Page 50 of Two of a Kind
In his opinion, arranging a marriage and interfering in a man’s personal life was a hell of a lot more than “just business.” Spencer was no choir boy, but his father had crossed some serious lines.
The old man had been so smug when he had informed Spencer of his “counteroffer.”
How had Kayla reacted to that? Had she been insulted or ecstatic? A worse thought: did she thinkhehad anything to do with it?
Five million cash and her own startup was a powerful incentive for walking away, especially when she had already walked out on him twice, three times if he counted Sate.Fucking hell.
Spencer disconnected the call without leaving a message for Kayla. What exactly would he say?Don’t do it?
He briefly thought about just letting her know he was on his way, but nixed that idea, as well. Depending on the situation, she might just decide not to be there when he showed up.
The travel agency was on the way, so he stopped there first. He parallel parked his McLaren among the Fords and Chevys lining the street and hopped out, ignoring the curious stares from those driving by and walking along the sidewalk. They were nothing compared to the reception he received when walking into the agency. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
He scanned the open floor plan of ordinary desks, looking for Kayla, but she wasn’t there.
“You’re Spencer Dumas.” That came from a wide-eyed redhead with a phone receiver in her hand, frozen midway to her ear.
“That I am,” he said, smoothing his features into the mask he wore for public appearances. “I’m looking for Kayla O’Connell. Is she here?”
“No,” said another woman, one wearing a vivid red dress and too much perfume. “But I’ll be more than happy to help you.”
He summoned a practiced smile, one meant to charm and disarm. “I’m sure you can”—he flicked his gaze down to the engraved nameplate on top of her desk—“Carly, but I’m looking for Ms. O’Connell specifically.”
“Perhaps I can assist you, Mr. Dumas.”
He turned to find an older woman stepping from a private office toward the back. The owner, Annette Goldman, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“As I was just telling Carly, I’m looking for Ms. O’Connell. Is she here?” That was the third time in as many minutes he had spoken the same words.
“No, she’s not. But I would be happy to—”
“Thank you,” Spencer said, cutting her off before he had to explain a fourth time that he was only interested in speaking with Kayla.
He exited the agency to find a young, uniformed woman slipping something beneath his windshield wiper.
“Excuse me!”
“Is this your car?” she asked, flicking the tip of her pen toward the hood. “It’s beautiful. What is it, a 720S?”
“Yes, it is. Did you just give me a ticket?”
“Yeah.” She pointed over her shoulder at the meter. “Expired.”
“I was in there less than five minutes.”
She smirked. “Should have spent the dime for the meter, then. You could have taken a whole hour. Though, I guess anyone who can afford one of these babies can afford the twenty bucks for a parking violation. Have a good day, sir.” The young woman walked away, whistling.
Spencer grabbed the ticket, crumpled it, and then shoved it into his pocket, wondering what other unpleasant surprises the day was going to bring.
He drove to Kayla’s house, frowning when he saw the state of the yard. The grass needed a good mowing, and weeds were poking up along the walkway. He didn’t remember it looking like that before.
Kayla’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but he went to the door and rang the bell anyway. Patricia answered on the first ring, no knocking required.
“Well, this is a surprise, Mr. Dumas. You didn’t change your mind, did you?”
Contrary to her words, she didn’t look at all surprised to see him as she swirled the amber liquid in the glass she held. Judging by the potent whiff of alcohol that wafted across the several feet that separated them, it wasn’t her first.
That bad feeling in the pit of his stomach intensified.
