Page 78 of Sinful Lies

“You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but…” Grace paused, inhaling deeply as if the words weighed on her. “Please, be careful with Miss Whitenhouse. I’ve had a bad feeling about her for years. There’s something… off about her. Too… evil.”

I didn’t answer right away, just furrowed my brow.

For years, I’d brushed off the tension between them as a personality clash—Grace’s quiet, measured demeanor fighting against Jade’s bold, relentless attitude.

But now?

Now, Grace sounded genuinely scared.

I brushed it off with a laugh. “Grace, you’ve been holding a grudge for six years. Let it go. She’s fucking crazy, I’ll give you that. But you can’t deny she gets the job done.”

Crazy’s an understatement.

I winced, my fingers brushing over the fresh cuts on my jaw from her nails.

“It’s more than that! After six years, we still don’t know anything about her. She never talks about her family, her friends, or…” She shook her head as if struggling to fit the pieces of a puzzle. “Her hobbies. She’s far too… mysterious. I feel like she’s hiding something. Something dangerous, sir.”

I lifted a shoulder. “Frankly, I like the way she is. She does her job. Works hard. Goes home. What’s the big deal?” I got up and grabbed the tray from her hands and dropped it on my desk. “Any boss would kill to have someone like that.”

I knew I’d kill to keep her by my side, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

“So, you don’t believe me? I’m almost sixty, sir. Time teaches you to trust your instincts. And that girl”—she pointed at the door—“She’s got the devil’s mark on her.”

With a bitter glance, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Merda.

Chapter

Nineteen

“Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of dealings with men.”

? Joseph Conrad

Jade

“I’msoexcited! It’s been years since I’ve been to Aspen! I can’t believe you actually tried to ditch me for this trip. You’re such an asshole, Lazzio.”

The jet gleamed in front of me—navy blue and crisp white, as if it had just rolled out of a billionaire’s dream. Angelo Lazzio’s dream, to be exact.

The crew stood in perfect formation—stewardesses in deep navy uniforms, their tight buns and forced smiles completing the look. The men were just as pristine in tailored jackets and white shirts.

Lazzio, as usual, ignored me.

He walked right past, his long stride eating up the stairs like he owned the thing—which, of course, he did. A nod to the crew here, a grunt there, and he disappeared inside without a word.

I handed my bag off to a waiting stewardess and climbed the stairs, taking the pilot’s offered hand.

“I can’t wait to go skiing, eat some fondue,” I said, shrugging off my fur coat and tossing it onto the seat. “Hit the sauna?—”

“Sit down, Miss Whitenhouse.”

The command hit me, a twist of nerves and something far darker simmering under my skin.

Ah, he was pissed. And damn, I loved every second of it.

He’d called last night, trying—yet again—to convince me not to come.

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