Page 11 of Crushing Clover

Warren’s office had been designed to be intimidating. The desk was a heavy, ornate wood, and so well waxed it could probably be seen from space. Maybe the wax made it easier to clean when he got blood on it. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two walls. The sunlight pouring through the windows baked my back, and the heat felt good on my sore muscles, even though it was making me sleepy.

Why was I even standing in his office if he was planning to ignore me? Was it to show me who was the boss? It seemedpointless. I wobbled on the heels I’d been given, but righted myself before I fell off them. I’d never been good in heels.

“Mister Saint John, sir,” a uniformed servant announced.

The most cruelly sensual man I’d ever seen strode into the room. Mister Saint John’s dark pants and button-down shirt sheathed a lithely muscular frame. The air of intensity surrounding him suggested murder was on his mind. His dark, longish hair would have made most men jealous, and his perfectly sculpted lips held a twist of derision. And his eyes—good lord—they were a midnight black and held a mean, calculating gleam. He was the sculpture a master would carve if they had secret, shameful fantasies about Satan.

His gaze landed on me, and his expression slid from nasty to completely pissed.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded quietly, looking at me as though I were a giant, steaming pile of shit.

Sure, the yellow dress the auction people had given me was obnoxious and went terribly with my hair, but wasn’t his reaction a bit much?

“Saint John, why don’t you have a seat.” The suggestion was a thinly-veiled command.

Seething, the newcomer sank into a chair, looking as lethal as the man who now owned me.

“What the fuck isshedoing here?”

The older man shrugged, amused. “I thought you might want her.” He gave a delicate cough. “I didn’t think you’d want me to leave her where I found her.”

His sharp jaw moved as though he were grinding his teeth. “Why would I care?”

Warren chuckled. “It’s easy to see that you do. She’s for you. A gift.”

What?

Getting away from Warren sounded great, but this guy looked worse.

Also, I was being given with all the smugness of a man bestowing a louse-ridden mattress on his worst enemy. Like some sort of weird revenge.

Warren beckoned me with a hand, and I stepped forward, not sure what he expected me to do. Twirl?

He rose and took me by the hand. Revulsion at his touch made me want to pull away, but I allowed him to lead me around the desk to Saint John and perch me on his knee. I could feel the anger rolling off the younger man and tried to sit as unobtrusively as possible. Unfortunately, I’d never been the type of girl who could disappear.

“I don’t want her,” Saint John grated.

“This isn’t the kind of gift you can turn down. She’s yours. A pet, if you will. You need to keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t escape and make sure she doesn’t gossip about her situation to other people.”

“This is—”

“A business obligation.”

“Some strings make the original deal not worth the hassle.”

“Keep her, sell her, kill her. It’s all your choice, of course.” Warren shrugged. “Whatever you do, don’t set her free.”

“How did she even get mixed up with you?”

“Oh, this isn’t Arabella. Only an unfortunate lookalike.”

If possible, his knee went even harder beneath my ass. The younger man didn’t turn his head to look at me, but I could feel all of his attention focused my way.

“The resemblance is striking, though, isn’t it? When I saw her, I knew we had to have her.”

“I don’t want her.”

“She’ll be good for you.” Warren reclaimed the chair behind his desk. “You haven’t been the same since she left you.”

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