Page 31 of Empire State Enemies

Kayla gives a low laugh. “It was pretty hot. Connor Quinn definitely knows how to make a lady sing.”

My stomach flips. Did they have sex? Hard to tell from the audio snippet. Maybe they were just . . . playing a very convincing game of Twister.

“Good for Willow,” I reply sarcastically, feigning interest in random papers on my desk.

Connor

If there was ever a time to duck out and join a monastery, now’s clearly it. Every eyeball is glued to me as I stride for the elevators to the executive floor. Because of course they fucking are.

The reception area’s big-screen is broadcasting some news segment about Willow and me. “Did Willow and billionaire hotel magnate Connor Quinn get up to no good at the gala?” some bubbly blond anchor speculates.

I lean in toward the receptionist. “How about we find something worth watching on that screen?” I suggest, barely concealing my irritation.

“Absolutely, Mr. Quinn!” he blurts, his hands shaking as he scrambles for the remote.

The chatter dies instantly, replaced by a tense silence that’s been the theme of the day. Everyone’s acting like they’d rather jump out a window than make eye contact with me. Try to start a casual conversation, and it’s like I’m suggesting they walk across burning coals—pure panic.

Except for the girls in marketing who have been ogling me like I wandered through stark-ass nude just for them. At this rate, I should start charging for the show, considering how many flushed faces I’ve seen today.

Does a single damn employee have actual revenue-generating work, or has today’s main event just become watching me react to the latest tabloid fodder?

As I lock eyes with one of the accountants, her eyes widen like she’s seen the Candyman, not her boss. And there goes her giant Smartwater, spilling across the desk. Maybe HR needs to vet for steadier hands during interviews.

I raise an eyebrow at her, and she dives for cover behind her screen.

What a damn mess this morning’s turned into. I’ve had Killian in my ear for a solid hour ranting about “recklessness” and “reputation hemorrhaging.”

Sure, the leaked audio mess is on me. The idiot behind it has been ID’d, and by the end of the day, they’re going to deeply regret ever crossing me.

Stepping out onto the executive floor, I spot one of my security guys loitering near my office. “Jim,” I acknowledge with a nod.

He shifts from foot to foot, uneasy. “Boss, about the car thief situation.”

“You got her?”

“Not quite . . .” He trails off awkwardly.

I stop in my tracks, arms crossed. “‘Not quite’ is an impotent way of saying you’ve got jack shit so far. Unless you discovered a severed limb with my car key fob clutched in its cold dead fingers?”

He looks even more sheepish. “She paid her bar tab in cash, so we can’t get a lead on a credit card. Our bartender that night mentioned she seemed pretty on edge at the bar. Kept looking around nervously. Facial recognition didn’t pull up any criminal history. We’re running on the assumption she took the keys, but the only real lead is the timing.”

I grunt, my irritation growing. “So, she’s a ghost? Vanished into thin air?”

He continues. “CCTV lost her at the street corner. No sign of her meeting anyone else. We’ll keep at it, boss, I’m confident we’ll find her.”

I exhale slowly, trying to keep my cool. Just where the hell are you hiding with my car, you scheming little enigma?

Before I can blow a fuse, my assistant hurries over, looking like she’s walking on eggshells. “Sir, I apologize for the intrusion, but Senator Madison insists on seeing you downtown in half an hour.”

The fury returns in full force. “He did what now?”

She looks like she’s bracing for impact, gripping her MacBook like a shield. “He was rather blunt about it. Made it sound like you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Just what I need.

Lexi

“What’s with her?” Kayla asks, jerking her chin at Vicky’s office.