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And so fucking ridiculous I refuse to examine it.

Myrna catches something in my expression anyway.

“Oh, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“I've worked for you for years. I've watched some of the most beautiful women in the world throw themselves at you without earning a second glance.” Her eyes flick toward Layla. “And she's the one who gets your attention?”

There it is.

Jealousy.

I've known about Myrna's feelings for years and ignored them because they never interfered with her work. I've never encouraged her, never crossed a line, and never given her reason to believe our relationship would be anything but professional.

Apparently, a reminder is overdue.

“Who I look at is none of your concern.”

Color creeps into her cheeks.

“Of course, sir.”

“And don't you ever speak about her that way again.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

Fuck.

That came out faster—and harsher—than intended.

Worse, I mean it.

Why the hell I'm defending a woman I don't know is a question I'd rather not answer.

Especially when that woman may be digging through Granddad's past looking for something ugly enough to turn into a headline.

For all I know, Layla Hawthorne is the enemy.

So why am I already feeling protective of her?

Fucking inconvenient.

I gesture toward Myrna's phone.

“Do the background check. Find out everything you can about her. Career history. Previous investigations. Interviews. Stories she's broken. Who she's been talking to recently. Most importantly, I want to know what interest she has in my grandfather.”

Myrna's mouth tightens.

“How soon will you have it?”

“I’ll get everyone on it. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Do it in fifteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ignore the sarcasm and look across the ballroom again.