Page 58 of Princess of Vengeance

“I’ll be fine on my own,” I tell the guard who is shadowing me toward the building entrance.

“Mr. Mercer’s orders are to?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what Malcolm’s orders are,” I snap. “I’m going to see a goddamn cat, not plan a jailbreak. Wait in the car.”

He looks uncertain, then reluctantly nods. “We’ll be right outside, Mrs. Mercer. Call if you need anything.”

I flash him a tight smile. “Believe me, if I need anything, you’ll be the last person I call.”

Once I’m inside, I have to jump through a few more hoops and wait for the doorman to call up to Imogen’s penthouse before I’m allowed into the private elevator that whisks me up to the top floor.

When I knock, there’s a long pause before the door swings open. Imogen stands there in designer loungewear with her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She blinks at me like I’m the last person she expected to see.

“Quinn? What are you doing here?”

I force a casual smile. “I came to see the cat. I would’ve called first, except…”

“Malcolm probably doesn’t let you use the phone without his supervision.”

At least she understands, even if it is almost embarrassing to admit. She doesn’t step aside though. Instead, she gives me a slow up-and-down look.

“So you really came all this way to see a cat?” she asks.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She studies me for another long moment, her green eyes searching mine for whatever hidden agenda she assumes I must have. Finally, she steps back and waves me inside with a dramatic sweep of her arm.

“By all means, come in. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa and all that bullshit.”

Her penthouse is just as stunning as the one she loaned us before, with an open concept layout and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Detroit. The furniture and artwork is all modern but tasteful, with splashes of deep emerald here and there that match her eyes. The place makes Malcolm’s house look like a funeral home by comparison.

“Nice place,” I say, following her into the living room.

“It should be, after how much I paid for it.” She moves around the room slowly, watching me with undisguised curiosity. “Your cat is probably in the sunroom. That’s where she likes to nap.”

I follow Imogen down the hallway to find Princess sprawled across a chaise lounge in the glass-enclosed sunroom, soakingup a patch of afternoon light. She lifts her head when I enter, and narrows her eyes slightly.

“Hey, you,” I say softly, approaching slowly with my hand out. “Remember me?”

To my surprise, Princess stretches lazily before padding across the cushion toward me. She sniffs my fingers, then butts her head against my palm with a rumbling purr.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I laugh, scratching behind her ears as she arches into my touch. “She actually remembers me.”

“Or she just likes the smell of your hand lotion,” Imogen says from the doorway, watching us with an unreadable expression.

I look up, still smiling. “Thank you. For taking care of her, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No, I didn’t,” she agrees, crossing her arms. “So why do you care about this cat so much? I would’ve thought you might have more on your mind than finding a pet-sitter.”

I consider my words carefully. This could be my opening, my chance to feel her out. “I don’t think innocent things should suffer because of the machinations of powerful, dangerous people,” I say, stroking Princess’s soft fur. “It’s not her fault that the world around her is fucked up.”

I hesitate, then add, “That’s why I couldn’t kill Celine either. She didn’t deserve it, no matter what Elliot wanted.”

Imogen’s face is still perfectly composed, but something shifts in her eyes. Understanding, maybe? Or maybe it’s pity.

“Well, aren’t you just a little saint?” There’s some obvious derision in her tone, but less bite than I expected. “How does it feel to stand on your moral high ground and judge the rest of us for being so heartless?”

“I’m not judging anyone,” I say quietly. “I’m just trying to make choices I can live with.”

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