Push

15. She Impressed the Client

GWEN

"So, the recruiter sent me the jilted wife. What fun."

I hesitated in the doorway. I tried to shake off the nerves, make my feet move, but all the confidence that had powered me down the corridors of Cumberland Investments vanished the moment Liam Montillet's ice-blue eyes narrowed on mine.

His blond eyebrow rose. "Well?" His face was stone. "Time is money."

He would know. He had enough clocks. Six of them lined the dark-paneled wall behind his oversized desk.

He pushed back his chair. He was rising slowly to his feet. Imposing. Intimidating. Every move calculated and deliberate. He wasn't going to rattle me. I hiked my chin and focussed on the time in Tokyo as I crossed the marble floor. I never let my gaze linger on the ghost from my past.

I shouldn't have come.

When the recruiter finally spat out Liam's name with a grimace, I should have politely thanked her for the opportunity and then run for my life. The ghost from my past should have been left locked away in a memory.

There had always been something not quite right about Liam Montillet.

The tabloids had fooled me into thinking he might have changed—that he escaped his demons, too. But the articles and pictures I'd devoured when I played catch-up on the taxi ride across town painted a very different story to the man in front of me.

Sure, there were hints of the golden boy who was fodder for the gossips. His perfectly combed blond hair, expensive suit, and crisp white shirt were on point. The drawl of a French accent was still hinted in his voice. But there was no smug smile like he flashed for the paparazzi. No clue of the charmer—or the playboy antics—splashed over the online news.

The man buttoning his jacket was expressionless. Cold. Bored even.

Just how I remembered him.

I stopped in front of Liam's desk. Foolishly, I leaned over just enough to offer my hand for him to shake. "Gwen Crawford."

He blinked down at me. He didn't say a word.

An awkward smile was frozen on my face. Liam didn't recognize me. But... why would he?

I was the nerdy twelve-year-old girl who peeked at him from behind tattered lace curtains. He was the lanky teenager who scowled and cursed in a string of French as he kicked his soccer ball against the broken brick wall that separated our apartment blocks. He'd be there for hours on end. As unwanted as me.

My mother once pushed past me, hung over, hollering—wailing—that the constant crack of Liam's ball was making her head pound. She pegged a half-empty bottle of milk at him from the window.

After the bottle torpedoed into the concrete and milk splashed over him, his gaze lifted slowly to my precious hiding spot. I'll never forget the look in his eyes. It chilled me to my bones. My mother screamed for him to fuck off home, but just like now, he didn't say one word.

Two days later, my mother's car was set on fire. It was a beater. No loss. I knew Liam did it. I wasn't angry. She deserved it. Maybe not for the milk... but... yeah. She deserved it.

I shook off old memories and tried again to get the interview on track.

"Thank you for arranging to see me on short notice." My hand was still stuck awkwardly over Liam's desk.

"Oh." His eyebrow arched again. "You want me to shake your hand?"

"It is a professional courtesy, is it not?"