Chapter 39
Suzan kept glancing anxiously at the door, only half-listening to Mr. Horace’s rambling conversation.
Where the hell was Effie, that little witch? The tea she’d carefully prepared for her had already gone cold.
Worse yet, Suzan was finding it harder and harder to fend off Mr. Horace. The moment their other colleague had stepped out, he’d dropped any pretense of professionalism. Now he was shameless, pawing at her hand and trying to pull her into his lap.
Suzan recoiled inside. Mr. Horace was the very picture of a sleazy middle-aged man-hair thinning, belly straining against his shirt, his whole demeanor oozing nouveau riche vulgarity. He made her skin crawl.
She was starting to regret ever agreeing to come out with him. Damn it, now she was stuck in this private lounge with him, just the two of them. He looked at her like a wolf eyeing its next meal.
Suzan forced herself to stay outwardly composed, swallowing her disgust. She angled her body away from him, deftly dodging his wandering hand, and managed a strained, professional smile.
“Mr. Horace, maybe we should take a look at the contract? If you have any questions, I’d be happy to walk you through it.”
He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance at her deflection. His smile froze for a second before melting back into his usual oily grin.
“Oh, Suzan, don’t worry about the contract. Designer Bagnold’s already explained everything—just keep me company, and I’ll sign whatever you want.”
Suzan’s blood boiled at his shamelessness, but she gritted her teeth and kept her cool. He was an important client; if she offended him, Mitchell would never let her hear the end of it.
This was all Effie’s fault-useless woman!
“Mr. Horace, you really know how to joke. Here, have some tea. By the way, where did Designer Bagnold wander off to? Let me go find her.” Seizing the excuse, Suzan quickly slipped out of the room.
Mr. Horace scowled and made to follow her, but someone stepped in and blocked his path.
“Mr. Horace, it’s been a while.” The newcomer was neatly dressed, glasses perched on his nose, exuding a quiet authority that was hard to ignore.
Mr. Horace’s eyes widened in surprise. “Luther? What a surprise! Come in, have some tea!”
He immediately forgot about chasing Suzan, suddenly all smiles and eager hospitality. This was Luther, Mr. Etheridge’s right-hand man—a notoriously hard person to get a meeting with. Now that he’d shown up, Mr. Horace was determined to make the most of it.
Luther entered the room, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Horace, I’ve come on business. Mr. Etheridge’s wife just discussed a contract with you I wanted to check if you’ve signed it yet.”
Luther himself had only just learned that Mr. Etheridge was married, and the news had startled him. It was clear Mr. Etheridge cared deeply for his wife; otherwise, why send Luther personally over something so minor?
Mr. Horace nearly jumped out of his seat. “Wait-Mr. Etheridge is married?”
“I’d appreciate your discretion,” Luther replied smoothly. “And if you’ve already signed the contract, I’ll take it back to Mr. Etheridge myself.”
Mr. Horace’s heart pounded. Good God-so that woman he’d been negotiating with was Mrs. Etheridge? If he’d known, he’d have signed the contract on the spot and handed it over with both hands. There was no way he’d have let things drag on enough for Luther to come in person.
He’d really put his foot in it this time.
Wasting not a second more, Mr. Horace scribbled his signature on the contract and handed it to Luther with both hands, his demeanor suddenly deferential.
Luther glanced over the document, then nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Horace.”
“Not at all! I’m sure I’ll be needing your help in the future,” Mr. Horace replied, eager to curry favor.