When Max turned toward the voice, he already knew who it belonged to. Recognition was instant. That arrogant tone, sharp, grating, the kind of voice that oozed entitlement, he could have picked it out from a crowd of thousands. And sure enough, standing right there at the reception desk, dressed in his flashy suit and smug expression, was the same man who had nearly run him over moments ago.
The same man who had sped recklessly into the zebra crossing, brakes screeching at the last possible second.
This damned idiot, Max thought, his jaw tightening as heat crept up the back of his neck. He's not only alive and well, but he actually works here? And now he's strolling into reception, barking orders, like he owns the place. Did he really come down here just because he couldn't be bothered to take his own car to a garage?
