Page 18 of Love Marks
Bing, bing, bing, you’re a loser!
I blink a few times and try to nod.
“Right. Yes.”
I kneel back down and start picking up the pathetic clump of wet paper towels. I feel like that clump of wet paper towels. At the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall, I lift my head as he strides down the hall.
“Miss Taylor, was it?”
I lift my head and he’s stopped mid-stride, his sharp jaw turned towards me. Seriously? He doesn’t even remember my name? I told it to him like, five seconds ago.
“Yes. Quinn. You can call me Quinn, I mean. If you want.”
God, why am I turning into a bumbling idiot? It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak.
“Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, Quinn?”
What kind of question is that? It’s so cryptic. I’m starting to feel slightly dizzy. Maybe it’s the bleach.
He knows! He knows it’s you.
I search his eyes for any recognition or hint that he knows who I am. No way. It’s a big city but a small world. It must just be some twisted coincidence. After all, if he recognized me, wouldn’t he have said something?
“No, sir.”
He gives a sharp nod at my response and turns, continuing down the hall, but before he disappears into his office, I swear I catch of glimpse of his hand at his side, curled into a fist.
Chapter 9
Wesley
When I saw her name on the list of new hires, I thought I must be imagining things.
Well, my first thought was that it must be another Quinn Taylor. After all, there’s millions of people in this city. But then I saw the middle initial column with an H and somehow, I knew it had to be her.
My next thought was to have her fired. I don’t need a money-hungry, disloyal employee sniffing around my hotel for the next big story, and I definitely don’t need any distractions while I’m focused on the Park Avenue project and easing into the merger.
What is she getting at, trying to get hired at one of my hotels after what she did? What's her plan?
That’s when I realize I’ve been handed the golden opportunity. A gift, even. I asked the universe for some good luck, and this is what I got. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to get her out of my head, but she’s stuck there. Her betrayal still stings every time I think of it — the dull sort of throbbing pain that I don’t dare press into.
Without thinking, I call down to Sharon at the Concierge desk and ask her to shuffle some things around. If she finds my request strange in any way, she doesn’t say anything. She simply agrees to make the necessary changes and inform Marguerite.
I tell myself I need to keep a close eye on her, figure out what her angle is here. Another darker part of me wants some retribution for what she’s done, payback for what she did to my family. And then there’s the part that simply wants to see her again.
Still, nothing prepared me for the sight of her standing — no, slipping — in my kitchen in a maid’s uniform. God, did they have to put her in that tiny outfit? A better man than me would have ignored the way it clung to her skin in all the right places, the soft curve of her ass in that miniskirt. On top of that, she pretended she didn’t even know me. She’d introduced herself to me like we were perfect strangers.
“You must be…?”
Was I supposed to fall for that act? I even gave her a chance to redeem herself, to come clean and tell me the truth, and she chose to remain silent. She chose to lie.
“No, sir.”
She’s infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. Those round, doe eyes and plump lips are still haunting me. All part of her little act, no doubt. Still, I hadn’t anticipated her being a distraction around here when I had her moved to the penthouse. How the hell am I supposed to get any work done this week while she’s prancing around in that outfit?
I flex my hand out of the fist it seems permanently curled into. Groaning, there’s a knock at my door, and there’s only one person it can be.
“Sir. Um. Mr. Marks?” Her soft voice calls out from behind the door.