Page 72 of The Ice Queen in the Corner Office

While I was speaking, I’d pulled my shirt on over my pillow-covered body. Now that the adrenaline was fading, I cared more about being naked in front of him. I pulled on my pants the same way, almost falling over twice before I could drop the pillow and slip my bra on under my shirt. I took a seat in the armchair across from the couch and glared at him. “Start talking.”

“Jill,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

I held up a hand, so pissed I wanted nothing more than to storm out of that condo and pretend none of this ever happened. “I’m not interested in your apologies right now. I want to know why there were two men in your apartment, beating the crap out of you, yet you don’t want to talk to the police. Is the company in danger?”

He looked a bit pale and he was clutching his side, but he managed a small forced smile. “This has nothing to do with the company, I promise. I can’t tell you anything more. You’re just going to have to believe that I have it under control.”

I was going to kill him. I was going to kill him and throw him out the window of his fourth-floor condo. “You have it under control? Two guys were about to leave you a bloody pulp and you call that under control?”

“They were just providing a bit of motivation. This has nothing to do with the company or with you. Thank you for your help, but it’s best if you leave.”

It had nothing to do with me because he was done with me, that much was clear. I’d been expecting it, but it still stung. “I just helped pull a body from your apartment—”

“He was still breathing.”

I sent him a glare to end all glares and he mimed zipping his lips.

“I lied to a police officer and flashed him and your neighbors. You tell me this has nothing to do with the company, but I don’t see how you committing a crime won’t affect Owings Leisure. I deserve to know what the hell is going on and I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

He rubbed his temples, his face pale, and I almost felt bad for him. Almost. “My brother got himself into some trouble,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “He owes some powerful people some money, and they want me to cover the debt.”

He wasn’t meeting my eyes, so I knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than he was telling me. “What kind of people send a couple of thugs to your house to beat you up?” But I answered my question before he could speak. “The mafia? Do we even have the mafia in Georgia?”

He rolled his good eye and winced. I should probably be offering to clean and dress his wounds or something, but if I touched him, if I looked at how badly he was hurt, I’d soften and let him off the hook before I got all the details.

“Not the mafia,” he said. “A small-time gang trying to go big time. It’s not a big deal. I’m going to get them the money, and they’ll back off.”

His story wasn’t making any sense. “So why not go to the police? Why pay them anything?”

He looked out the picture window at the city below. “I don’t want my brother to get hurt or sent to jail. I’m going to help him and then it’ll be done. He can get away from them and live a better life.”

He was so full of shit, it was practically dripping from his eyes.

The man was not a good liar.

Still, his story mostly made sense and I could understand wanting to help family, so I didn’t push. I believed he loved his company too much to endanger it. “How badly are you hurt?” I asked. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

“I’ll be fine. Please go. I don’t want them thinking you and I are close and causing you any trouble.”

“We aren’t close,” I said, all nonchalance and icy reserve. “We’re nothing more than co-workers. But they’ve already seen my face, so it won’t hurt for me to stay and make sure you don’t croak while the place is covered with my fingerprints.”

He sighed, clearly unhappy with my insistence on helping him, but I didn’t care. I needed to know he was okay. I’d hate him for the rest of my life, but just then I needed to be sure he was going to live long enough for my hate to have a target.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to get cleaned up. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”

I rolled my eyes. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Master bath, under the sink.”

I studied his place as I made my way to his room the second time. All clean lines, grays and whites for the color palette, and crap literally covering every surface, dirty clothes, receipts, books on the floor and his night stand. I’d figured the living room was a mess because he’d been fighting there, but the bedroom made it clear the guy was a complete slob.

It was a good thing we were done, because I couldn’t live in a mess like that.

The first aid kit was in a pile of toiletries he apparently stored in the bath tub. I grabbed it, wetted a towel that looked and smelled mostly clean, and headed back to the living room.

I sat on the couch next to him and started with the cut on his head. It was just above his hairline and the blood flow from it had slowed.

“No offense,” I said. “But your place is a pig sty.”

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