The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(4)

Preston knew that, but it didn’t change the circumstances. Lloyd Delafield could’ve helped the Clarkes when it mattered. Instead, he’d refused and dissolved their common business interests, leaving Henry Clarke to drown alone. Preston wanted nothing to do with Lloyd or his daughter. “I’ll blame whoever I damn well please—and if you want to keep your job, you’ll take my side.”

She wasn’t intimidated in the least. “You know, you’re far too young to scowl this much.”

Young? Some days he felt a hundred years old. His business dealings took him all over, a web of connections to the most dangerous and powerful men in the city. He’d made enemies along the way, too. Everyone was fighting for the same bedrock, an equal slice of the pie, and most were willing to do anything to succeed—including him.

God knew timidity and congeniality wouldn’t help him erect the tallest building in the world, the plans for which currently sat on his desk.

The Clarke name was about to go down in history.

Had Lloyd heard of the project? Preston shook his head. That transparent bastard. It explained why Lloyd had encouraged Katherine to come here today and finalize the wedding plans. No doubt he was trying to profit from a Clarke’s hard work once again.

Well, Preston would not allow it. He’d do everything possible to avoid all Delafields at any cost.

That reminded him . . .

“Send flowers to Mrs. Russell with a card that I’d like to see her on Saturday.”

Mrs. Cohen cleared her throat. “Is this because that nice Miss Delafield brought up marriage and now you’re running scared?”

Yes. “That is none of your concern. Is Mr. Vance still waiting?”

His secretary peered over her spectacles at him, a disapproving look that never failed to make him feel small. “You should also send flowers to Miss Delafield and apologize for upsetting her.”

She was right. Why hadn’t he thought of it? “Fine, take care of it. Are we done talking about flowers and parties? May we return to the things that really matter?”

“What could possibly be more important than dealing with the women in your life?”

“There are not women in my life,” he fired back. “However, there will be one less woman in my life if she doesn’t quickly send in my next appointment.”

She sniffed and walked to the door. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because I pay you double what anyone else would.”

“Yet it’s still not close to what I’m worth.”

True. He made certain to overpay Mrs. Cohen to make up for the years when his father hadn’t been able to afford her salary. Loyalty prompted her to stay through the worst of it, and Preston intended to reward her for that, daily. He didn’t trust many people, but he did trust her. “But where else would you have this much fun?”

“I couldn’t say. A funeral?”

Though meant in jest, it reminded him of an all-too-real funeral a few weeks ago. One of Preston’s closest friends had descended into a spiral of alcohol abuse and self-loathing, moving from one flophouse to the next, until Forrest had finally stumbled in front of an oncoming train.

The guilt and grief must’ve shown on his face, because Mrs. Cohen quickly said, “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me, considering.”

“It’s fine.” He busied himself by straightening the papers on his desk. “Let’s get this meeting with Vance over with, shall we?”

“It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have said it. You’re still in mourning for your friend.”

He resisted the urge to pull at his collar. “Must we discuss this?”

“No, but I think you’d be a little less surly if you did.”

He rose and went to the corner safe. Spinning the dials, he quickly opened the heavy metal door and surveyed the stacks of cash inside. Three thousand should be enough to bribe Vance, who was currently on Brooklyn’s planning commission. Reaching in, Preston took what he needed and locked the safe. “I prefer to be surly, because then people leave me alone and I can get more work accomplished.”

Mrs. Cohen threw up her hands and heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’ll send him in.”

She was almost to the door when it flew open and bounced on the hinges. What on earth . . . ?

Katherine Delafield rushed in. Wisps of brown hair framed her face and her eyes were wild and angry. This was a woman on a mission, an avenging queen. Ready to slay kingdoms—or him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as she stalked toward him, right past Mrs. Cohen.

“It took me until I reached the street to realize the truth.” Katherine let out a harsh laugh that held no mirth. “There is nothing wrong with me. You, Preston Clarke, are the one who has something wrong with him. You are a . . . a heartless clod.”

Before he could respond, she tossed her journal onto his desk, where it landed with a thump. “You may keep that. One day, you’ll regret letting me go but it’ll be too late. I wouldn’t marry you now if you begged me on bended knee in front of the whole dashed city. You ruined your one chance at having the perfect life. Enjoy your”—she waved her hand to indicate his office—“work. I hope it makes you very happy.”

His jaw fell open while his mind tripped over her words. A heavy weight settled between his shoulder blades. “Katherine, wait,” he called, not quite certain what he was about to say.