Angelina wasn’t joking. That morning, she wouldn’t come into my Green Oak mansion.
“Stop me here,” she said to my chauffeur a stone’s throw from the gates, and he stepped on the brake. Then she turned to me. “I’ll see you later,” she mumbled and climbed down from the car.
I should be worried about her, but when I stepped into my mansion and headed for the stairs, my thoughts were of the server girl—Mabel Parker, as she’d introduced. Images of her crying, her quiet sobs as she ran down the hallway, clouded my head.
I tried to find solace in the comfort of my jacuzzi. But even the massage jets and a glass of red wine couldn’t erase my memories of her.
To worsen the situation, fragments of last night began breaking through the haze in my mind. The taste of her lips. The feel of her soft s
