Stuck-Up Suit - Vi Keeland Page 0,40
time his driver would be picking me up to take me to the condo. It was unlike him to be running so late without calling me. My paranoid side got the best of me as I picked up the phone and dialed him.
He answered. “Soraya…” The tone of his voice sounded sullen.
What the fuck?
“I’ve been waiting for your call. Is everything alright?”
He let out a deep breath into the phone. “No. I’m afraid it’s not.”
My heart started to palpitate. “What’s going on?”
“I just got some news a little while ago.”
“News?”
“It’s Liam.”
“Your ex-friend? Genevieve’s husband. What about him?”
There was a long moment of silence. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER 13
SORAYA
THE ANXIOUS FEELING I HAD after speaking to Graham last night had carried over into my sleep. I tossed and turned all night, unable to settle. By morning, I was downright antsy. Graham had said he was going into the office to work on some business last night—he had planned to take over Liam’s company through smart business maneuvers but had no intention of taking advantage of the man’s death to get what he wanted. Although that wouldn’t stop others. The vultures, he said, would be scavenging first thing this morning when news broke. Graham was going to somehow freeze out others from taking advantage and postpone his own planned takeover.
I was disappointed he wasn’t on our usual train, although I hadn’t really expected him to be.
Soraya: How are you this morning?
Graham: Tired. I’m still at the office.
Soraya: You mean you stayed there all night?
Graham: I did.
Soraya: I’m sorry. This must be difficult for you. Is there something I can do?
Graham: Just hang in there for me, please. I’m going to be swamped for a few days.
If I was unclear on just how affected Graham was by the news, his response solidified he was not himself. He hadn’t suggested I should crawl under his desk or spread my legs when I asked him if there was anything I could do.
Soraya: Of course.
Arriving at my stop, I exited the train and began my usual morning routine of stopping at Anil’s coffee truck. After I placed my order, a thought hit me.
“Can you make that two coffees and also two buttered bagels and two orange juices?” It wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it would make me feel better to do something for him. The man had followed me and sent Indian food because he thought I liked it; a bagel and coffee was the least I could do.
Heading back to the station, I called Ida and left a message I would be late and then hopped on the A train. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at Morgan Financial Holdings. Stepping out of the elevator on the twentieth floor, the gold lettering above the glass doors suddenly made me nervous. I had started to become accustomed to the butterflies that I got around Graham, but being on his turf—in the arena where I knew he ruled with an iron fist—had me feeling intimidated. And I hated that.
I squared my shoulders and walked to the receptionist. It was the same young redhead from the day I brought back his phone.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to see Graham.”
She looked me up and down. “Graham? You mean Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes. Graham J. Morgan.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Not this shit again.
“No. But he’ll want to see me. If you can just let him know Soraya is here.”
“Mr. Morgan doesn’t want to be interrupted.”
“Look. I know you have a job. And judging from our interactions, you’re probably even good at it. You seem to do a great job of blowing people off. But, trust me on this one, you won’t get in trouble for interrupting him to tell him I’m here.”
“I’m sorry…he was very specific…”
Oh for God’s sake. “I’m fucking him, okay? Just tell Graham I’m here, or I’m going to walk past you anyway.”
The woman blinked twice. “Excuse me?”
I leaned in. “Fucking him. You know, you insert…”
“Soraya?” Graham’s voice stopped me from continuing my anatomy lesson. He was coming down the hall toward me, taking long strides. I turned and waited, rather than walking to meet him. Damn. He was wearing those glasses again.
“What a nice surprise.”
“Your receptionist didn’t seem to think so.”
Graham quirked an eyebrow, his lip hinting at amusement, then turned to his employee with his business mask on. “Ms. Venedetta doesn’t need an appointment.” He looked to me and back to his receptionist. “Ever.”
He took my elbow and steered me down the hall he had just come from. The woman