The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

Sliding glass doors silently open as we approach. I raise my eyebrow. “You have it open.”

A nod toward a black sphere jutting from the metal frame. “Facial recognition.”

“That’s not a little big brother-ish?”

“Big brother is the government. This is a privately owned building, which means we can be as intrusive as we want. Do you have something to hide?”

“Everything,” I say. “Most of it from myself.”

He presses the button for an elevator, and the doors slide open. “After you,” he says, a wave of his arm gesturing me inside. It feels a little like a spider speaking to the fly, but I step inside the elevator and we’re both whisked higher and higher, the lighted buttons rising.

The doors open directly onto the roof, the concrete almost unearthly pristine white. Not enough rain or dirt or time has stained this place, its white floor and short walls and exposed silver pipes. This high it feels like the stars are dangling in front of me, like I can reach out and touch them with my forefinger.

“Oh my God,” I say, taking in the view of the city. “It’s lovely.” Downtown might as well be the next galaxy. And around us there are a hundred thousand pieces of debris orbiting the building. It seems impossible that we can ever get enough inertia to even leave, much less turn this place into a bustling center of commerce. It’s both beautiful and heartbreaking, a combination I’m all too familiar with.

“Yes,” he says, sounding distracted. “Lovely.”

When I glance at him he turns away from me. “Thought you might as well see what you’re fighting for.”

A lump forms in my throat. “You mean what I’m fighting against.”

I know that libraries help communities. That art can save lives. I believe in the power of them both, but looking at the wasteland that is the west side of Tanglewood it’s hard to believe that anything can help.

“Why did you decide to build here?”

“You know why. Cheap real estate. A monopoly on the market.”

Selfish reasons, but they don’t quite ring true. Not anymore. “Is that all?”

He points toward the library. From this angle the broken stained glass dome at the top looks like a gaping hole where the heart used to be. “You can see the cracks in the foundation from here. Look at the height of this side of the building. And then the other side.”

My heart thumps a scared little sound. “Only a little bit.”

“I’ve looked out the windows here for six months. I’ve seen the whole building shudder and shiver and end up one centimeter more uneven.”

“That’s why I have a construction crew. They’re going to fix it.”

“They’re not,” he says, sounding almost sad. “Nothing can fix the building.”

“But Sutton said—”

“Sutton Mayfair would risk your goddamn neck just to get back at me. Don’t believe a damn word he says to you. You need to be in a hard hat before you’re anywhere near that building. And I don’t see why you should be near it at all.”

“You don’t own the library anymore, and you never owned me. With that attitude no wonder you aren’t with someone. Women don’t like being ordered around.”

“You seemed to like it at the poker game,” he says, his voice low.

A flush climbs my cheeks. At the poker game I felt used in a decadent, purely sexual way—but the sex we had under the scaffold was different. It felt like I was the one using Christopher’s body, controlling him, breaking him like a beautiful stallion.

God, no wonder Sutton wanted Christopher. He knew what it could be like.

“Maybe I like ordering you around.” My voice comes out low and liquid, a form of seduction I didn’t know I was capable of until I see Christopher’s eyes darken. “Does a powerful woman turn you on?”

He studies me with those inky black eyes. “Yes,” he says, but though that word reveals so much, it still feels like he’s holding even more inside. Like I’d have to pry him open to find out all his secrets. I’m a little afraid of what I’d find if I did.

“Do you think it would have been different?” I ask, a little wistful. “That kiss in the art gallery. Do you think we would have really dated if my father hadn’t written you into the will?”

He stares at me, his eyes stormy, no sense of stillness now. “Dated? You think I