42
1048 Words
From the doorway comes the sound of someone clearing his throat.
Gasping, I jump and spin around.
“Good afternoon,” says Callum’s driver, giving me a little bow.
“Oh God. You startled me.” I press a shaking hand over my chest. Then I realize I just got caught snooping through Callum’s drawers, and my face goes hot. “I, um, was just having a look around.”
If he knows what I was looking at, he doesn’t show it. He merely smiles and holds up his hand. In it is a small black card.
“Mr. McCord asked me to give you this.”
“What is it?”
“His American Express card. There’s no limit on the account, so you can use it to purchase whatever you like.”
My laugh is small and nervous. “Oh, good, I can get that jet I always wanted.”
He nods, still smiling. “Yes.”
He moves a few steps closer, holding out the card. I reluctantly take it from him. It’s a heavy chunk of black metal, engraved with Callum’s name and an account number. Turning it over in my hands, I say, “I couldn’t really buy a jet with this, could I?”
“Of course.”
He says it like I’m a moron for even asking.
Then he says, “I’m Arlo, by the way. Mr. McCord’s driver and personal assistant. I’m happy to help you with anything you might want or need.”
He put an emphasis on “anything.” I suspect I could ask this guy to help me bury a body, and he’d say no problem, let me just go get the shovels, and we’ll get started.
This is the first time I’ve seen him without his dark sunglasses, so I finally have a good look at his face. He’s nice-looking, maybe mid-thirties, with olive skin and thick dark brows over unusual silvery-gray eyes.
Like his employer’s, those eyes seem to hold a million secrets in their depths.
He says, “Your handbag will arrive soon, followed shortly by all your other belongings. Would you like me to help you unpack?”
Instantly suspicious, I say, “What do you mean, all my other belongings?”
“Your clothes and personal items from your apartment.”
I’m momentarily stunned. “All my stuff is being brought here? Why?”
Arlo lifts his brows, then says gently, “Because you live here now, Mrs. McCord.”
“Oh. Right.” Help.
“Perhaps you’d like to give me your measurements and favorite clothing stores so I can send them to Mr. McCord’s personal shopper.”
When I stare at him in confusion, he adds, “For your new wardrobe.”
“What new wardrobe?”
“The one Mr. McCord would like you to have.”
I say hotly, “What’s wrong with my old wardrobe?”
Bypassing that landmine, Arlo says, “The cleaning staff comes on Tuesday and Thursday. The chef arrives daily at eight a.m. and leaves at six in the evening. If you have any preferences for the day’s menu, just leave a list on your writing desk”—he gestures to the antique desk across the room—“and I will deliver it to him. The masseuse is on call twenty-four hours a day, and if you’d like a lady’s maid to assist you with dressing and keeping your personal possessions in good order, I’ll have the agency send over candidates for you to interview.”
He waits patiently for me to absorb all that, but the information bounces off my numb skull.
His voice gentler, he says, “I know it must be overwhelming. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to enlist my help.”
From his suit jacket, he pulls a thin silver cell phone. “I’m also on call twenty-four hours a day. My number is already programmed in, as are the numbers of all your personal contacts.”
I take the phone from him and hold it at arm’s length between two fingers, as you might a small but venomous snake. “How are all my contacts already programmed in this thing?”
Arlo clasps his hands together and smiles.
Dropping my arm to my side, I sigh. “Look, Arlo. I know you think you’re trying to be helpful, but that mysterious smile is freaking me out. Now answer my question, please—how are my numbers already programmed in?”
He thinks for a moment. “I realize you and Mr. McCord haven’t known each other long, but you’ll soon discover that he’s always well prepared.”
I say flatly, “Meaning he’s been spying on me.”
“Meaning he’s exceptionally detail oriented.”
“Meaning he’s a control freak.”
“Meaning that now that you’re under his care, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.”
“The semantics are making me anxious. And the phrase ‘under his care’ makes me feel like a patient. I agreed to marry the guy, not let him treat my medical conditions.”
After a thoughtful beat, Arlo says, “I’m sorry if I misspoke. I only meant that you’ll be protected from now on.”
“Protected from what? I run a bookshop, not an illegal gambling ring.”
He doesn’t answer. He merely smiles and walks out.
Just like his boss, Arlo is aggravating.
Sighing, I inspect the phone he gave me. Almost as thin as the black Amex card, it has no buttons on the sides. When I tap the screen with my thumb, nothing happens.
I doubt Arlo would give me a phone with a dead battery, so I set aside the credit card on the dresser and turn the phone over in my hands, inspecting it. In addition to having no buttons, it also has no holes where a charger would go or any other markings of any sort.
It’s sleek, blank, and slightly menacing.
On impulse, I hold it close to my mouth and say, “Call Dani.”
The screen lights up. Calling Dani shows in white type against a plain blue background. Then the sound of a ring fills the air.
“Hello?”
- Writer
