Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Is it unease or is it exhilaration? It’s hard to tell.
Anxiety. It’s got to be. No way I’d be excited at the thoughts of being stuck with this… this highhanded hunk of good-for-nothing. Besides, he really can’t mean it. He can’t want to be around me. Not after last night. He’s probably just trying to make me run for the hills, tout de suite.
“How strange,” I murmur, setting the glass down. Elbow to the table, I press my chin to my fist. “Have you had a fall recently? Bumped your head at all?”
His smile threatens but doesn’t quite give. “I have not. But thank you for your concern.”
“Any headaches? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“I feel perfectly well.”
“Hmm. Something isn’t right.” I tap a finger to my lips, then drop it as I notice his eyes following the motion. “You’re most certainly having some kind of cognitive issue.”
At this, he smiles properly. Why does he have to be so attractive? Give the man a pimple or something, for God’s sake.
“I assure you my memory is fine.” His tone is the verbal equivalent of a smirk. It makes me wonder exactly what he’s remembering. Nothing good, that’s for sure. Maybe my clumsy kiss or when I told him I haven’t had sex in an age.
“Ever been diagnosed with a mood disorder?” I demand, refusing to give up. “Bipolar? Schizophrenia?”
“I’m in peak mental and physical health, thank you for enquiring. I have to say, the more you talk, the more I’m convinced this is the right decision.”
“Cognitive issues and delusions,” I mutter with a frown.
“This has been fun, Dr Primrose, but the fact remains, I require you to accompany us to our house in Mallorca.”
I watch as he takes a sip from his glass. My eyes drop to his throat following his strong swallow.
“That’s not happening.” My gaze jerks up. “Not a chance.”
“Then you must explain—”
“Papa, Zoe gave me apples and mango for the birds!” Sylvie is a blur of motion as she bursts onto the terrace, her hands full, and munching on something.
“Wonderful, ma puce.” M. LDH (remember: brevity) is all smiles for his child. I smile too because she’s lovely. Unlike her father.
“Careful!” I call out as she slips a little, but she rights herself, then she’s gone. “As I was saying.” I turn my attention—my attitude—back. “No and hell no.”
“Then you will need to explain to Emmy why she no longer has a job.” He puts down his glass, not quite like a judge’s gavel. But the threat is more than implied.
“Fine.” Almost bite my lip with the hard fricative, because fuck that. “Then I expect we’ll see you in court.”
“Even if she has some way, someone, to cover her legal costs, her recent breach of confidence would not aid her cause.”
“What are you talking about? What breach?”
He stands and moves to a nearby credenza where the maid who served us earlier has left a crystal water jug. A moment later, he’s back with his phone, and I’m not wondering how many daily squats he must do because I wasn’t staring at his bum. Much.
One touch and his phone screen lights up. His face is impassive as he offers it to me.
“No thanks.”
“Take it. See for yourself.”
A dozen half formed thoughts flit through my head, half formed because I know there’s no way Emmy would do anything wrong, no matter what he’s insinuating. I know it in my bones as I ignore him. But his extended arm doesn’t waiver. And it doesn’t retract.
“Fine.” I snatch the phone from his hand. I turn the screen and a relieved “Ha!” shoots from my mouth. “It’s just Sylvie.” In the photo, her smile is as wide as half a bicycle wheel. There’s a smudge of something that looks like Nutella smeared across her cheek. In her hands, she’s proudly holding an A4 piece of paper.
“I’m going to assume that’s you,” I say as I study the childish picture of a man wearing what looks like a suit and a hugely oversized necktie. “She’s definitely flattered you,” I add as I hand him the phone back.
“The image was sent from Emmy’s phone.”
“So?”
“Look, Primrose. I can reach the bird table!” From the immaculate lawn, Sylvie waves manically.
“Yes, so I see,” I say, returning the gesture and her happy smile.
“Papa, look!”
“I’m looking, mon chou.” His attention slides back. “The image was sent to me from her own personal phone and not the handset she was given on the day her employment contract commenced.”
I shrug. With attitude.
“Written into the documentation she, and you, signed is an agreement not to capture images of my children from any recording device, save for those given to her by me. Those that may be accessed and monitored.”
“But—”
“Further, she, and you, are prohibited from distributing images—”
“She would never!”
“Ah, but she did.”
“Yeah, to you,” I say, like I don’t understand.