“If you don’t take your hands off me, neither are you.” I press the barrel of my pistol against his ribs.
He glances down, then slowly returns his gaze to me.
“Now get your hands off,” I hiss.
He releases my throat and backs up a pace. “Be ready. I’ll be at your door at 6:30.” That crackling rage inside him is roaring, but he tamps it down when my pistol is aimed at his chest. Without another word, he turns and leaves the fitting room.
As soon as the door closes, I jump over to it and turn the lock. My legs give way, and I stumble back to the chaise.
I refuse to let myself cry, and I wipe two errant tears from my cheeks and straighten my clothes. With another deep breath, I inspect my arms. The skin is already starting to bruise lightly. Pale yellow imprints of meaty hands.
I pull on my cream jacket and try not to scream. I’m trapped, backed into a corner with no way out.
There’s nothing I can do to avoid tomorrow night, but I’ll be damned if I let them terrorize me like this. I won’t break. I won’t fucking break. Not for them. Not for anyone. All I have to do is convince the girl who lives in my heart—the same girl who lost everything she ever loved five years ago—that those words are true. That I’m strong enough to survive this. I have to be.
Jeanette never reappears, so I slip out of the boutique and into the muggy New Orleans morning. She’ll have the dress delivered on time; I have no doubt.
Once I’m in my car, I take deep breaths and try to fight the exhaustion I feel from the ebbing adrenaline rush. But I don’t take a break, don’t spend another second on it. Driving through the streets, I force it out of my mind. I’ve gotten pretty good at that over the years. Even so, my thoughts turn in an even worse direction. Lucius. When he has his hands on me, it’s nothing like this. I should feel the same sort of revulsion, the same sort of violation, but I don’t. How can it be so different? But that begs the question of why I’m such a twisted mess, and I can’t get mired in that right now.
My next appointment is only a mile and a half away, the home of another board member. Mr. Angles is one of the few who have ever gone against Lucius’s wishes. He’s likely the most independent member of the board, but that doesn’t mean I can get him on my team. It’s going to take work.
I park and shake off the phantom sensation of that brute’s hands on me. I push it down deep and lock it up. It can crop up later, sometime when I’m alone, when I can be vulnerable. But not here. Not today.
Pulling up out front of a sprawling Victorian mansion, I park and step from the car.
I’m halfway up the steps to the wrought iron fence when I see a familiar shape on the front porch. As if my day wasn’t already a dumpster fire.
I almost miss the next step but catch myself.
Lucius waves from his spot on the swing, and Arlo Angles sips his iced tea on the sunny porch. Lucius’s filthy words from last night float through my mind, and a shiver runs through me. Shame quickly colors over those thoughts. I shake it off and focus on winning, on beating Lucius at his own game.
“Mr. Angles. We have a meeting.” I climb the four steps to the front porch, the wood planks a pearly white beneath my feet. The sun is oppressive today, the heat like a heavy touch.
“We do.” He nods but doesn’t make a move to stand and greet me.
Lucius, however, gets to his feet and comes over to me. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d like a word with Mr. Angles in private.” I narrow my eyes as he moves closer.
“Let’s stick to things that are within the realm of possibility, shall we, darlin’?”
I’ve never met a man who needs a swift slap to the face as badly as Lucius. “You can’t prevent me from speaking to the board of directors.”
He moves past me to a drink cart set up against the shadiest part of the front wall. “Now, I can’t say for sure, but you strike me as a mint julep girl.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, darlin’. I hang on your every word,” he says dryly. He drops some ice cubes into a glass and pours bourbon into a tumbler.
“Stop calling me darling, I don’t want a drink, and I need to speak to Mr. Angles.”
“Go ahead.” He gestures with the tumbler in his hand. “Speak all you want.”
“In private.” I turn to Mr. Angles. “If we could perhaps go inside and sit down—”