Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Counting cash.
An obscene amount of dollar bills. The ransom. My price tag. “Have you been here all night and day?” I ask, lowering to a soft chair on a mild wince.
Mason huffs, dropping a bundle. “We had a few hours off to catch some winks. The boss wants it double-checked.”
“We’re short eighteen million,” Leon breathes, falling back on the couch. “Definitely eighteen.”
“They just have one-hundred and eight-two million dollars lying around?” I ask, stunned.
“All waiting to be cleaned.”
I frown. “You mean laundered. That money’s not been cleaned?” I ask, and Mason nods his head. “I have no idea how my uncle plans on cleaning it himself. He has no businesses, he’s British in the States, and he’s got to get home with it.” He was a bully, a thug, a monster. A businessman? No. My father was the respected businessman, and that added another layer of hatred.
Leon chuckles. “Pearl, babe, I don’t think your uncle should be concerned by how he’s going to clean this cash.”
I catch Mason toss him a warning look. “I’m talking hypothetically,” I go on. “Are you saying he should be more concerned by . . . what?”
“It sounds like too much talking is going on in here.” Brad appears at the door in his workout shorts, his T-shirt around his neck. His accusing eyes are on me.
“I was just helping,” I say, scowling at Mason when he smiles down at the cash.
“They don’t need any help.”
“I was keeping them company.”
“They have two-hundred million dollars for company.”
“You’re short eighteen million, actually,” I say, immediately realizing I’ve put my foot in it. I give Leon an apologetic smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“I think that’s enough business for you for one day,” Brad says, coming to the chair and holding out a hand. My appreciative gaze travels up his muscly, wet chest to his sweaty face.
I place my good hand in his and let him ease me up slowly. “Is Leon saying it doesn’t matter how much money is in there because they’re going to kill him before he has a chance to count it?”
“Throw me under the bus why don’t you?” Leon mutters.
Slipping an arm around my waist, Brad walks me unhurriedly out of the TV room. “I said, enough.”
“Right,” I murmur, scolded. How am I going to handle seeing him? That probably explains the uncomfortable twinge in my gut. I’d love to show him he doesn’t scare me anymore, but that would be poking him. Besides, it’s not true. I’m terrified. And Bernard King loves being provoked and feared. Now? The choice has been taken away because he’s demanded it. Strangely, I believe he wants to see me. I also believe he wants to thwart any plans Brad and the others may have had to double-cross him. The men won’t put me in the middle of a shootout, and my uncle won’t kill me. Because living is more painful. Especially living with him. You can’t suffer when you’re dead. “He’s not a businessman, but he’s smart, Brad. He will cover all his bases. Trust me, I know.” I look up at him when I get no reply or acknowledgment. His face is constantly passing from irritated to relaxed, as if he’s permanently working on keeping his emotions in check. Which I know he is. Brad’s more than capable. He’s disgustingly deadly. God, they all are. And I truly hate that I’m worried, but this unease inside me is too familiar. A constant feeling of dread, just waiting for the explosion that is Bernard King. Bracing myself for the damage he can do. “Say something,” I push, his silence unbearable.
His mouth remains shut, and when we reach the stairs, I expect him to carry me up them and put me back in the bed to rest, but he doesn’t. He diverts to the kitchen and takes me out to the garden. He stops for a moment, leaving me standing on my own, and lights up. “Can you walk?” he asks.
“Yes, I can walk,” I breathe, exasperated. He’s not going to talk about anything.
“Then let’s walk.” He offers me a hand, and I take it, a little uncertain. “I’ll go slowly.” He starts down the path to the main garden, ambling casually, me in one hand, his Marlboro in the other. Silent. I can’t stand it.
“What are we doing?” I ask, seeing Cindy and Barbie in the distance. They stop, look this way, and continue their patrol. Like they sense there’s no fun to be had here. I can’t throw their ball. And danger is afoot, so they must be alert. Ready.
“We’re walking.”
“Why?”
He looks down at me. “Well, you’re not in any fit state for me to take you to bed, so I must take you for a walk instead.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it out over my head, the corner of his mouth tipping a fraction.