The Man Who Has No Sight - Victoria Quinn Page 0,95
he acted like nothing had just happened.
What a jackass.
He’d overheard that conversation and knew it was me, but he didn’t acknowledge it at all.
The doors opened, and he stepped into the elevator. He hit the button then continued to go through his mail.
I quickly darted across the lobby and dashed into the elevator before the mail lady could figure out what was happening. I made it just in time, sliding through the closing doors before they registered my body and opened again.
Derek Hamilton didn’t acknowledge me.
The elevator started to move, and I noticed he’d hit the top floor, floor seventy.
I stared at him.
The guy was oblivious.
“Uh, hi?”
He stared at one envelope in particular for a long time, slowly turning toward me while barely pulling his gaze away from the words on the page. Then he finally severed the connection to the envelope and met my look. The hostility didn’t have to return because it was constantly in his expression.
He was not at all what I’d pictured. I’d never imagined someone so young could write something so remarkable. And I’d never imagined he would be so goddamn handsome either. How could someone who wrote such an amazing story be devoid of all emotion? How could someone who wrote about perseverance and determination be so cold? Did he have a ghostwriter or something?
“I don’t appreciate the way you’re ignoring me, Mr. Hamilton.”
His eyes were open and expressionless. Seconds passed and he didn’t say a word, like he preferred silence to the spoken word. “I don’t appreciate you showing up at my home and breaching my privacy.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you took my calls and responded to my emails. Mr. Hamilton, you signed a contract with us. If you continue to be difficult, we can withdraw your advance and freeze your royalties.”
“I didn’t take an advance.”
He didn’t?
“If you were good at your job, you would have known that.”
Wow…
He turned back to his envelope, like this conversation was over.
“We can freeze your royalties.”
“I don’t care.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “How do you plan on paying your bills with no income, Mr. Hamilton?”
The doors opened, and he stepped into the hallway.
I followed him. “Mr. Hamilton?”
He moved to his front door and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Look at where I live. You think I need your royalties?” He got the door unlocked and stepped inside.
I should just leave and tell my boss everything that had happened, that our client was being completely unresponsive and we’d have to take legal action against him since he’d failed to provide us what he promised and he wouldn’t even provide an update. But if I did that, this book may never get written…and it would be a disappointment to all his readers. When I was offered the job at Astra Books, the only reason I’d left my publisher was because Derek Hamilton would be my client—and his stories meant the world to me.
I took a pause to calm my emotions, to turn into the pragmatic person I needed to be to deal with this very difficult man. “Mr. Hamilton?”
The door shut in my face.
“Breathe…just breathe.” I knocked on the door. “Eye on the prize.”
No answer.
I knocked again. “Mr. Hamilton? Please talk to me.”
The door opened again, and he looked down at me with an even more potent dose of hostility.
“Look…” I held both hands up, trying to defuse the situation instead of escalating it. “I’m sorry that I caught you off guard, but your novels are the best there is, and I want these stories to be published so everyone can enjoy them. If you haven’t written it, that’s okay. But please keep me up to date on your progress. That’s all I need.”
With the same expression, he stared me down, one hand on the door. He had a masculine sharpness to his face, a cut jawline, hard eyes, full lips surrounded by the shadow of stubble that moved over his chin and slightly down his neck.
Authors were usually a little odd because they were creative in solitude, so they didn’t exactly play well with others. They also didn’t like being told what to do, having their work criticized in the editing process. I’d had an author bring my revisions to the office, light them on fire, and then throw them at me. But this man…was by far the most difficult one of all. “How about this? In a few days, you give me a call or send me an email about where you stand with the story, and we’ll go from there.”
His stare was still empty.
Did he need to make every conversation so painful?
“Alright.”
I hid my reaction, but inside, I felt like I’d just won the lottery. “That’s great—”
He shut the door.
My hands moved to my hips, and I released the breath I was holding as I turned down the hallway and headed back to the elevator. “Wow.”