Page 24 of Wicked Fortune

Clearly, I’m not entirely sane.

I continue on until I’ve reached the end of the hall and stand facing the floor to ceiling door with M. Holt, CEO stenciled on it in crisp gold letters. And, no, I’m not intimidated at all.

I bite back a self-deprecating chuckle. I excel at lying, which is probably not something to brag about, though it’s true.

What’s also true is that I excel at lying to myself. And right now, I’m not sure if I was entirely honest with myself when I decided that taking this job was a good idea.

Yes, I want answers for Jenny. Because she deserves them, and because I want them. For me. For her. For her family and friends. But maybe swan-diving into the lion’s den wasn’t the most brilliant plan ever.

I’m about to turn around, find the ladies room, then call Bree and lay into her for not putting an end to this particular manifestation of my insanity, but of course that’s when the door opens. A burly guy in a poorly tailored suit with hair the color of sweet potatoes steps out, pausing for a second to look me up and down. He smiles, almost shyly, then says “good luck,” before continuing down the hallway.

Whoa. Another applicant? I’ve already signed the damn contract. So what the actual fuck?

“Ms. Parker?”

I jump a little, then realize that while Opie disappeared down the hall, the door had stayed open. Now the space is occupied by a curvy, elegant blonde in a sexy-but-conservative shift-style dress that reveals shapely legs that seem to go on forever.

Not intimidated. Not one little bit.

She extends her hand. “I’m Lila Blackstone. We spoke on the phone.”

“Right.” I take her hand to shake, noting that her skin is as smooth as her voice. “The scheduling call.” I glance behind me, then back at her. “How was my competition?”

She only smiles and laughs politely. I seethe as she ushers me into the reception area, which is all smooth lines and perfect polish. The efficient yet stylish reception desk. The leather sofa and matching chairs for guests. The coffee table neatly displaying today’s Hollywood Reporter and various fan magazines.

The room holds one surprise, too. Unlike the hallway, which had boasted Hardline-related art, this room is all about classic abstract art. I recognize a Rothko and a Kandinsky right away. Whoever Holt’s decorator and art consultant are, they made good choices.

“Stunning pieces, aren’t they?”

“They really are.” I offer a smile, hoping to lighten her up. “I approve of Mr. Holt’s decorator.”

I think I hear a hint of disdain as she says, “Mr. Holt is more than capable of choosing his own furniture and artwork. In fact, those two are both signed and numbered serigraphs from his personal collection.”

“Oh.” I feel duly chastised. Considering Holt’s ego, I would have expected framed memorabilia—photos of him accepting a Best Picture Oscar. Stills from his movies. Articles blaring out the box office gross. Photos of him standing arm-in-arm with the industry’s hottest stars.

But there’s none of that in this room.

Strangely, the disconnect between my expectations and his reality makes the butterflies start up in my belly. And then all the confidence I’d gathered during the trek from my car to this office grabs onto those butterfly wings and flies far, far away, leaving me alone with the nerves I’d tricked myself into ignoring.

Fuck.

I’m about to tell Lila I need a moment in the ladies’ room when I realize she’s reached the grand double-doors on the far side of the room. She turns the nob, pushes the floor-to-ceiling door open, and steps inside.

Then she looks over her shoulder at me, her expression making very clear that I should be at her side. Her lips purse as she holds the door open and says, “Ms. Parker is here.”

Flustered—and annoyed that she didn’t give me even a moment to get my bearings, I hurry across the room, then step into Holt’s private sanctuary just as he’s rising from behind his huge desk, his finger tapping the earpiece of a headset.

He’s dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the sticker price of my car, and he looks as perfect and polished as any movie star heartthrob. The truth is, just looking at him takes my breath away, and when my mind un-jumbles and I remember what I have on underneath my own suit, my mouth goes dry … and my southern hemisphere has the exact opposite reaction.

“Ariadne Parker,” he says, with a nod and a gesture to the seating area on the far side of the room. “Please have a seat. Would you care for coffee?”

“I’m fine. And I mostly go by Ari.” My mom’s a huge fan of spiders, which is how I ended up saddled with Ariadne. It’s different, even kind of cool. But I think spiders are creepy as fuck. So after years of explaining my name, I registered for college as Ari. And that’s the name that’s stuck.

“Ari, then.” He looks to Lila. “Thank you. That will be all.”

She smiles, her gaze sliding over me once more before she slips out of the office and closes the door behind her. There’s absolutely nothing odd about her expression, but I feel a chill nonetheless.

“I apologize,” Matthew says, indicating an earpiece. “But I need to address this immediately.”