Eve. Grayson felt nothing when he heard the name. He let himself feel nothing. “What do you want?” he asked Eve’s spy.
“What I want,” the dark-eyed boy replied, coming to a standstill, “is not your concern.” The obvious implication was that what Eve wanted was.
Grayson was not prone toward forgiveness—not for himself, not for her. Betrayal tasted like failure still, bitter as a poisoned root, coppery like blood. Eve had used him to get what she wanted: the full power of her great-grandfather’s fortune, his empire.
His employees, Grayson thought, assessing the spy who’d been tailing him through new eyes. Vincent Blake was dangerous. Anyone who worked for him was likely to be the same.
Raking his gaze over his adversary, Grayson saw flashes of ink on the spy’s forearms. Tattoos, obscured by his shirt. A single back tendril was visible snaking out of his collar and climbing the side of his neck.
“Do you do everything Eve tells you to?” Grayson asked. He could have made that sound like an insult or a challenge. He didn’t. The less you gave away with your tone, the more meaning you could extract from your opponent’s response.
“You don’t want to know what I’ve done.” The guy didn’t so much as blink.
“You’ll have to tell her I spotted you.” Grayson tried again, his tone just as neutral.
“You the kind of guy who likes to tell people what they have to do?” A question of that sort should have been accompanied by some sort of motion:
a cock of the head, a narrowing of the eyes, a hardening of the muscles in the jaw. But the guy in front of Grayson was statue-still: unmoving, unmovable.
I don’t have a word to say to you about the kind of man I am. “You can tell Eve that my stance hasn’t changed. She made her choice. She’s nothing to me.”
Nothing except an error in judgment and a reminder of what happened when Grayson let his guard down. What happened when he made mistakes. “If you think I’m going to tell Eve that, you’re living in a dream world, rich boy.” The spy shifted liquidly from stillness into motion, slowly circling Grayson once more, a predator playing with his prey—then he
turned.
The spy spoke as he walked away but didn’t look back. “For what it’s worth, hotshot, you weren’t the one she sent me to Phoenix to watch.”
