Bastard In A Sut (Book Three) (Bastard In A Suit 3) Page 2

  It’s not the inevitable stares of the employees that makes me nervous—it’s trying to decide what I’ll say to Forrest.

  Duke takes my hand and leads me to the elevator. Once inside, he adjusts his tie, fixes his hair. Gone is the carefree guy who laughed at his own jokes and sang badly out of tune, and in his place, is Duke Kingston, the billionaire business technology golden boy with the Midas Touch.

  It strikes me with alarming clarity that I’m falling for both.

  Chapter 3

  Duke and I step into the hallway of the penthouse office we now share and walk into the room, not quite hand in hand, but close enough that the scent of his cologne distracts me. His—our—office brings back memories that make me blush. My bare ass on his desk…

  He goes straight to that desk, shifts around some paperwork, and then calls down to reception to access his messages. I poke around in my corner of space, and fire up the company-issued laptop. I’m asked for my password as soon as the screen comes to life.

  I try to tune out Duke’s voice, but his tone has hardened. His answers are curt, professional.

  He hangs up and coughs, as though trying to catch my attention. I spin around in my wheely chair and grin. “Duty calls?”

  “Unfortunately.” He points to my computer. “Do you have everything you need?”

  I shrug. There isn’t much I can do. Now that the MicroTracker and its software will be handed over to the police, my role at Kingston Industries—regardless of how fake—has been rendered redundant. “I’m probably just going to track down Forrest.”

  He nods. “Good. I’m in meetings all day.”

  “Great.”

  There’s an awkward beat of silence while neither of us moves. Am I supposed to stand and kiss him goodbye? Salute? He stuffs paperwork into a leather briefcase. At the door, he pauses. “You look good here, Hailey,” he says. “You belong.”

  His eyes burn with sentiments I can’t read and my heart skips a beat. He leaves before I can respond.

  My chest swells with ridiculous happiness, ballooning with the hope that maybe, just maybe, there is more to this than just sex. But the light headedness of my fantasy fades fast in anticipation of the difficult conversation with Forrest ahead.

  I quickly check my emails, scrolling through corporate policy reminders and an update on the upcoming company mixer, before slamming my laptop shut. Procrastination isn’t my style, and prolonging the talk with Forrest isn’t doing anyone any good.

  Casting a backward glance at the office, my gaze once again lingers on the surface of Duke’s desk and a thrill zig zags up my spine. If I’m going to continue working at Kingston Industries, I’ll have to convince Duke of my own space. I suspect in here I’ll be far too distracted to do much more than reminisce about his tongue between my thighs.

  Get a grip, Hailey.

  I flick off the lights and head to the elevator, mentally preparing as the car lowers to the third floor. This time as I walk through the maze of cubicles, I hold my head high, even try to make eye contact. A few employees smile, but most are too busy to notice the effort.

  Forrest looks up from his laptop when I walk in the room. There’s no spark in his eyes, and his ever-present smile wiped clean. I can tell he hasn’t slept. Instant guilt trips along my spine.

  “I thought we were going to meet at the police station,” he says.

  He stands, gathering his keys and wallet, ready to lurch. His movements are tense, distracted. Shit. Things are about to get worse and I hate that I can’t deliver more positive news.

  “Forrest…”I say. “Sit for a minute.”

  He freezes, shoulders tight. He shakes his head. “We have to get Jake.”

  My heart aches. “We know where Jake is.”

  He sighs with exasperation. “You know what I mean, Hailey. We need to go see him again.”

  My chest tightens. “Again?”

  Forrest looks down at his feet and kicks at something on the floor. His pants are wrinkled, and I notice his tie isn’t knotted quite right. “I know I said we’d wait, but I couldn’t. It was eating me up inside. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. So, I went to see him at the jail last night.”

  “Oh, Forrest…” I slump down in my chair. “We need to talk.”

  He perches on the edge of my desk and leans forward. His eyes burn with determination, passion. “He’s innocent,” he says. “Jake says he was framed, and I believe him.” His eyes go wide. “You believe it too, right?”

  His voice is filled with a conviction I can’t match, and that only deepens my anxiety.

  I swallow. Forrest catches on to my hesitation and his face twists with disgust. “Hailey? Come on. You can’t possibly think he did this. He loved Marissa.”

  “People in love do terrible things all the time,” I say softly.

  “Sure, in the movies,” Forrest scoffs.

  I reach across the desk and place my hand over his. “Nobody wants to think the worst here.”

  “But you do, don’t you?” His eyes darken with accusation. “You weren’t there, Hailey. You didn’t see him. He’s a mess, a wreck.” Forrest runs his hand through his disheveled mop of hair and he sighs. “Jake asked about you. I didn’t know what to say…”

  I think about where I actually was and more guilt shoots through my veins. I’m basically mainlining it at this point. “We had a plan, Forrest. You should have waited.”

  “And let an innocent man rot there by himself?” He shakes his head. “How would you feel if the tables were turned?”

  My heart feels like it’s splitting in two. His belief in Jake is so strong. And of course, it would be. Forrest doesn’t know what I know, hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. “There’s evidence…”

  Forrest snarls. “The police don’t have shit.” He pushes off the edge of the desk and begins to pace the room. Sweat beads on forehead. The dark circles around his eyes look almost black, hollow. My stomach clenches at how obviously he wants me to be wrong and I want to throw up.

  “Mr. Kingston didn’t bury the MicroTracker,” I say, slowly blowing out a breath. I must craft my next words carefully—drive the point home, without tipping off where I spent the night. Electricity crackles along my spine as I remember Duke’s lips pressed against my neck. That’s not information I want Forrest to have access to, not now. He’s already shaken enough. “I know he said he was going to shelve the product—and he is. But as of last night, he hadn’t taken the device offline and…”

  Forrest stops pacing. “Spit it out, Hailey.”

  My jaw tenses. “According to the software, Jake was the last person to use the tracking device—which he used to follow Marissa.” I swallow. “To Navy Pier.”

  He whirls on me. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  My jaw slackens. Truth is, the more pieces that fall into place, the less convinced I am of Jake’s innocence and that stings. “I want to be wrong, Forrest. I hope I am, but…”

  “Show me the evidence,” he snaps.

  “Mr. Kingston had to turn over everything to the police.”

  Forrest’s voice booms. “You went to the cops?” His hands ball into fists at his sides. “Jesus, Hailey. You didn’t even talk to me about this.”

  I struggle not to cry. “We didn’t have a choice, Forrest. Duke—Mr. Kingston—owns the product. He made the decision, but for what it’s worth, it was the right thing to do.” I blink, holding my eyes closed for a beat. “I know you’re emotional, but you’ll see. It was the only choice.”

  “When did he call the police?”

  “What?”

  Forrest points aggressively at the door. “You were supposed to meet me first. So when did you see this so-called evidence? And why only you? Shouldn’t Mr. Kingston have called me too?”

  “That’s not important,” I stammer. I inhale a shaky breath, steadying myself as I try to steer the conversation away from where Forrest is going with it.

  “How do we know Mr. Kingston didn’t plant that
evidence?”

  “Oh my god, are you serious?” The look on his face tells me he is. “Why would he do that?”

  Forrest shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Hailey. I don’t care what the police think they have. Jake is innocent. I feel it.”

  “We can’t afford to be naïve,” I say. Tears well up and I blink to stop them. One leaks out anyway and trails down my cheek. I can’t take this. I need fresh air, a drink, something. “You’re not rational right now, and I get it, but we have to think this through.”

  “Why are you being such a bitch?” Forrest says.

  The tone of his voice guts me. My shoulders sag. “If I’m wrong, you can both cut me loose. You’ll never have to see me again.” The words weigh heavy against my chest. I gather my things and walk toward the door, stopping briefly to look back. “Instinct tells me I’m right. I’m sorry.”

  Forrest averts his gaze. “Then I guess we just wait for the cops to sort it out?”

  He can’t even look at me, and that stings more than anything else.

  “Sure,” I say, swallowing. “I really do hope I’m wrong.”

  He stuffs his hands in his pocket. “Me too.”

  With nothing left to say, I leave—unsure where to go. My office? I make my way toward the elevator, eyes trained to the floor. Someone calls out my name. I turn to witness Duke striding toward me, with an intensity that speeds up my pulse. Everything looks in place—shirt tucked, tie perfectly knotted, shoes spit shined—but he’s disheveled somehow. As though someone’s gotten under his skin.

  He runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  My stomach does a flip.

  He cocks his head. “I’ve had the worst afternoon. Need a drink as badly as I do?”

  I blow out a deep breath. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 4

  Our drinks are served in tumblers, Duke’s bourbon and my vodka each encased in a ball of ice. Following his lead, I lift the slingshot rubber band stretched over the glass and let go. The ice egg cracks open, releasing my drink.

  I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. “Am I a geek if this impresses me?”

  “It’s an impressive place,” Duke says.

  The Aviary is more restaurant than bar, serving high-end cocktail concoctions reminiscent of the potions created in my high school chem lab. They smoke, they breathe fire, they pour from hand-blown carafes.

  I lift my glass to eye level. “I don’t understand how the drink gets in the ice.”

  “One of life’s mysteries?”

  I set down my drink. “You’re teasing me.”

  The truth is, his amusement eases some of the tension that pulls my muscles tight. I’m wound up over my argument with Forrest, and completely out of my comfort zone in such an up-scale cocktail bar.

  “Hungry?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I could eat.”

  “If I order something, will you try it?”

  His obvious concern touches me. “It seems rude not to.”

  He smiles, and then flags over the waitress. “We’ll start with the chips,” he says.

  “How normal,” I say.

  Duke’s eyes glisten with a devilish twinkle. “I have no doubt you’ll reassess that word in good time.”

  He’s right. The “chips” at the Aviary are an artful and towering arrangement of polenta, lotus root, white rice, cheddar and parmesan. Duke points to each ingredient. I’m fascinated by how each component is twisted and manipulated to create a sculpture of food, far too intricate to eat.

  “These are squid ink chips,” he says. “They taste best when dipped in the tapioca.”

  I tentatively bite in, surprised at the hint of “seafood” that lingers on my tongue. The parmesan is light, crumbly, and strongly cheesy. “It’s delicious,” I say, licking a crumb from my bottom lip.

  Duke’s eyes follow the slow motion of my tongue. “Indeed.”

  I take a sip of my vodka and clear my throat. “Forrest didn’t take the news so well.”

  He looks up from swirling his ice and grimaces. “No, I don’t expect so.” He takes a sip of his bourbon. “I gave the police everything. They said they’d be in touch soon. You may be asked to provide a statement.”

  My chest feels hollow. “I figured as much.”

  A server passes with a tray of drinks. Smoke billows from a beaker that bubbles with some kind of blue liqueur. Beside it, two tall glasses are filled with green liquid and small balls of ice, all uniform in size.

  “How do they do that?”

  Duke follows my gaze. “Get the ice all the same size?”

  “Yeah.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I mean, I get that they have molds and stuff, but the ice in this place is almost like its own art form.”

  “It’s not just about chilling the drinks,” Duke says. “The ice helps to release the flavor as it melts. If you order a margarita, for instance, the ice is spiced, so as it melts, your drink is infused with cinnamon.”

  “That’s genius,” I say, fascinated.

  Duke dabs at his mouth with a napkin. The movement is strangely erotic, and I imagine sliding an ice cube across his lips.

  “The cocktail chefs are very particular about the way each drink is presented,” he says. “It’s more than just enjoying a refreshment…it’s an experience. The ice makers have their own room in a special section downstairs.”

  Goosebumps ripple along my skin. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Would you like a tour?”

  Maybe the vodka has gone straight to my head, but my pulse thrums with anticipation. It’s like Willie Wonka has just handed me a golden ticket and a private tour of his chocolate factory. Still, I hesitate. “I wouldn’t want you to impose.”

  Duke’s mouth quirks in an arrogant smirk. “I am never imposing.”

  Of course he would say that. “I would very much like a tour.”

  He downs the rest of his drink and flags over the waitress. She leans in and he whispers something in her ear. She smiles, nods, and turns to me. “Please, won’t you both follow me?”

  We’re led down a dark hallway, and then to a long flight of stairs. “Turn left at the bottom,” she says. “Bradley will take you inside.”

  I’m grateful for Duke’s hand on the small of my back, keeping me grounded as I resist the urge to bounce on my toes, as excited as a small child. He slides his hand a little lower, and it hovers just above my ass, warm and teasing.

  When his finger hooks under my waistband and sweeps across my skin, my step falters. I am completely under his spell. How did this happen?

  “Ice maker Brad” is a freckle-faced red haired man in a black suit and peach dress shirt. He shakes Duke’s hand and welcomes us both to the ice room, explaining with practiced ease how ice is manufactured, coddled, and worshipped.

  “You have to start with good water to make good ice,” he says. “In our case, it’s reverse osmosis. Highly-filtered water.”

  The ice room is more like a studio kitchen. Stainless steel sinks gleam as though just polished, and stacks of molds and containers rest on shelves high above bank of freezers. We’re introduced to the other “ice artist” who explains, with a wry grin, that his whole job is to “freeze things.”

  Duke trails a finger along my arm, heightening the goose pimples already cresting my flesh.

  “All of the pearl ices have custom molds,” Brad says, taking one of the rubber sheets off the shelf so I can see it. He opens one of the freezers to display rows of hollow ice eggs. “I believe you both ordered your drinks In The Rock this afternoon.” He takes one out for me to inspect, hold in my palm.

  “It’s light,” I say, surprised.

  I hand it to Duke, who rolls it around before giving it back. “Intriguing.”

  Brad moves on to the next freezer. Duke grips my hips and pulls me into him, his groin pressed up against my ass. I go very still, trying to concentrate on Brad’s next words, but wh
en Duke’s cold fingers slide under my shirt and brush against my rib cage, I cry out in shock.

  “All good?” Brad says.

  “A little chilled,” Duke says.

  “I should have worn a sweater,” I say, blushing.

  “This is the Clinebell Machine,” Brad says, moving on. He points to a large stainless steel contraption. “It’s the same machine that’s used by ice carvers to freeze the big three hundred pound blocks for their sculptures. Every glass of water here gets a hand chipped piece of ice.”

  He nods to a tray of ice spheres and squares, and then the chillers at the far corner of the room. The blast chiller, dry ice maker, nitrogen storage…

  “There are certainly a lot of toys in here,” I say.

  Duke’s hand slides down to my ass. He cups one butt cheek and squeezes, and I feel my nipples tighten and my center moisten.

  Fuck. This is getting crazy.

  But I have to admit, I’m turned on and I don’t really want Duke to stop touching me.

  If Brad notices, he doesn’t say anything. “They’re all important to creating a perfect experience,” he says. “We want you to smell your drink, interact with it, see it boiling, or smoking. We’re hitting on sight and sound and obviously taste…”

  Duke nestles his chin into the crook of my neck. “I can think of a few ice experiences I’d like to try,” he whispers.

  My body ignites and suddenly, I can’t wait to leave this room.

  I reach back and run my hand across Duke’s groin, lingering on his already hard cock. He groans low and I press into him, inviting. Teasing.

  He clears his throat. “I’m afraid we’ve already taken up so much of your time,” he says, voice gruff and thick with desire. “And we should be on our way.”

  Duke ushers me out of the ice room so quickly, I barely have a chance to say goodbye. I doubt we even had the full tour. When we reach the staircase landing, Duke grabs my wrist and half drags me to a bathroom at the end of the darkened hall.

  Once inside, he pins me to the wall, wrists over my head, and kisses me hard. “Jesus, fuck, Hailey.”