Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Shall I?”
“Sure,” I cut in, snarky. “Tell him I’m fine if that will keep him away.”
“Oh, you know I meant to give him the ringer. You sure you’re all right?”
“Actually,” I drop my head back against the wood. “Should we tell him I moved on?”
“We, Miss Whitson?”
“Dammit, Burt, stop being so formal. Tell him I met the man of my dreams.”
“May I have a name? An address? Date of birth, even? He’ll have questions. Oh . . . I see. Consider Bartholomew.”
I clasp a hand over my mouth to hide a smile.
“Well, Miss Luxury?”
“Hey, I was making fun of you a second ago. This your form of revenge? Get my agreement in telling him I’m dating someone named Bartholomew. Burt, is that your name?” I let it go, a tiny little chuckle. “Are you trying to tell me I fell for the wrong older guy? I could’ve fallen for a gentleman such as yourself?”
“No, Miss Luxury. My name is,” he pauses, clearing his throat, “Herbert. In primary school, I was terrorized considerably. Called Herb or Silly ‘Erbert. Anyhow, I’ve always preferred Bartholomew.”
“Ah, I understand.” I pull myself away from the door, stalk a few paces to my bed, and allow myself to fall back onto the plush comforter. “Since kindergarten, I was bullied over my freckles. I have an entire list of names.”
“Rubbish, unless beautiful is at the top of said list.”
“Nope, nothing remotely similar made the cut. I’ll keep your secret. Let’s give my tormentor a super sexy name, like Santino. Oh, or I finished a novel about a mafia enforcer, Nero, before I met him,” I say, inferring Victor, though I won’t say his name.
“You’re a fellow reader? Splen . . .” His voice trails off as footsteps approach. Very sternly, Burt replies, “Splendid” Burt clears his throat. “Victor, I’m speaking with my dear cousin.”
I press the receiver harshly to my ear in an effort to gather their exchange. My heart gallops in my chest, prepared to charge out of my throat. I just have to hear Victor’s voice.
Hang up, Luxury.
Hang . . . Up . . .
Parts of my body that perished without his touch ignite in anticipation of the slightest sound of his name. I hate the feeling.
My obsession.
A surfeit of emotion swirls through my bloodstream, and I loathe it all.
Before the sound of Victor’s voice can pull me underneath his spell, my thumb grazes the off button, and the phone slips from my fingers onto my bed. Focus on you, Luxxie.
I never sought out Victor Tudor and never desired to google him like I had his alias, Dr. Victor Finch.
Because he’s a liar.
4
Victor
“How is she?!” I fist the lapel of Burt’s suit.
This entire month has been gloomy, save for today. Sunlight streams down into the wood-paneled kitchen, ostracizing the shadows, as I scrutinize my butler for any sign that he’s lying.
With brows lifted and looking bewildered, he stammers, “My dear cousin, Martha? Very well, thank you, Sir.”
“Come off it, Burt!” Tingles crawl over my ashen knuckles.
“Well, she was chuffed to bits about a new chap, Bartholomew. They met at the opera, Victor. All right?”
“No, I’m not all right.” I let out an explosive breath. Fuck, have I lost it? Luxury Whitson pervades every hour of my day, my night. “Overton has yet to initiate his vow of vengeance against my home. Are—”
“Security has increased at your Arlington estate. Shall we visit it? Appraise the updates?”
“No. I trust your judgment.” I place my palms onto the countertop and take a seat. “I’m on edge. That old fucker has taken on a tactical approach.” And I’m bloody delighted.
“Ah, Old Overton,” Burt sighs. “I’ve heard of the chap. Saint Nick to the little ones, their mums, and the religious; a devil to everyone else. The brute never himself accountable when we were young. Victor, you may have very well poked a man as,” Burt pauses, “harmonious as you.”
“That I have.”
“I’ll grab the Scotch.”
While Burt retrieves two glass tumblers, I wriggle my jaw. “He’s appealed to the Queen. Apparently, though, his struggles were futile. Although, our monarch did stroke his wounded ego with an offer of more of my money—irrespective of the businesses’ current worth. I paid for the land, cleared his debt. Why are we calling him Old Overton? Should be Cuckoo Overton. I bloody cannot conjure an “O” synonym.”
“Off with his head Overton?”
“That’ll do.” My eyes flicker to the glass, only a fourth full. “Do not insult me.”
Burt offers another copious pour then proceeds to grant himself the same.
“The lad refused the money?”
“No, no, no.” I tip the entire drink back. “Overton rebuffed my dear grandmummy, his Queen. He’s not a greedy man; he’s prideful. Off with his head, heh.”
“Should we exterminate him, sir?”
“No. He will strike, Burt the Butler. I can wait since I have no deviant diversions. He’s my diversion, a worthy avocation indeed.”