The Billionaire's Bitch

Ten

Back in the car, I could only wonder where we were headed next.

"Oh, you got a call from someone named Mr. Pemberton." I said, and Adrian looked at me with bored eyes. "And a text from your mother asking why she never hears from you."

I tried to make it sound more lighthearted than the text itself had actually read.

Adrian sighed, cheek resting in his palm, elbow braced to the armrest on the door. He felt my stare and looked back to me. "Well? Anything else?"

"No, just thought you might wanna reply to one of them?"

"What did I hire you for but to screen my incoming messages? Thank you for relaying them, Ms. Mathers." He said in a distinctly sarcastic tone. "Good job. Now don't presume to lecture me on how often I talk to my mother."

My eyebrows lifted.

Sore subject. Noted.

No more mentions of "Mother".

"I wasn't." I told him quietly.

He said nothing in reply and we rode in silence for what felt like a very long time.

###

Adrian was surprised at how much Eve's presence didn't bother him. Usually he couldn't stand having someone sit next to him, but he barely even noticed her, really. What he did notice was something unfamiliar to him; a warm, comforting sort of essence that made him feel safe. But only his subconscious was aware of it.

His active mind told him that he had acted nobly back at the restaurant when he had sent Eve away to the bathroom when the goons had arrived.

Adrian's blood was still scalding over that blatant act of disrespect on the part of his associate. Only Ruben had been as surprised as he when the men had practically dragged him off to the office of Ruben's employer; a man people didn't usually care to cross.

Adrian decided that he and Mr. Marks would have a little chat, however, despite Adrian's own distaste for confrontation.

Sometimes, it could not be helped.

###

We slowed and took a turn that led us down into a gated parking garage. The driver typed in a code and the gates closed smoothly behind us, trapping me inside.

Again I felt that odd prickling sensation from earlier.

I knew from the little research I'd done on Adrian Kingsley that he owned this entire building. It wasn't the tallest in town, but it was sleek obsidian, and it was as attractive looking from the outside as it was the in.

Everything was highly polished, ultra modern. The floors were a milky white tile whirled with veins of gray; it looked like marble, and sounded good beneath my heels. The light fixtures were made to look old-fashioned, with wrought iron sconces and smoked glass shades that provided a low, inviting level of light.

There were ugly beige pieces of furniture scattered strategically across the lobby, a fountain, some potted plants, and a single black marble desk where a man in a burgundy suit stood guard.

He nodded at Mr. Kingsley in greeting, but didn't say a word. They were well trained here, I mused, noting how the janitor didn't make eye contact as he hurried by us with his trolley.