Dear Enemy
Irritation catches at the back of my throat. “My memory is crystal clear, Con Man. Don’t pretend as though you weren’t every bit as bad.”
We glare at each other from opposite sides of his desk while visions of me dumping the green smoothie on his lap dance through my head. Those severe brows of his lower, and I wonder if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
His voice is a soft thread cutting through the silence. “I remember everything, Delilah.”
Maybe he intends that to be a threat—a promise, perhaps, that one day there will be a reckoning—but it sounds like something else, almost as if he’s kept those memories close all this time, pulling them out every now and then to examine them like some sort of kitsch bauble you keep for nostalgia.
Without waiting for a reply, he sets a new phone on the desk. “Yours.” He pushes it toward me. “My calendar and list of contacts are synced to it. All calls for me will go to you.”
“All calls?”
“On that list, yeah.” He nods to the phone, which I’ve left lying on the desk. “Only calls from you, Karen, and North will ring to my phone.”
I take the phone and scroll through the contacts. There are about forty names on it, both men and women. “Who are these people? Your friends?”
“Some of them. Mostly business contacts. Whenever a call comes in, take a message. I’ll call them back if I want to.”
“Every time? That sounds kind of cold.”
“Why? Because I won’t answer?” His expression is somewhere between you poor deluded thing and aren’t you precious? “No one is going to be offended. They’re used to it.”
“All right, then.”
“Don’t answer unknown calls. If a preprogrammed name pops up, it’s okay. But no one else, Tot. Ever.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like life and death,” I say with a little laugh.
He doesn’t blink. “I’m completely serious about this. The world is full of unhinged people. If one of them happens to get through, you’ll only encourage them by answering.” He rests his hands on the flat of his stomach. “Which brings me to another point. At the moment, no one knows who you are, but if, at any time, someone approaches you and asks about me, pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about, disengage, and call either me or North immediately.”
My fingers curl around the hard edges of the phone. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“I’m trying to keep you safe. Promise me you’ll listen, Delilah.”
He’s so intently serious that I can’t find it in myself to tease, even though I want to. Because the whole thing makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea of having to watch my back. Some of this must show on my face because his tense shoulders relax, and his expression eases. “It’s just safety protocol, Tot.”
My back grows cold as if unseeing eyes are staring at me. I shake off the fanciful image; it will do me no good to become paranoid. “All right. I got it.”
Satisfied, Macon wheels away from the desk. “I’ve sent you a list of tasks for the week. Things may be added at will.”
I find the email in question and read through it. Dry cleaning to be fetched, dress shoes and a couple of suits to be picked up from various shops on Rodeo Drive. He has a mountain of emails he wants me to answer, a calendar to reschedule, calls to return. I have a script I must follow when talking to people, nice little ways to evade giving away any solid details about Macon’s injuries. I’m also expected to purchase a long list of birthday presents for various people and see them personally delivered. None of these things can be purchased online—they’re all from specialty stores around LA. Make that from all ends of LA.
“Seriously,” I say when I’m finished.
The space between his brows wrinkles. “What’s the problem, Tot?”
“I never knew you to be a shopper, Con Man. This reads like a list made by a diva.”
He snorts. “You should be thankful I’m not a diva.”
“And when am I going to find time to cook your meals?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Tucking the phone away, I stand. “Is that all, sir? I’ve got a few menus to plan.”
He grins wide. “Sir. I like that.”
My finger is itching to flip up and say hello again.
He knows it. His dark eyes gleam with anticipation. I won’t give him the satisfaction, though. I turn to leave when he speaks up again.
“Oh, and I expect a snack at ten. Stop glaring, and get to work, slow coach.”
Yep. Definitely in hell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Macon
The steering wheel presses hard against my cheekbone, airbag clumped up under my neck, hot metal on my leg. Rain falls through the shattered window, blurring the lines, making the blood run faster into my eyes. I hurt. I hurt all over.