Page 14 of Some Like It Scandalous
Her easy acceptance startled him. “No. That’s why I am sorry—it won’t be as easy as that.”
“Your—” Her lips compressed and she blew out a breath. “Armand, it’ll be fine. Sure they’re hungry for a story now, but if we don’t give them anything more, it will go away. I’ve seen you do it any number of times over the years.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest. She’d watched him, kept up with him over the years. He wanted to hold on to that thought before regret and reality crashed in on them.
And she’d said his name.
“This is different.” He set the drinks down on the table and put his hands on the back of a chair. “You’re different.”
“Yeah, I’m not actually sleeping with you.” She straightened another set of papers, started to slide them in the case. “Do you want a copy of these notes?”
Her hands trembled, but she moved another stack of papers to the side and wiped a palm against her slacks. He made her nervous. He let go of the chair—laid a hand over hers. “Anna…I need you to listen to me.”
She didn’t jerk away.
Small step, but he would take it.
“I am listening to you. I can walk and chew gum at the same time.” She gave his hand a light smack and he let her go, the gesture so familiar it made his heart hurt. No one ever slapped his hands—not like she did.
Powering down her laptop and packing it was her last step. He waited until she was done, enjoying watching her. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she looked up at him. “I’m still listening, but you’re not saying anything.”
“What would you say if I asked you to stay here in the penthouse—for a few days?” He hedged his bets. Maybe she would agree.
And maybe purple porcines will stand up and claim the world for Orwell.
“I’d ask you what year you thought it was.” The droll response was so her, he couldn’t help but smile. Unfortunately, none of this was funny.
“I know it’s only been a few hours since the story broke, but… My security intercepted a very credible threat. It’s become something of a problem in the past few months for the family.” He could broach the most difficult of topics with oil barons, kings, and presidents—why did he struggle so when talking to her?
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The kindness in her expression spoke volumes about her character. She may not even be aware of just how rare it was to feel compassion amid outrage and anger—anger he wholly deserved. “But I hardly see why that leads to that invitation.”
“It’s not an invitation.” He braced himself for the oncoming storm. She would not like his next words. “In fact, that was a polite way of telling you that you need to stay here for a few days. The tower is very secure. We have security in the lobby, in the parking garage and on three floors below us. No one comes up to this level without security in attendance?—”
She held up a palm. “You’re babbling. I understand the security. I saw them and appreciated you sending your men to pick me up. But I’mnotstaying here.”
“Yes. You are.” He circled the table and caught her before she could pull away from him. She curled her hands into little fists, but he held them gently. “Anna, the threats against my family have increased in the last few months. This morning we received one for you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” She blinked. “What are you talking about?”
Armand sighed. He wanted to keep holding her hands, forget the ugly reality that had become his life and tug her over to the sofa and sit down. He wanted to pull her in his lap and interrogate her. Hear about the last ten years—talk like they used to. He wanted that and more—but not at the cost of a knife to her throat.
“Sit down? Talk to me awhile and I will explain everything, I promise.”
“No. No.” She pulled away from him. “Look, this is an impossible situation and I’ve tried to be professional and mature and adult. But you’re taking this too far—we’renottogether. We’re not getting back together and ACE can chat it up all they like, but the difference between fantasy and reality is that happily ever after exists in novels and this is not one.”
Easing her into this wasn’t an option. “Five.”
She blinked. “Five what?”
“Five attempts. In the last six months, there have been five assassination attempts on members of the immediate family. Two car bombings, one aborted shooting and a poisoning.”
All the color in her cheeks fled. “That’s four…”
“The fifth was a little more personal. A knife attack. Sebastian is still recovering.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She sat abruptly and he pulled out a chair, turning it so he could sit facing her.
“How close?” She swallowed. “You said you and your family—how many of those were you? And why hasn’t it been in the news?”
