Page 117 of The Chase
I glared at him from beneath the towel. “I went to The Otillie. Miles told me he hadn’t seen you. And guess what I just copped a glance at?”
He arched a questioning brow.
“My paintings.” I sucked in a sob. “You’re selling them right under my nose.”
He stepped back, leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Although I can’t deny this is thoroughly entertaining—”
“Fuck you.”
He smiled his amusement. “God, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. Delightfully fuckable. That snippety English demeanor pleasantly replaced by that fiery Welsh attitude finally rising to the surface to delight us all.”
“You can’t use your clever-speaking Americana to seduce me anymore. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and I’m immune to your charm.”
“You gave me permission to deal with this.”
“To take them to The Otillie.”
“You didn’t read my note, I take it?”
“What note?”
“The one I left on your hallway table.”
“There was no note.”
“For God sake, Zara, you missed it.” He shook his head. “All you had to do was phone me.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Zara.”
I rummaged through my handbag and held it up. “Why? What do you want it for?”
“I entered my number in it earlier. Before I left.” He gestured. “Go on, take a look. I’m underW. Obviously.”
Squinting at him, I searched through my contacts.
His name and number appeared right at the end. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“In retrospect it would have been a good idea. I hate seeing you like this.”
“I’ve been freaking out.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” Again he gestured for me to come to him.
“No, you don’t get to call me that. Why are my paintings here and not at The Otillie?”
“We assessed the gallery’s capabilities—”
“We?”
