Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Fortunately, it’s Leila. She’s more or less up to date with what’s happening, other than the fresh trauma I’ve just endured at the doctor’s office. Glancing at the driver who is purposely keeping his gaze glued on the road ahead, I put my phone to my ear.
“So you’re actually doing it?” she squeals.
Shutting my eyes, I let out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “You know I would gladly do it for you if I could.”
“Yeah, I know. Hopefully, there’s some clause in there that’ll let me escape sooner,” I mutter.
“Send it to me so David can look it over,” she suggests.
“Can’t do that,” I shake my head. “I’ve signed an NDA. The only person I can reveal anything to would be if I hired a lawyer to represent me.”
“Wow! Talk about fast. So, how was the doctor’s office? You’re already on birth control, right?”
“I’m supposed to be,” I say, turning to stare out of the window.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was just taking it as a habit, not as a precaution. I haven’t dated anyone in two years, as you know.”
“I know, but I thought you were—”
“You thought I was what?” I interrupt.
“I thought maybe once in a while when the cravings got too much during the lonely nights you’d go out and indulge in some anonymous encounters, you know?”
My voice is dry. “The only cravings I get at night are for warm waffles with rum and raisin ice cream, chopped hazelnuts, and sliced bananas, drowning in salted caramel sauce.”
She laughs. “Anyway, what did the doctor say?”
“I’m in the all-clear category, but I could’ve told her that. It’s hard to be riddled with STDs when you don’t have sex.
“Do you think he’s going to try to have sex with you tonight?” she whispers urgently.
“That must be the plan since he insisted I come to his house tonight rather than tomorrow like any normal person would.”
“You know, at first, I didn’t see the problem with this scenario. I even thought it was exciting, but now that I know just how desperate he is for you, I’m getting a little scared. The only good news is he is a public figure so he’s likely not an axe murderer. But,” she pauses dramatically, “get ready to collect as much evidence as you can. Everything that might protect you in the future—recordings, photos, anything.”
I listen to her words of warning, but no fear creeps in. I feel it in every cell in my body that he will not hurt me. I perfectly understand what he is feeling. I feel the same thing for him. I’m furious with the way he has manipulated me, but I want him. God, how I want him. No man has ever made me feel this way before.
“Look. I should go. Speak to you in the morning, okay?”
“Please be careful, babes,” she says.
“I will,” I say and put my phone away.
I know this area. We’re going to the southern end of Central Park in Manhattan and heading towards Billionaire’s Row. I can list off the top of my head almost every listing available here, but given how small our agency is, I’ve never had the chance to be involved with such a property.
We stop in front of 220 Central Park South. A man steps forward smartly and opens the car door for me. I step out and look up at the tall skyscraper. So this is where he lives. For a quick second, I feel excited to be here, curious to see what it looks like inside.
“Miss Fitzpatrick,” the man says formally. “Let me help you with your bags.”
“No thank you. I can manage,” I say stiffly.
“Very well. Please follow me.”
We go through the plush foyer and ride the elevator in silence. He opens a pair of wooden double doors and I step into Ivan Ivanovich’s lair. I drop my rucksack on the floor and look around me in awe. Wow! What a magnificent space, with tall ceilings, glass walls, and a grand curving black marble staircase that leads up to more floors. But mostly my eyes are drawn to the many softly-lit beautiful paintings hanging on the walls. I don’t know what I expected, but it was not this worship of beauty and impeccable cleanliness. The entire space is spotless. Not so much as a smudge or speck of dust anywhere, and every hard surface gleams and shines with polish.
A woman dressed in black approaches us. Her eyes are pale, watchful and naturally wary, but I detect kindness in them too. I know immediately that this is the woman responsible for the immaculate state of the apartment. She nods at the man next to me. “Thank you and goodnight, Steven.” The man leaves and she turns to me.
“Good evening, Miss Fitzpatrick. I am Muriel Levine, Mr. Ivanovich’s housekeeper. Welcome. I hope you have a wonderful stay with us.”