Page 8 of Handsome Devil

“Why would I remember?” He shot me an incredulous look. “I’m not the one who ran them over.”

I gulped down a juicy curse. “I’ve been taking a day off and flying out to London every year to mark the anniversary of their death since we started working together.”

He turned to look at me. The hard, metallic glint in his eyes made a shiver roll down my spine. His eyes were like two silver bullets, his beauty haunting and cruel like a medieval painting.

As always, I met his gaze head-on. I’d seen Tate break people before breakfast. It was the only sport he actually enjoyed. I wasn’t going to become a statistic.

“How long ago was it?” he asked.

“Seven years.”

“So you were in college.”

“No, I lost them the summer before college.” I still had a lump in my throat every time I talked about it.

“Were you close with them?”

“Very.” I swallowed hard, trying in vain to keep my voice from cracking. “They were…they were my everything. Dad was driving Elliott back from his tennis practice. Elliott was just sixteen. It had been raining like hell. They went back and forth on whether to go. In the end, Elliott’s good nature prevailed. He didn’t want to slack off.”

The sleepless nights I had spent stewing in red-hot anger at Elliott for always doing the right thing. For never taking the easy way.

Tate gave me an oblique smirk, like we were discussing something hilarious.

“Is this funny to you?” I scowled.

“Funny? No.” He yawned provocatively. “Boring? Absolutely. Be mindful of your days off, or I’ll fire you.”

He was loathsome to the extreme. Almost one-dimensionally villainous.

Yet I had to give it to him—he had this…pull.

Something otherworldly and charming, an aura that made you feel important simply for being in his radius.

He wasn’t beautiful, not in the traditional way at least.

His lips were too thin, his expression too sardonic, and his cheekbones too sharp. But he had an angular, patrician face that resembled a marbled Roman emperor in Italian museums. His dark hair was pure midnight velvet, cut into a neat style. With light gray eyes, a carefully shaved jawline, and a general aristocratic air, he was the kind of man to make women do a double take.

Under his impeccable designer clothes were broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and an unholy sculpted body.

I knew, because I had the displeasure of having him dictate entire emails to me while he did his forty-minute swim in his indoor pool every Thursday at six in the morning.

Tate found playing sports tedious and mundane. Yet he maintained his physique by having two fitness trainers at his beck and call. He worked out every morning, followed a strict paleo diet, kept three units of alcohol a week his upper threshold, and forged himself into something that was frighteningly perfect.

On the surface, at least.

“Miss Bennett,” he drawled. He called me that sometimes, because he knew how much I despised it.

“Mr. Blackthorn,” I countered blandly. If he wanted to do the period drama rubbish, I was game.

“Where the fuck is Fonseca Islands’ certificate of incorporation?”

Fonseca Islands was one of the trillion straw companies Tatum Blackthorn owned under the umbrella of GS Properties, the largest real estate corporation on planet Earth.

“On your desk,” I said through tightly pressed teeth. “Just like I texted you when I left the office.”

“AndItexted back that it wasn’t there,” he snapped. “I fear you have to go through every single file in the filing cabinet and look for it.”

“You don’t fear anything.”