Page 17 of Bad Boss
“Quite,” Bellamy says tersely. He even manages to force his lips into the semblance of a smile, but there’s no real warmth in it. “I’m beginning to think that perhaps America isn’t as bloody obnoxious as I was once led to believe.”
Even the waitress who ambles past our table senses the barely concealed dig. She covers her mouth with her hand and glances away, but Adrian Riley merely laces his fingers together over his elegant place setting. In an instant, his smile falls, revealing a guarded expression that one might cautiously deem “thoughtful.” “Oh, there is plenty that America has to offer,” he insists. “This city especially. I think you’ll completely change your mind once you see what we’ve done with the club.”
“Yourclub,” Bellamy corrects as he reaches for a bundle of silverware expertly rolled within a square of black linen. He unfolds his napkin and lays out each silver utensil beside his plate, finishing with a gleaming steak knife which—by coincidence or fate—happens to point directly toward Adrian Riley. “Myclub is being managed without incident in London.”
A club in London? I do my best to hide my shock and reach for a pitcher of water resting in the center of the table. I pour myself a glass and take a hasty sip before silently offering the pitcher to anyone else. Dahlia shakes her head, but Adrian Riley raises his glass, his mouth curved into another dangerous smile.
“If I may.”
“Of course.” I pour him a moderate amount while Bellamy’s gaze bores a hole through my cheek. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think…No way.He can’t be jealous. Right?
“It’s funny you should mention the London club,” Adrian continues after a sip from his glass. “From what I’ve heard, it’s been running exceptionally smooth. Though there is one rumor I’ve found of particular interest…”
Bellamy glances up. “I didn’t know you were one to partake in gossip, Riley.”
“Of course.” Adrian chuckles, but he knows as well as everyone else at the table that the remark wasn’t a friendly bit of banter. “This information comes from a reputable source,” he says smoothly. “Depending on who you ask. This source seemed to be of the mind that you would welcome the chance to sell, what with your company’s reputation to uphold.”
“Is that so?” My entire body stiffens at the distinct, guttural murmur.
Graeme Bellamy has exactly two settings when it comes to voice volume. The normal rich baritone he typically converses in—and then thegrowl—that husky, lowered octave that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “And did this ‘source’ seem to think I’d easily sell my stake and let you take off with the lion’s share?”
He’s still smiling, but the grotesque motion of his lips doesn’t soften the harsh undertone of his words any. I’ve only seen him like this once before, when Gloria mentioned inviting the “family” over for Christmas. I’d assumed then that he just hadn’t wanted to spend time with Stella. Now, I’m not so sure. Adrian Riley seems to be dancing around someone’s identity on purpose. But who? And why?
“I have to say that I’m surprised by how dutifully you’ve accepted this responsibility, Bellamy,” Adrian says softly. The fingers of his left hand capture the gold ring on the pinky of his right, spinning it around the digit. “You wouldn’t strike the average person as the type to be the proprietor of a tawdrygentleman’sclub.”
“A what?”My mouth falls open. Water spills out. As I sputter, Bellamy snatches up my silverware and rips off the cloth napkin.
“Here,” he snaps, shoving it into my hands.
“Thank you.” I do my best to dab at my mouth while staring down at the table’s polished surface, but I can’t seem to catch my breath, no matter how many coughs I smother into the cloth.
The room is spinning. Adrian Riley’s words are buzzing through my head.Gentlemen’s… club.
“A wise businessman merely goes where the opportunity takes him,” I hear Bellamy retort, but his voice is almost a murmur now. So deadly soft. After three years, routine is enough to overcome any shock. He needs to eat something—now—for all our sakes.
Glancing up, I flag down a nearby waitress. “I’m ready to order. The steak,” I tell her, “Rare. With um…” I reach for a menu and hunt for the starchiest, most fulfilling items that can skyrocket a man’s blood sugar in minutes. “A baked potato. French bread. Fresh squeezed orange juice—”
“Flounder for her,” Bellamy cuts in. “Grilled, strawberry salad on the side.” I’m left dumbfounded as he snatches the menu from my hands and places it on his before handing both to the waitress. Fish and some version of veggies is my go-to meal whenever we wind up at a business lunch. I’d always thought he’d been too focused on the task at hand to notice. Apparently, he had.
From across the table, Adrian Riley watches the exchange with what I’m starting to believe is a permanent half-smile. “We’ll have the same,” he says without even bothering to ask Dahlia her choice, not that she seems to mind the slight. I’m starting to suspect this outing isn’t about food at all. It’s about power. Adrian Riley and Graeme Bellamy are wrestling over something—the beautiful stranger seated across from me, and I are merely spectators brought to ensure the match doesn’t get too bloody.
“My apologies for the delay, Ms. King,” Mr. Riley says smoothly. His eyes stare straight into mine, and I could almost swear he was genuine.
“It’s nothing. I… I have hypoglycemia,” I blurt while Bellamy promptly stiffens beside me. “Sorry for interrupting.”
But neither man rushes to take up the previous conversation topic in the ensuing silence. Instead, Adrian Riley mentions the Parisian art scene, and Dahlia perks up as they launch into a friendly debate about the classics.
When our food arrives, I snatch up a slice of French bread, slather it with butter and drop it onto Bellamy’s plate before he can argue. To my immense shock, he grabs it without comment and takes a bite.
The bulk of the dinner passes in relative silence as we move from the meal to sampling a bottle of the finest wine.
“I love your dress,” Dahlia gushes to me. I recognize the polite attempt at conversation, but I can’t take my eyes off the two men watching each other from over their place settings. Bellamy cuts into his steak, smearing blood across the plate. Stabbing at a thick chunk with his fork, he places it onto his tongue and devours it in a single, ravenous bite. In contrast, Adrian Riley sharpens his steak knife between the tines of his fork without cutting into his food.
Neither man breaks eye contact until the moment the check arrives.
“I’ve got it,” Bellamy declares, snatching for the check holder.
“Relax.” Adrian Riley laces his fingers together. “It’s already covered on my tab, Bellamy,” he admits. “The bill is merely a formality.”