"What are… you saying, Bentley?" Gianna sputtered, leaning forward in her seat, her posture tense, her eyes still wide with a volatile mix of disbelief, shock, and burning curiosity.
Her brows knit together as if her mind were struggling to keep pace with the implications of his words. "When did you have this talk with my grandfather? And why didn't you say something to me?"
Bentley inhaled and exhaled just as tiredly, rubbing his hands fitfully over his very washed and faded black denims as though trying to wipe off sweat that had begun to gather from both heat and nerves.
"He didn't want you to know…" he said, voice uneven.
He swallowed hard when Zane—even the fellow whom he didn't know personally—glared at him with a cold, cutting intensity that made Bentley's throat tighten.
"I respected the client's wishes… you have to understand, Mr. Whitman…"
