He heard Mr. Pimwick’s voice on the other side and ordered him to come in. Holden crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels.
“Well? Is she gone yet?”
“No, sir. She is still in bed with an icepack over her temple, sir. I also applied ice over her ribs and ankle, as they are quite swollen,” Pimwick replied in his very proper British accent.
“Will she live?” he asked with no apparent concern whatsoever.
“Yes sir, fortunately, sir.” Mr. Pimwick cleared his throat. “She’s a bit ruffled from the incident, I dare say. She mentioned the vague possibility of a lawsuit.”
“The woman wants to sue me? What in the world for?”
“Apparently she believes she is being dismissed for being blonde, sir.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what she believes. She’s blonde and I don’t like her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have lawyers to handle deranged opportunists like her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Besides, she’s clumsy. You saw how she fell. How’s the vase, by the way?”
“Quite dead, sir.”
“Damn it. It was Mother’s.” Holden narrowed his eyes at Pimwick. “I will dismiss her. Phelps is already finding me another assistant, one that will suit me much better.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Just tell her…” Holden frowned, not thinking coherently, and shook his head. “Tell her…” When the words didn’t come out for the second time, he shook his head again. “I’ll tell her myself, Pimwick.”
“Excellent, sir.”
“Let me know when Carlos gets here. He will be escorting Miss Divine home.”
“Right away, sir.”
At Pimwick’s departure, Holden resumed his circular pacing around the bedroom. If the blonde decided to sue him, the press would probably have a picnic.
He hated picnics—especially if he got to be lunch.
It seemed like the press lived for any piece of information regarding him and his business dealings. They hunted shreds of it like bloodhounds, and the more Holden tried to keep from them, the more they wanted to know.
The first time he’d read his name in a newspaper, it had been after his first successful acquisition and he’d been quite surprised, for he had never realized he was that important until he witnessed the racket the papers made. Subsequently, his name appeared with more frequency, in the same way his bankroll increased, and now it was to the point where Holden despised seeing his name on anything printed—which unfortunately, happened very often. But he hated the thought of knowingly granting the press the opportunity it so anxiously awaited to fling his dirty laundry out for everyone to see. Up until now, his life was portrayed as fairy tale-esque. A poor little boy from New Jersey, Mom baked cakes to help him with schooling, Dad served the country and died while doing so. Making it big-time in New York. It was the all-American dream, the rise from nothing to everything, and he was a symbol of it.
But Holden knew better. If he got this high, this fast, it could only mean one thing—he’d risked too much. Every single day Holden risked it, risked it all, and if one gut feeling turned out to be wrong, he could lose everything. But of course, that’s what he lived for, the thrill of making a kill—not of making the news.
He sighed and suddenly decided the best way to get rid of his new assistant was to simply make her quit. Lord knows every other assistant he’d had could never keep up with him and his active, tiring lifestyle. Holden was certain that with a little more effort on his part, by making the load sufficiently too heavy for the woman to possibly manage, she would have no choice but to resign.
Holden smiled to himself over this clever plan as he yanked his bedroom door open and strode outside. He found her in the hallway, hobbling like a penguin toward the foyer. No doubt about it, she looked like she’d seen better days.
“Miss Divine, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Her answer, when she stiffly turned to face him, was a deadly silence and a face that said “shove it”.
As if he had no idea what that face meant, he smiled benignly. “Before you leave, I want to review my activities for tomorrow.”
It seemed to take her a moment for his words to register in her obviously still-not-quite-recuperated brain. In fact, her left temple was beet red, and just by looking at it, Holden could tell one thing—it hurt like hell. “Now?” she asked in disbelief. Her eyes were amazing—honey colored with sparks of cinnamon, and tilted invitingly at the ends like a she-cat.