Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears Read Free Book Online Page B

gulp down the rest of my martini use a lull in the conversation and my now-empty glass to apologetically remove myself from between the Etonian polo fans. 
    The thought of Rosamund Granger still on the loose makes me nervous, and the gin in the martini starts to churn my stomach. I need water. And possibly a whole chicken to eat.
    "Ah! Magda's friend!" 
    The words stop me halfway to the bar. I turn to see John Abbey in a pristine navy suit that shows off the lines of his body. His skin is tanned, which makes him stand out among the rest of the people here. He approaches me with a smile lighting his face.
    "I've forgotten your name," he says, extending his hand. 
    "Gwen Maule," I tell him, returning his smile to the best of my ability. "Are you here for the happy hour?"
    "Gwen," he says. He shakes my hand firmly, nodding to himself. "I won't forget again. And no, I was just getting a drink before a business meeting."
    My mind is too scattered to think of smalltalk, and I'm saved the trouble of bringing up the weather — drizzly, which is never worth remarking on in Edinburgh — when he motions to the bar.
    "May I buy you a drink?"
    Nonplussed, I nod and follow him, not sure what he wants. He replaces my martini, and I ask for a water as well, sipping that first and settling onto a bar stool next to Abbey.
    "You're in accountancy, is that correct?"
    "Aye." I nod in Francis's direction. "I work for that gentleman there."
    "Brilliant. Have you been with him long?"
    "A few months," I say. The last thing I want is to discuss my former employer, as bringing up Hammerton in any kind of polite conversation these days is akin to dropping a piano on someone's head because you saw a bee land on their hair. My department knows where I worked before, and most of the employees at Inquisitiv, where I now work, look at me half like a refugee who left a country just before it got shredded by civil war and half like they're not sure what to make of me at all. It doesn't bother me, because they all listen to what I say and do their jobs, but I don't feel the need to explain myself to John Abbey. 
    Ross's face intrudes into my mind, and again I see his bedraggled curls and the downturn of his mouth.
    Tell him I didn't do it.
    I drink half my martini in one gulp. "I was very happy to hear that your company is financing Magda's fashion line," I say, hoping he'll allow the subject change.
    John Abbey brightens, and he gives me a vigorous nod. "We were ecstatic to work out a deal with her. Her designs are top notch, and we expect they'll do very well. This will be a good proving ground for her."
    "Proving ground?" I remember his tone about Edinburgh before, which is admittedly not a fashion capital like Paris, but the memory still irks me. Scotland's not just a paddling pool on the way to the Olympics. Not to me.
    "I expect that if her designs sell well here, they will garner her attention in New York and Paris. She's ambitious enough and has enough talent that I think our partnership could allow her to feasibly relocate somewhere she could really shine."
    I turn away so Abbey can't see the unhappy frown I feel forming on my face. Much as I want Magda to be the next Coco Chanel, I don't want her to move to New York or Paris. Or even London. 
    I'm saved the trouble of formulating a diplomatic response when Abbey looks at his Rolex. "Ah. If you'll excuse me, Gwen. It was lovely to see you again." He nods to the door, where a blond young man in an suit just as pristine as Abbey's has just entered the lounge, looking around. "Punctuality. I appreciate that."
    "Cheers for the drink, John," I say. He gets up, leaving me to ruminate on the possibility of Magda's nascent fashion empire.
     
    Another hour passes in dull conversation with acquaintances before I feel excusing myself won't expose me to censure. I'm two steps outside the lounge, fiddling with my umbrella, when I see it. Another shrike stencilled onto the wall of a shop closed for