Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
"Mr. St. James," my father greeted, releasing my arm to shake the hand of the man who was standing in front of his desk, leaning slightly against it, making it infinitely clear we were not meant to take a seat in the two chairs in front of it.
"Mack," he said in the clipped, deep voice of his. "And..."
"My daughter, Prue," my father supplied, giving me a thin-lipped smile.
"Prue?" St. James repeated, a brow slightly raised as I finally remembered to extend my hand.
"Prudence," I answered what appeared to be a question in his expression.
At that, his severe lips turned up slightly at the side. "Prudence?" he mused, looking down at my hand then crossing his arms over his chest.
Well then. I dropped my hand numbly, shoving both of them into my pockets, which simultaneously made me feel less awkward and made me take up a bit more space, gave me more presence and in a room where Byron St.James seemed to be overtaking the entire space with his existence.
"Yes, Prudence Marlow, but everyone calls me Prue, Mr. St. James."
"I find it... ironic, Mack, that you would name your daughter after a quality you don't possess."
Oh, the bastard. Okay, it was true. But that didn't mean he was allowed to bring that up. It was beyond rude. And, in fact, I was named after a Beatles song.
My father fumbled for something to say, clearing his throat awkwardly and I felt my teeth clench together.
"If we're done hauling around insults like six-year olds on the schoolyard," I started, lifting my chin when his dark eyes landed on me, "why don't we get down to business."
I felt my father's eyes on my profile, knowing what look he was giving me, and ignored him. He was good at the 'behave, Prue' look. I was just as good as pretending I didn't see it. I was almost as good at it as he was good at ignoring my 'please don't go gambling tonight' look.
"The business where your father owes me two-hundred-and-seventy-five thousand dollars. That business, Miss. Marlow?"
Jesus.
"Precisely," I said, my tone betraying none of the swirling anxiety inside. How the hell could we ever pay back that kind of money? Especially factoring in the reality that my father would gamble away any money he came across before he could forward it to Mr. St. James. That meant the burden would be on me to come up with it. I had a decent job at a bank. But I barely made sixty-thousand a year and I needed some of that to live on. I could give up my apartment and move back with my dad. I could get another job, but not one where I could bring in that kind of money. Maybe if I could talk him into some sort of payment plan.
"There's not much to discuss on that front."
"I'm sure we can work out some kind of payment option for..."
"From where I stand, Mack," he said, ignoring me though I had been the one speaking. The asshole. "there are two options."
"Two options?" I butted in again stubbornly.
His eyes stayed on my father. "There are only two things I want from you at this point."
My father took a deep breath, drawing my attention, and I could see the marrow-deep fear there. It was such a strange, foreign look on his usually jovial, charming face that I felt my mouth falling open slightly.
"Those two things would be?"
"I want your life," he said, coolly, calmly, and my attention snapped to his face, my eyes going wide and disbelieving. No. There was no way. He couldn't have meant that. There had to be some kind of...
His eyes shifted and landed on me. "Or your daughter."
TWO
Prue
Beside me, my father went ramrod straight, wiping away my hope that I had, maybe, just misheard him.
I hadn't. He wanted my father's life. Or he wanted... me?
"I'm sorry, Mr. St. James," I forced my voice to say, "I don't think I understand."
He gave me a nod, pushing off of his desk and moving around it to the other side. He pulled a drawer open, reached inside, and pulled out a gun.
A gun.
"I want his life," he said, putting the gun on the surface of the desk, "or I want you."
"You can't be serious," I objected immediately, forcing my voice to not shake. "Yes, I understand that he owes you a lot of money. But we are here to find a way to pay that back to you. I know your dealings with my father have been..." Frustrating? Useless? Like screaming at a brick wall to try to make it move? "Difficult. But I can assure you, Mr. St. James, I am extremely trustworthy."
"You would have to be, wouldn't you?" he asked and I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn't like it one damn bit.