Sabine Porter moved through the world as though hesitation cost money.
This woman was hesitating.
“What happened?”
He asked.
Her expression tightened.
“That’s personal.”
“Okay.”
Donovan nodded.
He stepped back.
Sabine looked almost relieved.
Then he said:
“But you’re sleeping in the company parking lot in November.”
“So personal has become partially my problem.”
A tiny reaction crossed her face.
Not amusement exactly.
Close.
She lowered the window another inch.
“My divorce became final eleven days ago.”
Donovan knew vaguely that she had been divorcing Graham Vail.
Most Arden employees did.
Not because Sabine discussed it.
Because Graham belonged to the same world of boards, investment funds, and business publications where personal trouble became market speculation.
“The house is under temporary occupancy order.”
Sabine continued.
“Graham has possession until the remaining property issues are resolved.”
“I had an apartment.”
“It fell through this afternoon.”
“What does that mean?”
“The landlord withdrew.”
“Why?”
“They cited a contractual issue.”
“You believe them?”
“No.”
She looked away.
“My personal accounts were also restricted yesterday.”
Donovan frowned.
“Restricted by who?”
“Temporary financial holds related to the asset dispute.”
“My attorneys expect most of them to be released.”
“When?”
“A week.”
“Maybe two.”
Donovan stared.
“You’re the CEO of Arden Group.”
“I remain familiar with my job title.”
“You’re telling me you can run a company worth hundreds of millions of dollars but you can’t get a hotel room.”
“I can get a hotel room.”
“Then why are you here?”
That question finally cracked the polished surface.
Sabine looked toward the windshield.
“My legal team believes Graham has been monitoring my movements.”
“Private investigators?”
“Possibly.”
“He already knew about the apartment before I moved in.”
“He referenced the building during mediation even though I had never disclosed the address through counsel.”
Donovan’s expression changed.
Sabine continued.
“A hotel reservation made conventionally creates a record.”
“I could use corporate resources.”
“I refuse to involve the company in a personal dispute.”
“And I’m tired.”
The last sentence barely sounded like her.
No executive tone.
Just a woman.
Tired.
Donovan looked toward the rear staircase leading to the apartment above the workshop.
Then toward the workroom behind the finishing bay.
It had once been a foreman’s office.
Now it contained a pullout couch, a sink, a small bathroom, and boxes of reclaimed hardware Donovan stored for private commissions.
Separate entrance.
Interior deadbolt.
Twenty-five feet from the stairs to his apartment.
He made the decision before he liked it.
“There’s a workroom.”
Sabine turned.
“Excuse me?”
“Back of the shop.”
“Separate entrance.”
“Lock.”
“Couch.”
“It’s ugly.”
“But it’s inside.”
She stared at him.
“Mr. Reese.”
“I’m not inviting you into my daughter’s bedroom.”
“I’m offering you a locked room in a woodworking shop.”
“You can leave before breakfast if you want.”
Sabine looked at him for a long time.
“What would you charge?”
“Nothing.”
“I would prefer to pay.”
“I would prefer to sleep.”
That almost produced a smile.
Almost.
He picked up his tool bag.
“Your choice.”
He walked away.
Sabine remained in the car another minute.
Then the driver’s door opened.
She retrieved the suitcase.