Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
They snigger. Ridicule.
After an awkward wave, I meander off. A few paces later, I tell myself not to look back while ignoring the self-preservation tactic.
He’s still in the same spot as people weave between us.
“Wait,” he says. “Is your father nearby? I’ll explain the situation to him.”
“You saved me when I almost backed into the suit. We’re even.” I grin through a sparkling of fresh tears. He stands his ground. “This is New York. People bump into each other,” I say.
And they’re bumping into me. Him, they respect, offering a wide berth. He shifts in loafers that cost more than my entire wardrobe. “But do you Americans cry when being jostled about?”
My head tilts, and I strut back over, arms folded. It hits me!
This is flirting.
I’m engaging in flirtations. Oh shit. “Would you like to be known as the man who made me cry?”
The stranger looks at me as if that’s his sole intention.
Bringing me to tears.
In bed.
After which, he’s on to the next conquest.
A few debonair beats later, he muses, “I've never seen a woman cry before. At least, not for this sort of reason.”
My brows kick. Okay, we aren’t flirting.
“Where I’m from, crying occurs for one of two reasons. A defense mechanism and or a device for—”
“Oh, I see. You’re so proper. Call an opportunist an opportunist. Good luck finding a woman with substance.” I look toward the Greco building, chewing my lip. Lux, no dipping into the interracial pool with a British out-of-towner. He’s a friggen lady killer. “Not necessary, though I appreciate the offer.”
“I insist.”
“Well, there he is. Dad’s pretty intimidating.” My eyes brighten as I see my father walking out of the building. He’s dressed in his favorite checkered shirt with pens and other apparatus sticking from the breast pocket.
I rush into his arms. “Dad! I’m so sorry.” I hold up the broken bouquet.
“Lux, I’m happy to see you either way, honey.” He tries to calm me as I explain the situation.
“Dr. Whitson.” The demigod gives Dad’s hand a hearty shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. It’s not every day one meets a three-time winner of the American Heart Association’s research grant. I’m Dr. Victor Finch.”
“You know of me?” A mixture of awe and appreciation flits before my father’s eyes. Only in an alternate universe would I be introducing my father to a man who knows of him and the heart thingamajig Dad spearheaded. I’ve sworn off brainiacs since Arnold.
“Between you and me, Dr. Finch, I’m working on something new.”
I tune out the cryptic chat about Greco’s newest ventures. Again, my eyes go straight to Victor’s. He provides my father with his undivided attention. For a moment, I’m delighted. If it weren’t for his occasional curriculum and classes, there would be nobody for Dad to talk to. At least Dad made a friend out of this bizarre encounter.
6
VICTOR
Day Four
Burt’s face has shriveled into a pale raisin. I’d requested clearance to Greco Technologies with the alias Dr. Victor Finch, and the bloke didn’t like the sound of that.
In sweats and an A-shirt, I stand in a fighter stance. While I pummel a punching bag in the personal gym at Hotel Delacroix, Burt lists my entire week’s schedule.
"Burt,” I cut in. “Come off it! We both know I have advisors to calculate the potential of any misstep. We’re discussing Greco!”
“Bollocks, I’ll clear the shoddy establishment, Victor. However, you’re placing yourself in a position to be recognized.”
“I’m the brooding duk—”
“More like vicious, sir.”
“Alright, the vicious duke. Far removed from the throne—what? The twentieth prince?” Eighteenth, to be precise, unless my father’s siblings have more children, and I couldn’t give a bloody fuck, either way.
“I’m on no one’s radar.” I punctuate the statement with a roundhouse kick to the punching bag. I wipe the sweat from my face and continue, although momentarily disconcerted by our heartless statement. Burt hated my father. Does that mean I am embodying the wanker, now?
The prick’s not dead, but we’re past involving emotions. Still, I heed a single principle of that ruthless arsehole.
Don’t slither about amongst the dead. Toy with your victim, sure. But from a distance.
Constructing a background at Greco Technologies places me too close to the target. In addition, my strict upbringing dictates Arlington, England must be my next step. As a royal duke who oversees an area almost the size of the largest borough of New York, it’s imperative I return to Arlington soon. Mother almost had a heart attack when I forwent the Queen’s birthday. I have missed more than my fair share of garden parties at Buckingham Palace. However, a prestigious education, as well as my favorite of the mundane duties—serving in the British Armed Forces—will never compare to the thrill of the kill. At this moment, the kill might be delayed, though, because something else has piqued my interest. A petite female with wild coppery hair and darling freckles. One who begs my acquisition.