhibition in two weeks, though it was a total lie.

But just as I hit the threshold, his voice stopped me.

“And I hope to see you on Friday for our Thanksgiving celebration in Aspen,” he said. “Angelo’s coming, after all. It’d be a shame if his precious little diamond of a COO didn’t make it.”

Before I could respond, Lazzio’s voice slid in.

“Miss Whitenhouse has plans this weekend?—”

“Yeah, I do,” I cut him off. “But I can make time. I’d love to come, Mr. Greg.”

If Lazzio could’ve shot daggers with his eyes, I’d be six feet under by now.

“Perfect, see you on Friday then.”

With a nod, I spun and sauntered out, the smile still playing on my lips.

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