Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Two Page 7
That thought in her head, she turned onto her street and noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked next to Alexander’s. The equally mammoth SUV idled in her driveway, the back windows tinted, the slight tremor of the vehicle suggesting that it was running. She parked and got out of her car, curious and laughing at the idea that she’d never had so many visitors, even immediately after Ethan’s birth. She looked into the strange car and noted that a middle-aged man dressed in a suit sat in the driver’s seat fiddling with his cell phone. A glance at the front door confirmed that it was partly open and now, curiosity morphing into rising alarm, Quinn sped to the door.
“Leave now!”
Alexander’s words floated to her ears, and the tone of his voice, both low and commanding, mixed with a higher, more pleading tone that she hadn’t heard before, spiked her worry as she rushed through the door.
Her gaze darted about the space in her attempt to take in everything all at once. At the sight of Ethan settled on his play mat and happily kicking away, seemingly oblivious to his father’s tone, relief flooded her. The assurance that he was okay also freed her to more closely examine the three strangers that stood in her home with Alexander, who stood near the front door, hand suspended in midair as if he were reaching for the knob.
An elegant-looking man and woman who could only be Alexander’s parents held court in the living room. The woman was slim, with gray-brown hair and of average height, but with a regal bearing that bespoke an expectation of obedience and a life of comfort, something to which Quinn guessed the woman was more than accustomed. The man, tall and broad and hearty-looking, had Alexander’s dark hair and eyes, and his posture and general air suggested he was a man used to being in control, though his stance now betrayed an extreme degree of frustration.
A slight movement dragged her attention to the final visitor, and after a quick first glance, Quinn couldn’t help but look again. The woman was absolutely stunning. Thirtyish, tall, nearly six feet, she had thick blond hair, the rich sheen confirming that the color was natural, and her blue eyes were an arresting shade that demanded attention. She had perfectly sculpted features, and a perusal of her body revealed the enticing shape that Quinn had expected to match the rest of her.
The woman’s blue gaze found Quinn, and she narrowed her eyes. Never had Quinn felt more like prey than she did at that very moment, and somehow, though she couldn’t place why, the coldness in that woman’s gaze left no doubt that Quinn’s world was yet again shifting. She just prayed that whatever storm this woman would undoubtedly bring wouldn’t be as bad as having Ethan had been good.
Still, Quinn would not be intimated in her own house, even if she did look like she was hired help in her T-shirt and yoga pants.
Finding her voice and hoping it stayed firm, she turned to Alexander. “We have visitors?”
“Quinn, I—”
“Yes,” the older woman spoke, her rich, honeyed accent something Quinn would have been charmed by under different circumstances. “We are Alexander’s parents. And you are?”
Quinn didn’t answer, first because she wasn’t sure what to say, but more importantly, these people were in her home, and she’d be damned if she’d be cowed by them.
The mystery lady filled the silence.
“Oh, Alexander, is this your…?” She trailed off as if seeking to conjure words, or as if she couldn’t bear to say them. “You are the alleged…what is that delightful American term?” Her eyes brightened with a sheen of remembrance and unmasked malice. “Baby mama?”
The words were beyond cruel, dismissive in a way that made her, made Ethan, less than nothing and were only made more so by the woman’s clear, melodic voice and lovely accent. Alexander touched her shoulder, but she refused to look at him.
He started, “You all need to leave now—”
“And you are?” Quinn asked, cutting off Alexander, her voice light but her unwillingness to countenance the insult clear.
The woman walked across the room, her arm extended as she stopped in front of Quinn.
“I am Magda Montague. Alexander’s wife.”
Thank You!
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the continuation of Quinn and Alexander’s journey. Look for the final chapter of their story, Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three (September 2014).
•If you’d like to know when my next book is available, sign up for my new release e-mail list by clicking here.
•Reviews help other readers find books. I welcome and appreciate all reviews, whether positive, negative, or indifferent.
•Please read on for an excerpt of Beneath the Boss: Omnibus, available now.
Beneath the Boss: Excerpt
The insistent beep of her phone pulled her out of her reverie. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. 1:46 a.m. She knew who it’d be.
“I could have been sleeping,” Layla Grayson said by way of greeting.
“But you weren’t, were you?” her employer Leighton Means responded.
“Good morning, Leighton. Have you been arrested? Do you need me to rush you to the hospital? I can’t imagine why else you’d be calling at this hour.” Layla knew her gentle barbs were of no consequence. Leighton called whenever he pleased and had never, ever, given her subtle, or not so subtle, hints about boundaries and propriety even a passing concern.
Leighton’s voice dropped an octave from its already deep timbre. “Pity your imagination is so limited. We have a ten o’clock with Smythe. I need your report by eight.”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
Layla lay flat on her back staring at the slow-rotating ceiling fan. It was late spring, and she appreciated the cool breeze during the balmy Dallas night. She’d been wired up, too amped to sleep, but still hoping for a few moments’ rest. Now that he’d called, she knew those hopes were futile.
Layla sighed and climbed out of bed. Another all-nighter wouldn’t hurt.
After she pulled on a pair of cotton lounge pants, she headed downstairs to her home office. As her computer booted up, she thought about Leighton.
Leighton Means. Billionaire corporate-finance maven. He’d taken over his father’s fledging financial-services company fresh out business school, and in twelve years, using a combination of grit, intelligence, and sheer ruthlessness, had managed to turn it into one of the most profitable firms in the country. Leighton was notorious for his business prowess, and his reputation with ladies wasn’t far behind. When he wasn’t crushing the competition, Leighton cavorted with supermodels and socialites from Dallas’s finest families.
Layla was one of the few who got to see the man behind the headlines, and the reality of Leighton every bit of his reputation and more. His business acumen was unparalleled, but combined with his charm and looks, he was unstoppable. A fact that she, officially senior financial analyst for Means Financial, and unofficially Leighton’s girl Friday, was too keenly aware of. She couldn’t really trace it, but somehow, over the past five or so years, Leighton had pulled her closer and deeper, and before she’d known what was happening, she’d found herself at his beck and call, almost fully subsumed in his universe. What else could explain why she was sitting at her computer at two in the morning?
True, there were perks. Leighton compensated her generously, her salary affording her, for the first time in her life, a degree of financial independence that wouldn’t likely have been attainable otherwise. Sure, she still drove a Civic—she loved that car—but she had a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood, didn’t want for anything, really.
But lately, she’d felt restless, dissatisfied. Lonely. She had a good group of friends that she didn’t see nearly enough, and she didn’t even want to think about the sorry state of her love life. She tried to chalk it up to any number of things. She was a big girl, much larger than acceptable to most, and she had a weakness for sarcasm that, especially coming from an African American woman of her physical stature, some people found off-putting. She was no nagging shrew, but she certainl
y didn’t hold her tongue. She’d mostly accepted her size and personality, telling herself that if a man couldn’t handle her outside of bed, he’d probably disappoint in, so why waste the time.
These were all excuses.
Her current solitary state was solely attributable to one thing. Leighton. As he’d sucker her deeper and deeper into his world, she’d started to neglect her own, and only recently had she realized that while Leighton went out and did whatever—and whoever—billionaire’s did in their spare time, she was alone. And while she occasionally hoped it was worth it, that he, on some level, valued her, that little voice inside her head always reinforced what she already knew: She was totally dispensable to Leighton, only as useful as the work she did. And yet, she stayed, ever faithful.
Pathetic really. There was no denying that, but in truth, despite the stress and agitation, how insignificant she was to him, Layla knew she owed Leighton everything. And if she had to sacrifice sleep, friends, hell, even love and sex to repay him, well, that was what she’d do.
Do you want to read the rest? Beneath the Boss: Omnibus is available now.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are invented by the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Two
Copyright © 2014 by Lydia Rowan. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Thank You!
Beneath the Boss: Excerpt
Copyright