Page 18 of Filthy Liar

Mayfair.

Incriminating evidence.

An unexpected redirection of gossip in the press.

This party.

It all has Jason’s fingerprints on it, a classic Horus Group blueprint plan to avoid a PR disaster.

My stomach clenches.

Once upon a time, I promised myself he would never be the subject of a story. It wouldn’t be right. But his clients are fair game whether he likes it or not.

“What’s your plan here?” He gestures at the party. A couple moves around us and descends the staircase, but Jason keeps me rooted where I am. Removed from the hustle below.

“I don’t have a plan,” I whisper.

“You sure about that?” He growls and pivots us both, moving me away from the party whether I like it or not.

My pulse jacks up as he opens a door and shoves me into a quiet library. So much for the safety of a crowd.

We’re all alone now, for the first time in a long time, and this can’t be the man I once knew. Though, to be fair, I’m definitely not the woman he thought he once knew. Never was, which is…well, this is a mess of my own making.

As he crowds me up against the wall just inside the door, I catch the faintest whiff of his spicy sweet scent, so subtle that it’s only noticeable when mere inches apart. The familiarity still slams into me like a freight train. I shove the recognition away. It doesn’t matter.

Nor does it matter how good he looks, again, in a suit. I didn’t appreciate the eye-candy enough when I had a right to ogle him.

Even angry, he’s painfully attractive. The man eats danger for breakfast, and doesn’t seem to have a soul…and yet there’s a dark, captivating depth to him. I always did want more than was safe.

His face tightens as he looks me over. “I thought you might skip town after last night.”

I jerk my chin up. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m planning on it right after you let me go.”

“Why? What are you running from this time, Ellie?”

“You.”

“Am I that scary?” He looks like that pleases him, like he’s happy to have me cornered in the dark.

I glance past him, taking stock of the room in a split second before blinking back in his direction. “You know you are.”

He’s not, though. Not to me, not now. Never had been. I brace myself for a volley of questions I cannot answer. It’s too complicated, too messy, and this is not the time for it. There will never be a right time for that conversation.

“Who are you?”

“None of your business.”

“You aren’t an employee of the catering company.”

“Am I not?”

“Not under the social security number you conned your way into my firm with, no you’re not.”

“Maybe the paperwork is still on someone’s desk,” I say dryly, hanging on to faint hope that he falls for the obvious explanation.

“You haven’t done any work since you left The Horus Group.” Crap. Of course he checked up on me. But if that’s what he thinks he knows, he doesn’t have much.

“I’ve been unemployed.”

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