“Good,” he says, then takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I came on a little strong, but I still worry about you. And The Black Hart. That place will always be home to me.”
I turn the conversation to him after that, asking about New York, Dean, and how things are going for the two of them. After we finish catching up, Scotty gives me a final gentle warning about my life choices and we end the call.
I’m still stewing, wondering if he has a valid point about Sophie when my phone rings again. Picking it up, I hold the receiver to my ear and frown.
“Jared Hart.”
“Jared, my boy! I’m so glad I finally got through to you. You’re a very busy man.”
My entire body locks up, my eyes closed so tight, it’s painful. Could this day get any fucking worse? Why did I answer the phone? I should’ve fucking made Sophie deal with Helen.
Anything is better than me dealing with Harrison fucking Ainsley right now.
“Don’t hang up, Jared,” he says quickly, as if sensing I was about to do just that. “I have some important news. I think you’re going to find it very interesting.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out harshly. “Just say it, Harrison.”
“I had a very interesting phone call a week or so ago from Mr. Stephen Hatfield.”
That name peaks my interest, but I don’t let Harrison know that as I say, “And?”
“It seems he was intent on buying the Pollock at auction and sent his assistant to go procure it for him. She lost in a bidding war, and the folks over at Peltier’s refused to give him the name of the winner. So, he called me.”
“You told him I bought it,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion.
“I did, and imagine my surprise when I called your office to give you a heads up, and the very assistant he sent to get that painting was working for you.”
“Do you have a point, Harrison? If so, please get to it,” I say, my nerves feeling raw and exposed.
I can’t see where this is going, my anger overriding my deduction skills, and I want to end this conversation…for good.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, and the glee in his voice scrapes across my skin like a razor. “Hatfield will do anything to get that painting for his collection. And I do mean anything, including sending his assistant in to get close to you. Close enough to earn your trust. And to put you in a compromising position. A man of your stature can’t afford a scandal, so there’s no telling what you’d be willing to give up in order to prevent one from breaking.”
He lets the words hang in the air suggestively, and I snap.
“Fuck you, Harrison. Do not call here again.”
I slam the phone onto the receiver, nearly breaking the damn thing in the process. No way. No fucking way is Sophie lying to me, using me to get that painting for Stephen Hatfield. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. First, Scotty tells me I need to be careful. That I don’t know Sophie well enough to trust her completely. Then Harrison calls spouting his bullshit, and…I don’t know what to think.
Could it be true? Did Sophie get herself hired here just to try to get the Pollock from me for her boss? Has she been lying about everything?
I think about yesterday and all the fun we had together, and I shake my head. No. There’s no way it’s all an act. Harrison is grasping at straws, trying to find ways to get under my skin.
He always wanted a piece of The Black Hart, and when he couldn’t find an in, he tried turning my mother against me. That, combined with his constant whining about her undying love for my father was what led to their divorce. My mother is a saint, but she turns into a fierce predator when it comes to those she loves.
That’s all this is about. There’s no truth to it. None at all.
“Hey, I’m back.”
I look up to see Sophie strolling toward me, looking gorgeous in a flowy white skirt with a silk, sleeveless green blouse tucked in at the waist. Her red hair hangs free in a riot of loose curls, and she’s got that smile on her face that’s reserved just for me.
Catching sight of my dark expression, her smile falters. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
She closes the door and hurries toward me on sky-high heels, her brow furrowed with worry. Setting the laminated reports she’d gone to pick up on my desk, she rounds the corner of it to stand beside me. Reaching up, I grip her wrist and pull her onto my lap. She yelps in surprise, then relaxes, curling into me as I wrap my arms around her.
“Just a rough morning,” I murmur against her hair, breathing in its sweet, fruity scent. “Everything’s better now that you’re here.”