Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
If he says so. I’d rather kick his good shin every time he calls me “Tot.”
Don’t kick the guy holding your sister’s freedom in his hands, Dee.
“Look, Sam was a total shit for what she did. And I know I can’t replace a sentimental heirloom.”
His brow lifts as if to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but he stays silent.
“All I can do is attempt to cover the loss.” My hand shakes as I fumble with the catch on my purse. “I have a check for fifty thousand dollars that I’m—”
“Hold up.” He lifts a hand to forestall me. “I can’t take that check.”
“But you can,” I insist. “I know it isn’t the same thing, but I can try to make amends by reimbursing you.”
His lips twitch with clear irritation. “Delilah.”
God, it’s almost worse when he says my real name. At least with “Tot” my immediate reaction is rage and annoyance. When he says Delilah, his voice works over my skin like hot prickles. It can’t be helped. The man has a whiskey voice, deep, raspy, and slumberous. It makes a woman think of rumpled sheets and sweat-slicked skin. And I really don’t know what is the matter with me; I must be ovulating or something. Because I cannot be sexually attracted to Macon Asshole Saint.
“I can’t take the check,” he repeats firmly. “Because the watch is worth two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“Fuck. Me.”
His eyes crinkle, an unholy gleam lighting them. “I thought we weren’t doing that.”
I’m going to be sick. Legitimately ill. I’m going to throw up all over Macon’s pristine desk. I swallow against the greasy feeling crawling up my throat. “Don’t joke.”
All vestiges of humor leave him. “You’re right. It’s not a joking matter.”
“Two hundred and eighty—” I wipe my damp brow. “How the hell can a watch be that expensive?”
Macon gives me a pitying look. “It’s a rose-gold Patek Philippe with a diamond-pavé face.”
I slump back in my chair. “I know Patek Philippe watches are expensive. I’ve seen enough people around LA wearing one. But I never thought the damn thing was the price of a condo.” Macon raises a brow because real estate prices here are no joke, and I wrinkle my nose. “Okay, the down payment on a condo. Good Lord . . .” I make a weak gesture. “Your mother wore it every day. Like it was a Seiko.”
He gazes out toward the sea, giving me the clean lines of his profile. “I think she liked to taunt my father with it.”
“Didn’t he buy her the watch?”
His mouth twists. “Despite the airs my father put on, my mother’s family was the one with money. The house, the cars, the watch—they were all hers. And she made him feel it.”
Oddly, it sounds like Macon approves. Then again, he never did get along with his father. Not many people did. George Saint was a beast, and I learned early on to avoid him.
“Well . . .” I drift off, unable to think of a thing to say.
“Well,” Macon repeats as if agreeing.
“Macon . . .”
“Delilah.” My name is a singsong taunt.
I bite my lip to keep from shouting.
“You really didn’t know a thing about Sam working for me, did you?” he asks quietly.
Yep, still hurts that Sam kept me in the dark. “The only time we’ve spoken of you since high school was when Sam said you were on Dark Castle. I had no clue you two had been in contact.”
Macon’s expression remains blank, but something stirs in his eyes. It looks a lot like rage. “I was surprised as hell when Sam applied to be my assistant. Didn’t really want to hire her, if I’m honest, but she said she was in desperate straits.”
“Feeling sorry for Sam is always a recipe for disaster,” I mutter.
“Yet here you are.”
A fire lights in my belly, and I lean forward with clenched fists. “I’m not here for Sam. I’m here for my mother. Daddy died last year, and we’re all she has. Personally, I could kill Sam for this. It would give me great satisfaction to punch her in the tit right now . . .”
Macon huffs a laugh. A perverse part of me wants to laugh, too, but the situation is too horrible.
“But she isn’t here, and I’m doing what I can. I just . . . I already lost my dad; I can’t lose Mama, Macon. I can’t.”
“She knows what Sam is like,” he says almost gently. But it isn’t for me; I know it’s out of respect for my mother. Just as I know that respect still won’t soften his stance.
“There’s a difference between knowing and experiencing. Twice already, Mama has been taken to the hospital for panic attacks. She’s on meds for hypertension, with orders from her doctor to take it easy. She puts up a brave front, but her nerves are shot.”