Page 36 of Blind Prophet

“You must have had a busy day.”

“Back-to-back meetings.”

“I figured. You didn’t respond to any of my texts.”

“Hmm. I’m tanked. Going to bed.”

“The texts showed as read. Did you read my texts?”

“Lorelei probably did.”

“Your assistant?”

“One of them.” He loosened his tie and slowed his steps. “Did you need something?”

I’d spent the day holed up in our apartment, avoiding the paparazzi. When photographed, journalists analyzed my outfit for confirmation of the quiet eleganceNew Yorkmagazine declared I possessed. Maybe I could’ve survived if he hadn’t reduced us to an agenda item on his calendar. If I’m honest, I didn’t get a thirty-minute slot. No, I received resentment for asking for his time, for not playing my supportive role and appreciating the coveted lifestyle.

My throat tightens with emotion. I’ve hours to kill before he emerges from his office, longer before I can complete my mission and escape in the morning. He’s once again set me aside, and his action stirs up memories. At least this time around, I have a purpose. And there are no intrusive, blinding, camera flashes.

I turn the corner of the house and smash into a hard body. Thrown, my focus falls on a navy sweater and the strong hand gripping my forearm for support.

“Dorian?”

His arms fall to his side. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Just indoors.” He gestures behind him.

“What’re you doing?—”

“I got a call that a guest was roaming the grounds. Wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“You wanted to be certain an overzealous security team member didn’t have me locked in a cell back at the guardhouse?” I give free rein to the sarcasm, not to spark an argument, but because it’s ludicrous he forced me to wait at the guardhouse.

“That wasn’t a cell.” He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, defensive yet slightly remorseful. “What have you been doing?”

“Checking things out.” I release a sigh, and along with it, the temptation to argue. “I love the house. It’s beautiful. Impressive."

He’s thoughtful. His gaze briefly falls on me, then out into the woods. “Want to go on a hike?”

He’s in trousers and dress boots.

“Already went. Walked up to your father’s house. It hasn’t changed.”

“No, it hasn’t.” His gaze remains on the woods. He’s circumspect.

“Someone’s out there. I’m guessing it’s your security.”

“As usual, you are correct.” The hint of a smile softens what might have been reproach years ago. “Can I interest you in a drink? Coffee? Tea? What is it you drink these days?”

“Do you have mint tea?”

“We can check.”

He has no idea what’s stocked in the house; that’s what he’s saying.

“That sounds nice.”

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