“With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, I’ve only known your daughter two weeks. We’re not really at the point where we’re discussing our future.”
Frown number three made an appearance. “Well, you see, I am thinking about the future. My daughter deserves a man who can support her, who can provide her with the life to which she’s accustomed, and I don’t believe that man is you. Frankly, young man, I don’t believe you are good enough for my daughter.” Gregory leaned forward, a calculated glint in his brown eyes, the same shade of brown as his daughter’s. “So, with that said, let’s get down to business. How much?”
Ryan faltered. “What?”
“How much, Mr. Evans?”
Was this some kind of code? He had no fucking idea what this man was talking about, and he was tempted to unleash a right hook in the older man’s jaw. Nobody had ever spoken to Ryan this way, in such a chilly, disgusted voice, as if he were nothing more than dog shit under the guy’s shoe. Even his drill sergeant in the Navy had been nicer than this, and that guy had been a total dick.
Gregory sighed. “How much will it cost me for you to say goodbye to my daughter and walk out the door right now?”
It finally dawned on Ryan. The son of a bitch was trying to bribe him. Bribe him. Who the hell did this man think he was, the Godfather?
“Nothing.” His jaw was so stiff he could barely spit out the word. “It will cost you nothing, because I’m not going anywhere.”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be difficult, son. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I’m not your son,” Ryan said coldly. He slowly rose to his feet. His hands were icy with rage, and he pressed them to his sides, resisting the urge to take his fists and pummel the other man’s jaw. “I think we’re done here.”
As if on cue, a soft knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Gregory barked.
Magdalena the maid appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Holmes, the Worthingtons have arrived, along with Mr. Kildaire and his guest.”
“Make sure everyone is seated correctly,” Gregory said briskly. “And send young Mr. Worthington in here, please.” He glanced at Ryan. “Mr. Evans was just leaving. Take him to the dining room.”
Ryan shot Annabelle’s dad an overly bright smile. “Great chat, sir. Thanks so much for inviting me to dinner.” He made for the door. “Oh, and happy anniversary, by the way.”
The moment he was out of the study, Ryan discreetly released the breath he’d been holding, forcing his body to relax. Yet a gust of rage continued blowing inside him. The fucking nerve of that man. Did Annabelle know what a bastard her father was? Should he tell her?
Trying to steady his breathing, he trailed after the maid. The sound of voices drifted from the dining room, and he heard Annabelle laugh, not quite genuine but still melodic. He slowly unclenched his fists and tried to paste on a smile. He had to get through this dinner. He had to do it for her.
“Did Dad give you a hard time?” Annabelle asked quietly when he approached her.
“No, just the usual ‘what-are-your-intentions’ chat,” he said in a light tone.
She slipped her hand into his, gently stroking his fingers. “I’m sorry.”
So was he. He wished he could tell her what her father had just tried to do, but now was neither the time nor the place. The dining room was as enormous as every other room in the house, boasting a table that could easily seat fifty. Tonight it was a small party, only the Holmeses, the Worthingtons, who looked like complete pricks, and Joe Kildaire, a wealthy investment something-or-other whose date looked like she’d had at least thirty-five plastic surgeries.
Fuck, what was he doing here?
He snuck a sidelong glance at Annabelle, admiring her gorgeous profile, but not even the sight of her could dim his panic. He looked around the room, from the gleaming crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling to the perfectly set table with an endless amount of silverware and wine glasses.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out he didn’t belong here.
And he never would.
Chapter Seven
Ryan looked miserable. Annabelle felt terrible as she watched him pick at the filet mignon on his plate, his dark head bent slightly. He’d barely said a word since his talk with her dad, and she could tell he felt like an outsider as the guests chatted with her parents at the dinner table. He’d only raised his head a few times since sitting down, each time to send a scowl in Bryce’s direction.
Annabelle wanted to scowl too. Bryce had strolled into the dining room with her father, pulling her into his arms for a warm hug as if nothing had happened between them. She had to admit, he did look good in his pin-striped black suit, with his blond hair perfectly cut. His chiseled features focused on her every few seconds, and he kept shooting her endearing little smiles. She had no idea what he was up to, but she didn’t like it, whatever it was.