Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
She stunk of greed and decay. Problem was, I couldn’t prove if bribery, subterfuge, or anything unlawful occurred within these alliances. When they ordered me to shred documents beneath their watchful eyes, they had reasonable justification. Their subtle manipulations, like slanting Collin’s show and erasing numbers on financial statements, seemed to be within the realm of the law.
Legal, yet erratic and ambiguous, like pieces of a big, ugly secret I wasn’t privy to. It didn’t feel right, and I sure as fuck didn’t trust them.
Exhaustion pulled on my shoulders. God, I didn’t want to deal with her at eight o’clock in the morning. My morning dose of vitamins and caffeine hadn’t kicked in, given the constant urge to yawn and the overwhelming need to face-plant right on this table and steal a nap. Wouldn’t my mother love that?
When I’d crawled back in bed last night after the race, sleep had never come. My brain was in a permanent state of unrest, my body quivering on a tight-wire, longing for things so far out of my reach I was turning myself into a miserable tragedy. And I had five more meetings and a budget summary to evaluate before I could attempt another night’s sleep.
I rested my elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Collin hosts personalities on all sides of the debates. It’s what keeps the show honest.”
Another huff. She stood and gathered her tablet and phone. “I don’t have time for this.”
Of course, she didn’t. Mrs. I’ve-got-asses-to-kiss-and-lives-to-ruin didn’t have time for anyone with a net worth below nine digits. She glanced at the silent presence at the head of the table. “Trent.”
Collin’s father lifted his chin but didn’t move his eyes from me, his gaze a phantom stroke over my face. “I’ll take it from here, Kathleen.”
My insides filled with ice. Fuck that. I jumped to my feet to follow my mother’s escape.
“Sit. Down.” His command thundered through the boardroom and wobbled my knees. The same tone he’d used when he caught his son in bed with me and another man.
I dropped in the chair and looked to my mother, hoping for the miracle of all miracles that some kind of maternal instinct would spark inside her frozen heart.
She paused in the doorway, her sapphire eyes a colder reflection of mine. They lowered to my featherweight wool dress, and her over-plumped lips tipped down at the corners. “If you want to succeed, start with the way you dress.”
The fuck? I fingered the square neckline at my collarbone, brushed a hand down the unwrinkled indigo fabric, and tugged at the knee-length hem. I was wearing a modest Armani classic for Christ’s sake.
The door clicked behind her, and the automatic lock engaged, shutting me in with the last man I wanted to share air with…alone.
He stood, one hand in the pocket of his designer gray slacks, and approached with a nonchalance that ratcheted my shoulders to my ears. He trailed his fingers over each chair back he passed, his sharp hazel eyes laser-locked on mine.
My nerves caught fire, and my fingernails dug into my palms. It was shameful how easily he reduced me to the little girl who’d always fumbled in his presence, like when I’d spilled punch on his white carpet and chipped Collin’s tooth with a badly-aimed tennis racket. Like when I walked in on Trent banging the nanny.
When he reached my side, my ribs compressed as panic expanded my lungs, but I kept my breaths quiet and steady.
He lowered in a crouch and swiveled my chair to face him. “How are things with my son?” His knuckle grazed my knee. I jerked away, but he caught my thigh beneath the hem of the skirt, his fingers clenching in a bruising grip. “Is he…satisfying you?”
My stomach roiled at his taunting tone. I grabbed his wrist and shoved, but my strength was no match for his. He was a physically fit, youthful-looking sixty-five-year-old, with thick blond hair, polished skin, and barely a crinkle fanning from the corners of his yellow eyes. He must’ve spent a fortune on cosmetic surgery, hair plugs, and personal trainers.
I wanted to look away from him because his proximity made me sick. But he did this thing with his eyes, flickering them in a stare down meant to intimidate, to make me vulnerable. He thought he’d shackled me in a sexless marriage and assumed, in my desperation, I could be seduced by his vile attractiveness.
Acid simmered in the back of my throat. I’d been deflecting his inappropriate touches since the first buds of breasts swelled on my chest, and I liked to think I could continue to stave him off.
But his advances were growing bolder, becoming more frequent and making me hyper-vigilant, jittery, and fucking terrified to come to work.
I shoved harder against his hand, but the more I resisted, the higher his fingers climbed. He wanted a struggle—I could see it glimmering in his eyes—and I refused to play his sick games.