Page 72 of The Good Duke
The other man moved with a natural grace and elegance Simon had never been in possession of.
It never irked—before now. Today, in this given moment, it was another mark against the affable chap. He’d always hated fellows who’d been comfortable in their own skin; on account, petty though it was, Simon had been so miserable in his.
Pruitt gave no outward display of unease with the rage channeled his way.
Rather, when he reached Simon’s desk, he dropped into the leather winged chair directly opposite Simon, rested his folded hands upon his flat stomach, and raised another eyebrow.
“I’m offended, Greystoke,” Pruitt drawled. “Given all my good advice, I’d expect you’d be at leastsomewhatappreciative.”
“Good advice?” he muttered. “Good advice?” Simon repeated, his voice climbing an octave.
“Greatadvice, then?” Pruitt volunteered.
“Is that what we are calling it?”
His friend gave a lazy shrug. “It certainly is what I am referring to it as.”
There came another quiet knock.
“Do we want to talk aboutwhatever,” Pruitt waved between them, “it is that has you in such a foul temper?”
“No,” Simon said curtly. He frowned. “Furthermore, I’m not in a foul temper.”
“Of course not,” Pruitt demurred. “You’re perfectly affable.”
Simon wasn’t fooled for a bloody instant.
His suddenly vexing friend eyed Simon a moment. Then Pruitt folded his right leg atop his opposite knee. “If I may hazard a guess?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Pruitt didn’t even pretend to listen to Simon’s answer. “You are having problems with the ape-leader.”
Ape-leader. The only saving grace of this whole damned day was that Pruitt hadn’t ever met Persephone. For if he did and saw those dark, satiny-soft tresses and luscious figure—
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Yes indeed.
Rap-rap-rap.
Unlike the ones which preceded it, this knock came firmer and bolder, and more fitting Bouchard’s usual announcement at the door.
When Simon made no move to call out, Pruitt angled a look over his shoulder to the entryway. “I don’t suppose you intend to tell m—”
Knock-knock-knock.
What the hell was itnow?
“Someone had better be dying, Bouchard,” he bellowed.
Then everything happened at lightning speed: Simon hurled his pencil, sending it in a perfect spiral arc. The door opened. The charcoal nub went flying across Simon’s office and struck Bouchard square in the chest.
Only, itwasn’tBouchard.
Struck dumb, Simon’s fury faded. Confusion took its place.
“Persephone.”
