Page 98 of Van Cort

Unless… he wasn’t all buttoned up at the trip to the beach, was he?

CHAPTER THIRTY - THREE

EVERETT

Frustrated with fucking everything, I stare at the clock on the wall in my office as the minute hand ticks closer to eight-thirty.

Twenty-seven goes past, and twenty-eight, and I can feel the full-on rage of years previous to this starting to infiltrate sense.

It doesn’t matter that I know where she’s been for the last few days in that damned office three floors down, or that she appears to be excellent in her financial abilities if the work I’ve already seen is to be believed. I’m still pissed.

Majorly.

And I told her eight-thirty. The email was clear. As far as I’m concerned, whilst she’s working for me, what I say goes. Tie that in with the fact that she fucking dismissed me to spend time with someone she wouldn’t disclose, and my errant emotions have become involved. They’re causing a rampant mess of conflicting thoughts and opinions to collide. It’s concerning. And invigorating.

“Your eight-thirty is here,” springs into the air from my intercom. I swing my gaze to the door, pissed that it isn’t Devon talking and unsure how to answer, anyway. At least she’s back tomorrow.

Still, I take a deep breath.

Calm. Measured. Unemotional.

“Send her in.”

The door opens immediately, and she walks in in a sleek, green suit that seems so far away from the River I now know. Hair up – I take my time looking down her body until I reach her high heels.

She smiles tightly and places a briefcase on the floor before taking a seat opposite me.

“Hello, Mr Van Cort.” My brow arches at the formality. “I assume it is Mr Van Cort today, or Sir? Which would you prefer? It’s certainly not Everett, is it? The tone of your email suggested professional, and God knows we wouldn’t want to offend you by not complying.” I don’t reply. Antagonising me in this mood isn’t the wisest. Mixed emotions and me combine about as well as alcohol and me. Badly. “Nothing to say to that? Fine. What am I here for then?”

I open my desk drawer and sling a bound folder on the surface in front of her, barely able to hold my temper in check. “This is one of my companies. Analyse the financials.”

She reaches for the folder, seeming surprised at the request. “One of your companies?”

“Yes.”

“Do any other companies align with, or interfere with, or transact with this one?” I want to smile at the inference she doesn’t know she’s making. I don’t.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Just one other.”

She opens the folder and starts scanning, flipping pages. “Can I have that information?”

“Not yet. No. Who were you with?” Her hand stops on a page, but she keeps her head in the financials.

“Someone.”

“Male or female?” That brings her head up to me.

“It shouldn’t matter.”

“It does.”

She closes the folder and places her hands on it. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like not knowing.”