Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy #1)

“You are a sassy redhead. I like it. The team, of course, couldn’t condone such a practice or pay for it, but damned if it wouldn’t be a hell of an idea.”

The vibrations don’t quit, which means I have to brazen this out. “I’m joking, gentlemen. Of course, we couldn’t have anything to do with something like that. We might be in the business of sin, but not that kind.”

Carlie chooses that perfect moment to serve the appetizers, and another server, Dena, holds the second flight of whiskey.

I have no idea how I manage to speak, but my voice rises to a higher octave, and I pretend it’s from the excitement of the food. “Oh, perfect! Thank you, ladies!”

Temperance looks at me strangely, no doubt noticing that I have one hand fisted on my skirt as I fight the waves of desire driving through me.

I’m going to kill him, I think again.

Temperance takes over the conversation, explaining what the appetizers are and that they’re in line with the original budget. I squeeze my eyes closed as the men gorge on the food.

My assistant leans over and whispers in my ear. “Are you okay? Seriously, you’re acting weird.”

“Migraine. Just hit me. I’m powering through.”

Her face morphs into an expression of sympathy. “Do you need to go?”

Yes, I want to scream, but the vibrator stops.

“No. I’m fine. Not a problem.”

None of the men notice anything beyond the incredible food and even better whiskey we ply them with for the next hour.

By the time we finish, the signed contract is on the table, including the upcharge for the black-car service and the food.

I rise from my seat and step out from behind the table, and they follow suit.

“It’s going to be a fabulous event, gentlemen. You won’t regret your choice, and with an open bar featuring not only our incredible whiskey but every other brand of top-shelf liquor, your fundraiser is going to be a massive success.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The assistant GM reaches out to shake my hand, and again, his eye contact is lacking.

As soon as our palms meet, the vibrator comes to life, and I squeeze his hand and drop it just as quickly. I get the same buzz, almost like a warning with each handshake.

Oh, you motherf*cker. Where are you? The question burns in my brain, but I keep my businesslike smile pasted on my face as Temperance leads them to the elevator.

“I need to speak with Odile, so I’ll be down in a few. Have a wonderful day, gentlemen.”

As soon as the metal doors slide shut, I spin around on my stilettos from last night and survey the restaurant. We had a small lunch crowd, but the man at the top of my list of people who need killing is absent.

Would he have given the remote to one of his employees to control? The thought repulses me, spawning another disgusting thought. Am I just a toy to be handed off and played with by anyone? Is he really set on making me a whore?

I scan the restaurant, and some of the people meet my gaze and smile politely, but there’s no one who stands out with a flashing red beacon that says I work for Lachlan Mount and I’m f*cking with your life.

I wait for the elevator to return to the top floor, eager to get back to my basement where I can—

What? What can I do? I have no power here.

“Don’t let him walk all over you.” That was Magnolia’s advice.

Not letting him walk all over me would mean stepping into the ladies’ room and taking this thing out of me right now and throwing it in the trash.

“Don’t you dare take it out without my approval. I promise you won’t enjoy the punishment if you do.” Mount’s warning is burned into my brain.

I don’t even want to think about what punishment he’d come up with, but then again, I can’t let him call all the shots.

It’s one thing for him to mess with my head while I’m in his territory, but it’s something completely different when I’m trying to do business. It was one of my stipulations—one he obviously didn’t care about hearing because he disappeared.

Screw him and his punishments. Bring it on, Mount.

I turn to head for the ladies’ room, but another vibration buzzes against my leg.

It’s not the toy this time. It’s my phone.

As I release a long breath, I reach into the pocket of the pencil skirt and pull it out, half expecting to see Mount’s name on the screen. But it’s not, thankfully, and seeing a picture of my mom’s smiling face on my phone helps bring me back to center and remind me why I’m doing this.

I answer with the first genuine smile I’ve had in days, and duck into a corner alcove of the hall that leads to the guest restrooms. “Hey, Mom, how are you? How’s Dad?”

“We’re good! Great, really. My golf game has improved immeasurably, but that’s not important. I’m calling to see how you’re holding up.”

Her mention of golf reminds me of the picture I was given as a warning.

“I’m fine. Everything’s great.” I hope my tone is convincing, but when she replies, I know it’s not.

“Sweetie . . . have you reached out to that counselor yet? I really think you need to talk to someone about all of this. Burying those conflicting feelings about Brett’s death isn’t coping. You need to talk it out. Express your anger.”

I think of all the rage I’ve felt since Mount appeared in my office.

My mom continues. “And your grief too. Even though you were going to divorce him, that’s like a death in itself.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Really. I am. If it makes you feel better, I’ll join a kickboxing class to express my anger.”

As soon as the words come out, I remember that I no longer have control of those kinds of decisions in my life. I’ll be picked up and returned to my cell at the end of the day.

“Sweetheart, it’s not the same. It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help.”

If she only knew how much help I need right now . . . But she can never know.

“Look, we both know that this conversation is going to end with me telling you that the best therapy for me is burying myself in work and fixing all the things Brett screwed up before he . . . passed.” I fumble on the last word because it’s still hard to talk about. I was so angry, but at one time, I thought I loved him, and thinking of the horrific way he died . . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

The long-suffering sigh that I swear all mothers have perfected comes through my phone. “Lord knows I want to argue with you, but your father would say the same thing.”

“How is Dad?”

Part of the reason my dad finally relinquished control of the company to me was because his doctor warned him that he was a perfect case of someone waiting until sixty-five to retire, only to die at sixty-six because he overworked himself for years. My mother wouldn’t allow such a thing, so she forced him to retire. I want to think he would have gotten there eventually on his own, but knowing my father, it’s highly doubtful.

“He’s doing great. The most stressful thing in his life is his golf handicap, and his last physical came back with better numbers than we’ve seen in years.” The relief is clear in my mom’s tone.