“I can’t take the check,” he repeats firmly. “Because the watch is worth two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”

“Fuck. Me.”

His eyes crinkle, an unholy gleam lighting them. “I thought we weren’t doing that.”

I’m going to be sick. Legitimately ill. I’m going to throw up all over Macon’s pristine desk. I swallow against the greasy feeling crawling up my throat. “Don’t joke.”

All vestiges of humor leave him. “You’re right. It’s not a joking matter.”

“Two hundred and eighty—” I wipe my damp brow. “How the hell can a watch be that expensive?”

Macon gives me a pitying look. “It’s a rose-gold Patek Philippe with a diamond-pavé face.”

I slump back in my chair. “I know Patek Philippe watches are expensive. I’ve seen enough people around LA wearing one. But I never thought the damn thing was the price of a condo.” Macon raises a brow because real estate prices here are no joke, and I wrinkle my nose. “Okay, the down payment on a condo. Good Lord . . .” I make a weak gesture. “Your mother wore it every day. Like it was a Seiko.”

He gazes out toward the sea, giving me the clean lines of his profile. “I think she liked to taunt my father with it.”

“Didn’t he buy her the watch?”

His mouth twists. “Despite the airs my father put on, my mother’s family was the one with money. The house, the cars, the watch—they were all hers. And she made him feel it.”

Oddly, it sounds like Macon approves. Then again, he never did get along with his father. Not many people did. George Saint was a beast, and I learned early on to avoid him.

“Well . . .” I drift off, unable to think of a thing to say.

“Well,” Macon repeats as if agreeing.

“Macon . . .”

“Delilah.” My name is a singsong taunt.

I bite my lip to keep from shouting.

“You really didn’t know a thing about Sam working for me, did you?” he asks quietly.

Yep, still hurts that Sam kept me in the dark. “The only time we’ve spoken of you since high school was when Sam said you were on Dark Castle. I had no clue you two had been in contact.”

Macon’s expression remains blank, but something stirs in his eyes. It looks a lot like rage. “I was surprised as hell when Sam applied to be my assistant. Didn’t really want to hire her, if I’m honest, but she said she was in desperate straits.”

“Feeling sorry for Sam is always a recipe for disaster,” I mutter.

“Yet here you are.”

A fire lights in my belly, and I lean forward with clenched fists. “I’m not here for Sam. I’m here for my mother. Daddy died last year, and we’re all she has. Personally, I could kill Sam for this. It would give me great satisfaction to punch her in the tit right now . . .”

Macon huffs a laugh. A perverse part of me wants to laugh, too, but the situation is too horrible.