The Man Who Has No Soul (Soulless Book 1)

by Victoria Quinn

  The Man Who Has No Soul

  Soulless #1

  Victoria Quinn

  Hartwick Publishing

  The Man Who Has No Soul

  Copyright © 2020 by Victoria Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Cleo

  2. Cleo

  3. Cleo

  4. Cleo

  5. Deacon

  6. Deacon

  7. Deacon

  8. Deacon

  9. Cleo

  10. Deacon

  11. Cleo

  12. Deacon

  13. Cleo

  14. Cleo

  15. Deacon

  16. Cleo

  17. Deacon

  18. Cleo

  19. Deacon

  20. Cleo

  21. Deacon

  22. Cleo

  23. Deacon

  Also by Victoria Quinn

  One

  Cleo

  First day of spring in Manhattan.

  The cold was still harsh, still icy on the lungs, especially first thing in the morning when I walked several blocks from my apartment to the Trinity Building in Tribeca, the skyscraper that belonged to the rich, famous, and the important.

  Basically, not me.

  When I was at the corner, I opened my bag and changed my shoes, taking off the flats I wore and putting on my heels. I was in a black pencil skirt and a blue ruffled top I’d tucked into the waistband, along with a long coat.

  Once I had the shoes switched, I greeted the doorman and walked inside, my heels hitting the plush rug at the entrance to the building. The mail cubbies were to the left, empty because we delivered everyone’s mail the second it arrived, along with their packages. I moved past the double elevators that led to the residences and made my way to the back of the building.

  Where my office was located.

  I was the first one there—because I was always the first one.

  The office had a gray rug, white desks and cabinets, fresh vases of flowers, along with several rooms to store things for clients and a workstation in case anyone needed to print or fax anything.

  I tried not to check emails at home. Otherwise, I’d be working every waking hour of my life, so I opened it now.

  Jesus, how did a hundred people email from nine p.m. last night until now?

  There was one email in particular that caught my attention.

  Sender: Jeremiah Winston

  Subject: OPEN THIS GODDAMN EMAIL!!!

  When I scrolled down, I realized he’d sent me emails all throughout the night. My eyes glanced to the phone on my desk, seeing the red blinking light on the surface. I bet I had a couple messages from this guy.

  I opened the email.

  Trinity Concierge,

  This is Jeremiah Winston, PA to a very important client. Call me at your earliest convenience.

  I had to roll my eyes because they were all important clients. They were actors, actresses, billionaires, everything. There was nothing I hadn’t seen. But if a new client was moving in to the building, I needed to prepare. I didn’t have the liberty to choose the clients I represented, because they automatically qualified for my services once they paid twenty million for one of the residences. I found his number at the bottom of the email and called.

  “Hello?” he said loudly into the phone, not the least bit professional.

  “Hello, this is Cleo,” I said in my friendly tone, ignoring the way he behaved like a bull in a china shop. “I’m the director of Trinity Concierge—”

  “Oh, thank god,” he said with a sigh. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear your voice. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all night.”

  “Well…people sleep at night.”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “My client is moving to Manhattan in a week. Escrow just closed a few days ago.”

  I logged in to my computer and accessed the list of deeds to the properties. “Which address is it?”

  “Uh…” He shuffled in the background until he found what he was looking for. “32C.”

  That was over halfway to the top, with a beautiful view of the park. The client who had lived there before was a retired musician who’d passed away unexpectedly a few months ago. There was a long waiting list for the building, so this client must have had a connection to that piece of real estate. “Who’s the client?”

  “Well, we’ve got to do all the NDAs first—”

  “Jeremiah, you represent one billionaire. I represent two hundred. I’ll sign your NDAs after you fax them over, but let’s get the ball rolling. Now, who’s the client?” I grabbed my notepad and started to scribble.

  He didn’t challenge me. “Deacon Hamilton.”

  No idea who that was.

  Jeremiah held a pause, as if he expected me to gasp or something.

  “Just another rich person to me, Jeremiah. Alright, when does he intend to move in?”

  “A week from today.”

  “You mean, he’ll arrive and stay elsewhere?” The place was empty.

  “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “That’s why I wanted to get a hold of you. He wants the place furnished and ready to go the second his plane touches down. He’s already spoken to the decorator. She’ll be at the building any minute.”

  “The unit is 6,000 square feet—”

  “He’s very eager to leave Los Angeles…nasty divorce.”

  “I’m sure he can stay at the Four Seasons—”

  “He wants privacy. Can you do this or not?”

  Jesus, I hadn’t even had my morning coffee yet, and I had to make a miracle happen. But I never said no to a client—ever. That was why I still had this job. The only person above me was the owner of the building, and we hardly ever communicated—because no one ever complained about me. I’d been getting an annual raise every year because of it. “Yes.”

  “Alright.”

  “Is he keeping his place there?”

  “No. He sold it.”

  “Oh…sorry, Jeremiah.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “He gave me a great recommendation, and I’ve got a new job lined up. I’ll still be working for him remotely, but I’m sure he’ll get a new assistant at some point.”

  It would probably be my job to find them. “Oh, that’s great.”

  “And, Cleo, I won’t say anything bad about my client, but I want you to have a heads-up…”

  I could handle anything. “Lay it on me.”

  “He’s a bit rough around the edges. Short-tempered. Rude. Hostile. But he’s just going through a hard time. His marriage and divorce really fucked him up. He used to be a pretty cool guy…a long time ago.”

  I didn’t know the guy, but I already felt bad for him. The world had chewed him up and spat him back out. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Good luck, Cleo.”

  “Thanks, Jeremiah.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I looked up from my desk when a woman approached me, someone I didn’t recognize as one of the tenants. She was in her late forties, so thin she looked like she ran a marathon every day. Her skin was leathery and tanned, so she probably was a runner. “Decorator is here. Got to go.” I hung up and got to my feet to shake her hand. “Hello, I’m Cleo. I just got off the phone with Jeremiah.”

  “Diane.” She dropped her hand quickly, clearly anxious to get to work right away because she was aware of the deadline. “I don’t have much time to
pull this off, so let’s get to it. Show me the space.”

  Two

  Cleo

  There were twenty men working all day, carrying heavy pieces of furniture into the apartment and setting them up in every single room. Diane was there too, supplying the accent pieces and placing them on the mantel, the coffee table, and everywhere else.

  It wasn’t my job to do this, but I worked in the kitchen and put all the dishes away, stacked them in the cupboards, checked to make sure the appliances were working properly. My phone rang in my pocket.

  It was Jeremiah.

  I put my earbuds in my ears and took the call. “Hey, Jeremiah.”

  “He’s halfway there. So, you’ve got about three hours before his plane touches down.”

  I looked across the room and watched the men adjust the cream-colored couches on his dark rug, a man behind them hanging up a moody picture of a dark ocean wave. “Wow…that’s cutting it close.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Uh…it’s fucking pandemonium right now, so I really don’t know.”

  “Well, this is probably a bad time to mention it, but he’s going to want the kitchen stocked.”

  I groaned. “Yeah, that would have been helpful a few hours ago…”

  “He just called me from the plane.”

  “Does he know what he wants?”

  “He’s pretty vague.”

  Those were the worst kinds of clients. “You’re gonna have to help me out, Jeremiah. What does he like to eat? What are his habits?”

  “He’s a fit guy, so he probably doesn’t eat frozen pizza.”

  “How fit are we talking?”

  “You know, six percent body fat kind of thing.”

  “Okay. Is he a vegan? Vegetarian?”

  “No. I know that.”

  “Alright. I’ll make a list and hope for the best.”

  “Great. I’ll let you know when he’s in the car and on the way to you.”

  “Okay.”

  I hung up then called Matt, who was downstairs in the office.

  “What do you need?” he asked the second he answered.

  “Groceries. Like, right now.”

  “Alright, I can do that.” He turned his mouth away from the receiver. “Anna, we need a run to the supermarket.”

  “I can do it in twenty minutes,” she said in the background.

  He came back to me. “Text me a list.”

  “Alright, thanks.”

  “Is this for 32C?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Already sounds like a diva.”

  “A bit. And his PA told me he’s a dick.”

  “Greeeaaaat.”

  “I gotta go.” I hung up and got back to work. “Diane, he’ll be here in three hours.”

  “Oh Jesus,” she said. “It is going to be a miracle if we pull this off…”

  I stood in the entryway, in a new outfit because my other got soiled getting his residence ready. It was a cold evening, the sun gone and the chilly breeze making everyone hug their coats tighter.

  I was in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, my phone in my grasp because Jeremiah would let me know once he was about to pull up. Our doorman was ready, in a black suit, and Matt was there too, prepared to grab his luggage and transport it.

  My heart was beating fast.

  Matt glanced at me, in slacks and a collared shirt. “Nervous?”

  “I’m always nervous the first time I meet a client.” I was in my late twenties, so most people didn’t take me seriously when we first met. I always had to win them over, and that took a long time. Matt was a few years older than me, always ready to clear the air with a sarcastic remark.

  My phone vibrated.

  I pulled the screen close and saw his text. He’s here. I lowered my hands and held them together at my waist. “Here we go.”

  A black Escalade pulled up to the curb outside, the red taillights glaring against the windows.

  Instead of rushing him, I waited inside, let him get out of the car and tip his crew before approaching the doors.

  The back door opened and he stepped out, rising to his full height of over six feet. He was in black jeans and a black hoodie, his charcoal-colored t-shirt slightly visible at the neckline. He had short dark hair that was still styled despite his long flight across the country, and he wore a shadow along his jawline. His eyes were the color of black coffee, and they were hostile like a steaming espresso. He was lean, with narrow hips, a flat stomach, and muscular arms that stretched the sleeves of his sweater with distinctive definition. Biceps, triceps, it was all there. His black jeans were tight on his legs, showing his well-built thighs and tight ass.

  He was not what I was expecting.

  He had to be thirty…maybe a little older.

  I didn’t usually Google my clients because I really didn’t care what they looked like, what their net worth was, how they made their living. The media never accurately portrayed them anyway, and I preferred to treat them as regular people.

  Because they shit like the rest of us.

  The driver unloaded his suitcases from the back. There were a couple big ones, so Matt went outside to assist.

  Deacon grabbed his satchel from the back seat and hoisted it over his shoulder, looking at his phone at the same time, typing a quick message before he stepped to the double glass doors, as if he knew someone would open it for him without having to check.

  Bill opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Hamilton.”

  All he did was give a nod, didn’t make eye contact. Then he walked inside, carrying himself with a good posture, his shoulders straight, his back in a single line, his feet not dragging. I was right in his way, so he looked at me, those hostile eyes not changing their expression.

  “Welcome, Mr. Hamilton.” I extended my hand. “I hope you had a safe flight.”

  He looked at me, but he didn’t seem happy to see me, interested in anything I had to say. He placed his hand in mine and gave me a firm shake, like I was an associate in the boardroom. Then he continued to walk. He didn’t say a word to me.

  I moved beside him. “May I take your bag?”

  He walked to the elevator, adjusting the strap of his bag like I might try to take it from him. “No.”

  I hit the button on the elevator and waited for it to arrive.

  He pulled out his phone again, scrolling through his emails like I wasn’t there.

  I didn’t find him rude, necessarily, because we weren’t friends. I was the help, a servant, and he’d just had a long flight. Now he was in a new city, and all he wanted to do was take a shower and have a drink.

  But the tension was rough.

  Why was the elevator taking so long?

  When he grew tired of waiting, he glanced at the button to make sure I’d hit it correctly, and then he released a quiet sigh. He was exactly what Jeremiah described, rough around the edges, hostile, bitter. It was obvious in the coldness of his eyes, the way he held himself, the way he wouldn’t even look at me right now.

  “I think you’re going to love your new place. Diane did a wonderful job.”

  When he was done with his phone, he slipped it back into his pocket.

  And said nothing.

  The doors finally opened.

  Oh, thank the lord.

  I extended my hand. “After you, Mr. Hamilton.”

  He stepped inside, taking a position away from me, as if I smelled or something.

  I stood on the other side and hit 32.

  The elevator hummed as we rose to his floor.

  Both hands were in his pockets, and he stared at the floor, occasionally rubbing the back of his neck like he was sore. He leaned against the wall, as if he wanted nothing to do with me.

  I thought I was pretty attractive, so I was surprised he was so repulsed.

  That woman really did a number on him, didn’t she?

  The elevator slowed down and the doors opened.

  I extended my hand again. �
��After you.”

  He moved out and stood in the fork of the hallway, unsure where his own place was located.

  I moved to the right. “You have such a beautiful view of the park. And in the evening, the lights of Manhattan are gorgeous.” I fished his keys out of my pocket and approached his residence, which had double doors like all the others. I got the key inside, unlocked it, and opened the door for him.

  He stepped inside, scanned the room, indifferent to the glorious view of the city that was practically at his feet. He didn’t care about the custom couches that Diane had expedited from Turkey, the rug from Marrakech, the painting on the wall that fit his mood perfectly. He didn’t care about anything.

  He set his satchel on the couch and eyed the vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table.

  That seemed to be the only thing he cared about.

  I pulled off his set of keys and placed them next to the vase. “These are for you—”

  “I don’t want flowers.” He left the keys and turned away. “I’m a man—not a woman.”

  “They give a nice touch. And I’m sure your guests will appreciate them—”

  “I want the women to leave—not stay.” He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window that comprised the back wall of the living room, his hands moving to his narrow hips as he took in the view. I caught a slight glimpse of his reflection in the pristine glass.

  I could see his expression, see the hardness in his jaw, the death in his eyes. He was a hollow shell, a dead person technically alive but without a soul. It was hard to look at. “I’m sorry about your divorce…” I usually didn’t mention personal matters to my clients, unless we had a good relationship and they were open with me, but the words slipped out because he seemed all alone in the world right now.