Eight

RICHARD

THE NEXT MORNING, WE BOTH acted as if nothing was different. Miss Elliott brought in my coffee and bagel, carefully placing them on my desk. She went over my schedule, confirming two meetings I had outside the office.

“I won’t be back this afternoon.”

She looked puzzled, checking her notebook. “You don’t have anything in your schedule.”

“I made the appointment myself. Personal business. I’ll go straight to my two o’clock afterward. In fact, I won’t be back this afternoon. Take the time off.”

“Pardon me?”

I sighed. “Miss Elliott, can you not understand English? Take the afternoon off.”

“But . . .”

I pinned her with a glare. “Take the afternoon off.” I lowered my voice. “My place at seven, okay?”

“Okay,” she breathed out.

“If you need anything—business related—text me. Otherwise, it needs to wait.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

It was common knowledge Anderson Inc. monitored emails. Not one to take chances, I had my own cellphone, to which only a select few had the number. I knew