Page 48 of Beautiful Liar

“It is, or you wouldn’t have asked.”

“Just that…Fionnella is not the kind of person I want to be doing that around.”

He pauses for a moment before answering. “And why is that?”

“She just seems the motherly sort.”

The pause is longer. “You don’t strike me as naive, Lucky. Everyone wears a mask, even seemingly cookie-baking types like Fionnella. For all you know, hers is the thickest mask of all.” There’s something hard and sinister in his voice.

My skin prickles. “Like I said, it’s no big deal. I would’ve done it either way.”

“Glad to hear it.” His voice still sounds clipped, more mechanical.

I warm my suddenly chilled arms with my hands and rise from the sofa. “I…uh, thanks for checking on me.”

“My pleasure.”

“I think I’m going to head back to bed now.”

“You just ate—I heard you chewing. Going to bed so soon will give you indigestion.”

For an illogical second, I wonder if he’s lonely and trying to keep me here so he can talk to me. But then surely a guy like him, with wealth and power at his fingertips, would have more than enough to occupy him, even at three in the morning?

All the same, I find myself sitting back down. “I guess I can stay up for a little longer, maybe watch some TV…”

“If that’s what you want.”

I glance at the sleek gadget sitting in a futuristic-looking cradle and decide against it. “Or maybe not. I don’t want to set off any alarms or anything.”

“Tell me what sort of entertainment you require and I’ll work it from here.”

A tiny bit of that creepiness whispers closer. “I’m good, thanks. I prefer to just…” I stop when I realize the wish I’d almost voiced.

“Just what?” he encourages.

My twitching fingers grasp a strand of hair and toy with it. “I’d rather…talk, if that’s okay. It’s been a while.”

A while is more than an exaggeration. The last person I talked to…truly had a conversation with that wasn’t blatantly or overtly sexual, was my mother. And she’s been dead for seven years. And in the last few weeks, the only person I’ve had more than a one-minute conversation with is Quinn Blackwood, and everything about that man terrifies me into near speechlessness.

I refocus when I hear faint sounds of feet on a hardwood floor. He’s moving around. I realize this is the first time I’ve heard him do something other than speak.

My imagination fires up, trying to conjure up an image just from his electronic voice alone, trying to imagine where he is, what he sees when he looks out his window.

“I’m all ears, Lucky.”

“Are you here? In New York City?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

The pause is long, uncomfortably so. “No.”

I’m not sure why that dims my mood, the fact that we aren’t in the same city. “Are we in the same country?” I press, despite knowing well enough that I should back off.

His answer this time is smoothly forthcoming. “Yes, I’m in the States. Does that please you, Lucky?”

My laugh is entirely self-conscious. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I sensed your unhappiness to find me not in the same city as you.”

“You sensed it? What are you, psychic?” I play at being amused, but my gut clenches with trepidation at his astuteness.

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