‘If you’re so sure, why do you need the proof?’
‘Because without proof I can’t get my hands on what I need.’
‘Which is...?’
‘None of your goddamn business.’
He quiets when he sees our drinks approaching and the waiter slipping me a questionable stare.
So I don’t fit into your la-di-da club? So sue me.
I happily stare the waiter down, and to my amusement he almost spills the drinks as he sets them down before scurrying off.
‘I don’t pay you to ask questions,’ Philip Lauren pipes up again. ‘I pay you to get evidence of her sexual proclivities.’
‘And I’m telling you there’s nothing to report. She’s above reproach.’
He laughs and leans back in his chair, whisky in hand. ‘You’re lying. What I can’t work out is why...’
I shift in my seat and take up my own drink for a swig. ‘What makes you so certain?’
He eyes the glass in his hand, all thoughtful. ‘She and my wife boarded together in their teens.’
‘They were friends?’
I want to know more; I can’t help it. I’m not one for digging into my clients’ reasoning. They give me a job and I deliver. But this case is different. I need to know.
‘To an extent.’
He lifts his eyes back to mine and they flash with an angry fire that tells me he isn’t letting this go—that, whatever his reasoning is, he will keep pushing until he has exactly what he needs. It wouldn’t be hard for another PI to retrace my steps. I followed her movements and discovered her visits to Blacks pretty quickly. A few enquiries in the right places and he’d soon have what he needed.
‘But that was years ago. Maybe she’s changed, maybe she’s saving herself for marriage or destined to become a nun—who knows?’
He laughs again. ‘You’re funny, Livingston. I’ll give you that.’
I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to put him off—to bring an end to this mission he’s so determined to see through. I don’t want to care. I don’t want to protect her. But I can’t stand by while her brother desecrates her reputation for his own gain.
‘There’s no way she could have changed,’ he says, sobering, and his voice is so serious I wonder if he’s trying to convince himself of that fact—if his need for her to be as he suspects far outweighs whether he considers it true or not. ‘She’s just being very careful about it.’
‘Doesn’t matter how careful she’s being. If she was at it—’ I hate the words as they form, feel acid riding high in my throat. There’s guilt at my lie, at my part in her potential downfall, as well as anger at his conviction. ‘I would know. I’d have the evidence.’
‘Or maybe you’re not as good as everyone says—yourself included.’
He gives me a shit-eating grin and I want to swing for him. He’s fucking lucky we’re in public. I take a breath instead, flexing the fist that is so determined to ball up, and ask the other question that’s itching to be answered.
‘Tell me, why is it you want to ruin your sister’s reputation so much? I mean, I have a brother—I get how annoying siblings can be—but this...’
‘Again, it’s none of your business.’
‘There’s clearly no love lost between you...not on your part at least.’ I see the flash of something—possibly guilt—and jump on it. ‘So, tell me, does she really deserve this?’
He downs his whisky in one. His eyes water at the hit of booze and lines mar his face, ageing his perfect veneer.
‘I don’t have to sit here and listen to you question my reasoning, Livingston. I’m paying you to get me evidence, and if you can’t do that, then I’ll find someone else who can.’
My neck prickles. So much for hoping he would let it go.
But why is it your problem what he does after you’re gone? Just walk away and forget you ever met him. Met her.