Studying that page, he rubbed his chin. “Estimates are estimates, Ms. Dayne. There’s no guarantee customers will be rushing back to the diner.”
That hope fizzled a little, but I pulled it together, prepared for this type of resistance. “I wouldn’t consider my situation atypical. Most small businesses begin with a loan, just the same as I’m seeking from this bank. And most start-ups don’t already have a name behind them. We have a built-in customer base, and with the hotel going in across the street, there will be hundreds of hungry people in front of my restaurant every single day.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and I smiled back eagerly. He flipped the folder closed and rocked back in his seat, threading his fingers together. “I’ll tell you what . . .”
“Yes?” I edged forward more just as he leaned over his desk, unable to stop myself from mimicking his posture, those dreams I’d once held now dangling right out in front of me like a carrot.
His voice lowered as he leaned even closer. “We discuss this over dinner and you can show me just how badly you want this loan.”
Something sinister had infiltrated those words.
Something dark and vulgar.
The hairs at my nape prickled in a sickening kind of awareness.
“Excuse me?” I asked, barely able to speak.
“You look like a smart woman, Ms. Dayne. I think you’re playing coy again.”
Every sleazy memory of him came rushing back, the arrogant man who didn’t know how to take no for an answer and thought women should bow at his feet. But this was his job. Was he really going there?
“I think you need to demonstrate just how good you are.” Every word was packed with innuendo. “Show me why I should recommend this loan for approval.”
He cocked his head. The man with all the power. My dreams held hostage in his filthy paws.
Nausea turned my insides.
“So you’re saying I have to go out with you in order for you to recommend my application be approved?”
He glanced over my shoulder toward the closed door before his seedy gaze returned to me. “Call it a business exchange.”
“You can’t . . . that isn’t legal.” I was floundering, looking behind me to the closed door. Praying by some miracle someone was standing there and could vouch for this insanity.
Because he was out of his mind.
“I’m merely asking for a meeting, Ms. Dayne.” His intentions were so much more than a meeting.
And I wondered how many meetings this vile man had held over his client’s heads. No doubt, I wasn’t the first.
Stunned, I climbed to my feet. Memories of Aaron ripped through my head. The manipulation. I would never allow it again. “You are unbelievable. I would rather work every hour for the rest of my life to save the money to reopen my grandmother’s restaurant than degrade myself with you.”
He rocked back in that massive chair that was almost as big as his head. “All I asked for was proof of how much you wanted this loan, Ms. Dayne. I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”
I sneered. “And you are nothing but a liar. For the record, I want that loan more than anything. I’d just rather die than let you touch me.”
Wrenching open the door, I flew out into the hall. Fury rose to the top of the tangle of emotions he had me in, my instincts kicking in.
Timothy Roth had messed with the wrong girl.
I was going right around this obstacle. Deviating course. Going straight to the top and reporting him.
I would see to it that Timothy Roth would never manipulate another woman sitting in his office again.
It was late Friday afternoon when there was a knock at my door. A shiver of nerves rocked through me, but I forced them down, refusing the insecurities that kept trying to creep back into my consciousness.
I crossed the living room and peered into the peephole, frowning when I could only make out the arm of a man wearing a dress shirt.
Warily, I unlocked the door and cracked it open, a crest of unease washing over me.
Unease that hadn’t been in vain.
I should have listened to my gut.
Just like my gramma had always told me.
I tried to slam the door shut when I saw the angry, twisted features of the man looming on the other side.
It was the same second I hit a wall of fear.
Or maybe I toppled headfirst into a vat of it.
Because it swallowed me. Saturating every inch. Every cell. Every fiber.
Screaming, I turned my back to the door and planted my feet against the floor. I pushed back as hard as I could.
“I already called the police. They’re on their way.”
Lies. Lies I prayed would break through his derangement. Because I’d been right. Timothy Roth was insane. Just in an entirely different way than I’d ever imagined.