Page 24 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

I'm pacing the hardwood floors of my barely furnished Upper East Side apartment, phone pressed to my ear while Iris delivers the kind of news that makes my stomach drop into my shoes.

"You've got a tail," she says without any preamble whatsoever. "Professional grade surveillance. Black sedan, two operatives rotating shifts every twelve hours."

"What?" Iris's voice spikes with disbelief. "Why would he do that? Does he suspect something?"

“I have no idea what Graham is thinking, but Stanley found me." The words taste like ash and old fears. "Tony Marcelli cornered me in an alley. He knows about the Hunt catalog, knows about Graham, knows everything we've been planning."

The silence stretches so long I check to make sure the call hasn't dropped. When Iris finally speaks, her voice is tight with barely controlled panic.

"Delilah, we need to run. Right now. Pack whatever you can carry and let's disappear before Stanley's people figure out a way around your new bodyguards."

"No."

"What do you mean, no? Stanley Marcelli doesn't make idle threats. You know what he's capable of."

"I mean no, we're not running. Not yet." Part of me wants to be furious that Graham is having me followed without my permission, but another part—a treacherous, soft part that I should probably have surgically removed—is oddly touched that he cares enough to ensure my safety.

"The Hunt starts in a week. Graham is clearly invested in this, otherwise he wouldn't have hired private security for me. "

"Listen to yourself." Iris's voice takes on that patient tone she uses when she thinks I'm being particularly stupid. "You're talking about Graham like he's your boyfriend instead of your mark. This isn't rational judgment anymore—it's whatever the hell you think you feel for this guy."

The accusation hits too close to home, making me defensive. "This is about the money, Iris. Eight billion dollars, remember? Even a fraction of that is enough to disappear forever, buy new identities, never have to run another con again."

"Is it really about the money? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're more interested in playing house with a billionaire than actually robbing him."

"That's not true?—"

"When was the last time you actually tried to access his accounts? When was the last time you planted surveillance equipment or copied files? You've been his assistant for over a week, and all you've done is catalog his coffee preferences and moon over his handwritten notes."

She's right, and we both know it. I have been distracted, more focused on the way Graham looks at me than on the reason I'm supposed to be there. More interested in the heat in his eyes than the contents of his bank accounts.

"Look," I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking, "the security detail is keeping Stanley's people at bay for now.

The Hunt is happening whether we like it or not, and Graham's clearly invested enough to protect me.

Let's just see how this plays out, and if it gets too dangerous, then yes, we can make a run for it. "

"I really don't like this, D. You're in too deep. Whatever you think you feel for him, it's going to get you killed."

"I'm not?—"

My other line rings, cutting me off mid-denial. Graham's name flashes on the screen and my pulse immediately quickens like I'm some kind of teenager with her first crush.

"I need to go," I tell Iris.

"Delilah, don't you dare hang up on me. We need to finish this conversation."

"I'll be careful. I promise."

"That's not good enough anymore. You're compromised and you know it."

I switch lines before she can continue her lecture. "You know my rate for overtime is triple time, right?"

Graham's laugh is warm and rich through the phone, sending shivers down my spine. "I was hoping I could take you to dinner tonight. You know, to celebrate your new employment and discuss your... performance review."

"Dinner?" I glance at the clock on my phone—it's just after seven PM. "Don't you have better things to do than wine and dine your employees? Board meetings to attend? Empires to run?"

"None of my other employees look like you in a pencil skirt, so no, I don't have better things to do."

Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of how he'd looked at me today. "That's highly inappropriate boss behavior, Mr. Ellsworth."

"Good thing we've already established that I'm a terrible boss. So what do you say? There's this little place in SoHo that does incredible things with duck confit. Very intimate lighting, excellent wine list."

"I don't know..." I let uncertainty color my voice, playing the role of the hesitant employee even though every cell in my body is screaming yes. "It's been a long day."

"Come on, Sophia. Live a little. When was the last time you let someone take you somewhere expensive and feed you ridiculously overpriced food?"

"Two days ago, actually. And it was accompanied by some very inappropriate under-the-table play that I'm pretty sure violated several workplace conduct policies."

"Inappropriate?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my knees weak. "Sweetheart, we haven't even scratched the surface of inappropriate yet. That was just the appetizer."

"You make a compelling argument." I bite back a smile despite myself. "Very persuasive."

"I'm extremely persuasive when I want something. And I want to take you to dinner." There's something darker underneath his casual tone. "So is that a yes?"

I close my eyes, knowing I'm about to make another terrible decision in a growing list of terrible decisions. "Yes."

"Excellent. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."

"Wait, right now?" Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. "You really don't need to come to my apartment. I could meet you at the restaurant, or we could?—"

"Nonsense. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't pick up my date properly? Besides, I'm curious to see where the mysterious Sophia Reeves lives."

The line goes dead before I can protest further, leaving me staring at my phone in horror.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I should never have answered his call. Now Graham Ellsworth—a man who notices everything, who's already suspicious about my mysterious alley encounter with Tony—is going to see Sophia's apartment in all its barely furnished, obviously fake glory.

The place looks like a hotel room, all beige walls and impersonal furniture. Nothing suggests an actual human being lives here. No family photos, no well-loved books, no personal touches.

I race to the bedroom and throw open my closet, searching for something that will be distracting enough to keep Graham's attention off the apartment's glaring inadequacies.

I settle on a black wrap dress that hugs every curve and a pair of heels that add three inches to my height and make my legs look like they go on for miles.

Quick swipe of red lipstick, a touch of mascara to make my eyes look larger and more innocent, and I'm grabbing my purse and heading for the door.

If I'm lucky, I can intercept him in the lobby and suggest we skip the apartment tour entirely. If I'm very lucky, he'll be so focused on whatever game we're playing that he won't notice the obvious signs that Sophia Reeves is as much a fiction as everything else about me.

But as I wait for the elevator, my reflection staring back at me from the polished steel doors, I can't shake the feeling that my luck might finally be running out. And worse—that I might not care as much as I should.