Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 44860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
The first thing he noticed was her limp, and only because of how intently he was watching her every move. Why was she limping at her age? Was it temporary or permanent? Was it caused by an accident? Had someone harmed her? Or had she done this to herself, being governed by the same youthful impulses that had inevitably caused Russell's demise?
He watched the way she moved, with her left leg landing with a fraction less certainty than her right. Not a limp exactly. More like an ongoing negotiation between her body and the ground, as if she'd recently had to relearn the terms of their agreement. It reminded him of something he couldn't place, and then it came to him: the way his brother walked after a bad crash at Silverstone. Not injured enough to stop. Just injured enough that stopping was no longer something the body took for granted.
He also noticed how her left hand trailed the wall as she walked. Not leaning on it. Just touching, the way a person touched things when they'd learned not to trust their own balance completely.
Everyone else on his floor was staring at her...even while doing their best to hide it. Confusion and curiosity on every face, and all of them smart enough not to reveal anything negative toward any person being accompanied by the man on whom their livelihoods depended.
His "wife", however, didn't even seem to notice any of this, with her attention drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows. It offered the most panoramic views of the city in two directions, and she'd stopped walking at the sight of them with the unself-conscious arrest of someone who had forgotten, momentarily, that other people were watching. Toronto spread itself out below in the particular way it spread on clear mornings, all glass catching the sky, the lake a gray-green ribbon at the edge of everything, and she was looking at it with the expression of someone receiving a gift they hadn't expected.
It occurred to Olivio, with an unfamiliar prick of something he didn't bother to name, that he hadn't looked at that view in years, and when he glanced at his employees, he could see that many of them were realizing the same thing about themselves.
Olivio was about to signal for someone to escort her to the conference room when one of the new hires arrived from the direction of the elevator bank with a speed that was genuinely surprising for someone who spent most of his working hours looking mildly apologetic.
"Can I—-I mean—-is there anything I can help with, sir?"
Olivio looked at him, but Johnny was too busy looking at Chelsea, and Olivio found himself struggling to contain an intense blaze of irritation.
It was professional concern, he told himself. Proprietary interest. The natural response of a man who'd just discovered he had a wife to the sight of his twenty-four-year-old assistant staring at her with an expression that had absolutely no business being on an employee's face during work hours.
It had nothing to do with the elevator.
"Please take my wife to the conference room."
Johnny could feel the color draining from his face. Wife? Chelsea was married to his boss?
Olivio's irritation only grew as he noted the way Chelsea started at hearing him address her as his wife. The color that rushed to her face was immediate and total, a blush that climbed from her throat to her hairline with the speed of something that had been waiting for permission.
Why come here if she didn't want anyone to know they were married?
"Of course, sir. R-Right this way, Mrs. Cannizzaro."
Olivio's mood turned completely black as he watched the younger man act like some lovesick fool valiantly hiding his heartbreak as he escorted Chelsea to the conference room.
The hell with them.
He turned away from it, from Johnny, from the sight of Chelsea following his assistant down the hall with that careful walk of hers and one hand still holding the quilted case against herself like a small colorful armor.
Edgar fell into step beside him toward his office.
"She's always had that effect on others." Edgar's voice was even, the voice of a man who had chosen his terrain and was crossing it regardless. "But she's never aware of it."
"How...commendable."
The cynicism in Olivio's tone was unmistakable, but Edgar didn't mind. Girls like Chelsea always did seem too good to be true, and it was why such reactions were to be expected.
"You don't have to believe me now. You'll see it for yourself."
Olivio didn't answer, and this, too, was to be expected. Whereas his older brother Aivan was once infamous for possessing an explosive temper, Olivio was the type that simmered, the depths of his rage dangerously unpredictable.
And so Edgar waited until they were inside Olivio's office before speaking again.
"I'm sorry, son. I have no excuse. I chose to deceive you, and I took advantage of your trust."