Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
He removes his cellphone and punches in a number and the call rings on speakerphone. “Oliver,” a man greets.
“Withers,” Oliver answers, his eyes meeting mine. “I understand you’re handling the will for the Hawk estate.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that matter.”
“Then let me be clear. That document dump you’re threatening to release is related to the Allen family. Were you aware of that fact?”
He’s silent a beat, then another. “I was not, but of course, that makes the execution of the will a conflict of interest.”
“Blackmail should have made it a conflict of interest, so we’re not going to pretend you didn’t do it for the money. Or that you’re not lying right now about your knowledge level.”
“I didn’t know,” he says quickly. “I swear to God.”
“God can’t help you if you fuck me right now. It would not be in your best interest to release that file, and the family does not appreciate being used as leverage. They’re angry and so I’m angry. You know what happens when I get angry.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” His voice sounds strained. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go to your office and leave the file on the desk then accidentally leave the door open. As for the Hawk inheritance, negotiate the terms and get that family the fuck off our backs.”
“I can only do what the will tells me to do.”
“Make this go away,” he instructs. “I don’t really care how, just do it.” He disconnects and his eyes glint with amber flecks.
He’s angry, all right, and his attention is now directed at me. “Don’t move,” he orders, and he pushes to his feet, walks to the bar, reaches over the counter, and before he ever turns, I’m fighting the urge to stand up.
Somehow, I muster the willpower to remain in my seat.
When he faces me again, he has a roll of tape in his hand and now I stand, my heart racing in my throat. He’s either going to rape me or kill me or both, and I make the decision right now to fight, and fight with all I have in me.
I might die, but he’s going to lose an eye in the process.
He reenters the sitting area and sits back down on the couch, setting the tape on the table in front of him, in between us. After which, he removes his Glock from the holster under his jacket, but it gets worse. He pulls out a silencer and screws it onto the barrel before setting his weapon on the table next to the tape.
My heart lurches and I launch myself to my feet.
He’s about to kill me. I’m about to die. I have to run for my gun. No. I can’t make it. I could tackle him. My high heel could make a weapon and—
“Sit,” he orders, and while I consider refusing, without my own firearm, I have no choice but to do exactly as he commands.
Once again, I sit, hoping I can get him talking, and buy time, to think my way out of this. “I thought we solved this problem,” I say.
“I’m not convinced there’s not another file, one your future husband holds as ammunition against my client. Tyler’s father didn’t love anyone but himself. There was leverage with him. You were right. Tyler’s different. He loves you.” And then he echoes the very thought I’d had a few minutes before, “You’re his weak spot. That means you can’t leave. Not yet. Not until he’s received the message loud and clear.”
“What message?”
“Protecting my client protects you.” He reaches for his glass, downs the content, and then says. “Take whatever you have on under your skirt off. Hose, panties, whatever. Take it off.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tyler
“I’ll drive,” Dash says as we step outside the bar, the night cloaking the city but not my anger or fear for Bella. We’ve searched everywhere for Bella to no avail and the very idea that she is gone and I will never see her again, is gutting me.
“I’ll drive,” Dash announces. “I’ve got a stockpile of weapons in my trunk.”
And that statement right there is just one reason I didn’t want to call Dash. His first reaction to everything is to punch his way out of it, or in this case, shoot his way out of it, and it’s not always the right answer. At least, not until we have Bella back. Then, as far as I’m concerned, someone is paying for this and paying dearly. “You weren’t invited to the meeting, and I’m already packing.”
“They know you won’t come alone. They know you’ll bring me. Let’s go.”
He starts walking, and now I’m the one catching his arm and I do so with a hard, firm grip, only releasing him when he rotates to face me. “We’re killing valuable time,” he snaps.
“How do we know you coming along won’t trigger them?” I challenge. “The very fact that you’re ex-FBI could set them off.”