His Demand (Dirtier Duet Book 1)(4)

By: Lisa Renee Jones


I rush forward and through the doors. “Abigail!” I call out, but she’s already in the car. “Abigail!” I shout again, my legs eating away at the space between us and I reach the car, right as the doors shut.

I punch the call button and another car opens almost immediately. I’m inside and the doors are about to close when one of the partners catches them and enters.

“Gabe,” Carl, a fifty-something attorney with a top-notch record greets me. “I need to talk to you about a deal I’m negotiating for the Michael Devers financial firm.”

“Why?” I ask, willing the damn doors to shut even as they shut. “You suddenly need hand-holding when you usually break any hand that comes your direction?”

“I need money to invest.”

The car is moving, thank God. I arch a brow at Carl. “Money to invest. Sounds like a talk that needs to happen when I have whiskey in my hand. Expensive whiskey.”

“How about the restaurant bar next door at seven tonight?”

“That works,” I say, and thank God again, the elevator doors open and I don’t say another word. I leave him in the car, exiting to the building lobby to scan for Abigail, to no avail.

I start walking, crossing the space between me and the main doors to exit the building, looking left and right, only to curse, my hands settling on my hips under my jacket. Once again, I’ve lost the redheaded siren of a woman that haunted my dreams last night.

But she was here, in my building, in my law firm. I’m going to find her. I head for my office again, aware that her presence in my office could represent a conflict of interest and I really don’t give a damn. That woman will be mine. There is no other option.





CHAPTER THREE


Gabe

It’s only minutes after I’ve lost Abigail again in my own damn building that I walk into the lobby of our offices and stop at the receptionist’s desk. “Who was Abigail here to see?”

Brooke, who is young and thankfully brunette, not redheaded, blinks up at me. “Abigail?”

“The redhead.”

A light goes off in her eyes. “Oh. Yes. The woman who walked in and wanted to see Reid? I told her he was on his honeymoon and honestly, she looked devastated. I think she was one of his exes or something like that.”

I take this in like a full-blown punch to the gut by a three-hundred-pound man. One of Reid’s exes. My mind goes back to her Ken Doll comment and all the times Reid and I have been called Twinkies. We look alike and yet I didn’t sense recognition in her, I didn’t sense a history with my brother in her. Not at all. “Did she leave a number?”

“Nothing. She just turned and left.”

I nod and walk away, heading toward my office, and when Connie and Lulu try to flag me down, I wave them off. I keep walking and enter my office where I shut the door, walk to my desk, and have my phone out of my pocket by the time I’m standing at the window, overlooking New York City. I punch in Reid’s number and he answers on the first ring. “Let me guess. This thing with dad is going to fuck up my honeymoon.”

“What?” I ask, my mind on Abigail. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you doing crack in Paris?”

“The only thing I’m doing in Paris is my wife. I was talking about dad’s mistress, asshole. The one suing us.”

I scrub my jaw. Right. The mistress and yep, I’m being an ass and I can’t seem to help it. The idea of Abigail being his dirty seconds hits ten wrong notes. “A redhead named Abigail. Who is she?”

“Is she dad’s mistress?”

“No. Fuck no, Reid. She came here to see you. Who the hell is she?”

“What the fuck is up your ass?”

I run my hand through my hair. “Did you fuck a woman named Abigail with red hair?”

“No. Never.” He’s silent a moment. “What is this really about? Come on, man. Talk to me. I know that isn’t something you like to do—”

“I need to know who she is and no, it’s not professional, at least I don’t think it is. She walked in here, asked for you, and left when she found out you were on your honeymoon. She seemed upset.”

“She’s not anyone I know, so if you want to fuck her, feel free. Hell, even if I had fucked her, you could fuck her. I’m married, and happily at that, but I get it. I wouldn’t want your seconds either. Is that what this is? You want her? Because I’m not used to you wanting any woman enough to get this damn prickly.”

“Neither am I,” I admit.

“Ah,” he says. “And you don’t like it.”