As much as Skye might have preferred not to go, she knew she had to see this through.
The man led her to a staff elevator and they ascended to the top floor. The doors opened onto an unremarkable corridor and the guard opened an unremarkable door. He led her into a small utilitarian kitchen and then into a very plush suite, with jaw-dropping floor-to-ceiling windows and views over Madrid.
This must be the penthouse suite, and she’d just been brought through the service kitchen.
Her face grew hot with humiliation.
The man led her to a vast open-plan space, with couches dotted around glass coffee tables. Vast canvases of modern art hung on walls. Low lighting imbued the space with golden light but made it no less intimidating.
And there he was. With his back to her. No jacket. Just his shirt and trousers.
He turned around, but Skye couldn’t see his expression from where she was. Probably a good thing. She could see that his top shirt button was open and his bow-tie hung askew, as if pulled apart roughly.
He dismissed the guard with a few curt words and Skye heard the door snick shut behind her.
And then, in a lethally soft voice which was worse than if he’d shouted at her, he said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’