Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Ten thousand pounds?” I shouted. “Why do you need so much money? And why risk Callen learning the truth about our connection?”
“I’m redoing your wardrobe, among other things,” she stated, her snobbiness back in place. “To me, it’s worth the risk to your life.”
No, the reason proved much more sinister, guaranteed. She hoped to garner my death sentence, thereby saving herself. Because we both knew I wouldn’t purposely lead berserkers to my family. And if not that, she simply didn’t care about my future, only gaining money.
I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting blood. “You did this to yourself. I won’t reward you.”
“Is that so? Well.” The infusion of slyness increased. “I know how much you love your mother, and how much she loves you. She calls me all the time just to chat about nothing. Right now, she thinks you picked up an attitude on your trip. But with a few choice words, I can forever destroy her good opinion of you. So, you get me that money ASAP, or I’ll make her wish you were never born.”
Isobel’s threat rang in my head for the rest of the day. I didn’t doubt that she’d follow through.
My stomach churned without ceasing. What was I supposed to do? Ignore her and proceed as originally planned, convincing Callen to obtain a divorce? As I’d already noted, winning him over wasn’t working.
Should I talk to him about, say, a “friend in need” and pay Red, even though I would only incentivize her, ensuring she only demanded more and more and more. Or should I outright refuse to send her a dime, teaching her a hard lesson, but allowing her to blow up my life while I fought to return to it? I was the one who’d have to live with the aftermath. And what about my parents?
Without money, Isobel might decide she had toiled enough and return to Scotland on her own to switch us back, rendering my decision moot.
The clock was ticking. I had a few days, at most, before she acted on her threat.
Best way to utilize the time? Stick to the original plan. Maybe I hadn’t won Callen over because I didn’t know enough about him. Or because I hadn’t actively attempted to charm him. Or both! If I did the former, I could tailor the latter. He might give me the money without a qualm.
Yeah, forget the divorce idea for now. I’d go with cranking up the charm to better get to know him.
Except he didn’t return for dinner. Or after dinner. Or by midnight. Going to stay out all night?
I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, disturbing sweet Thora, who curled in a ball next to my pillow. Giving up, I donned a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A distraction would do me good.
As I exited the room, I discovered two bruisers I’d never met waiting in the hallway. Guess Buzz and Ponytail weren’t on duty twenty-four seven.
With a humph, I headed to the kitchen. The new guards followed. Along the way, I noticed Callen’s bedroom door had been returned to its proper place.
Oh, good. The kitchen was empty, no servants about. Perfect.
As I explored the facilities, the men positioned themselves at the door. They didn’t watch me outright, but they didn’t not watch me, either. Tuning them out, I gathered items I thought I might need. A cast-iron skillet, spatula, wooden spoon, and knife. Flour, butter, baking powder, oil, eggs, two kinds of cheese, and potatoes. Milk and cream. More butter, because yum. Salt, pepper, and spices. Sausage. Oh! I would make breakfast burritos with gravy.
“We can call a cook for you, Mrs. Bruce,” Henchman number one finally suggested.
I shook my head. “No, I’m good.” Humming under my breath, I set the oven, prepped a pan for tortillas, and got busy mixing ingredients. Out of habit, I danced as I worked.
“You are actually wearing sweatpants,” an angry voice proclaimed. “And you’re cooking?”
Callen! His arrival froze me in my tracks while sending my heart into overdrive. I flipped up my gaze. He stood in the doorway, disheveled, wearing a wrinkled suit without the jacket. The first handful of buttons on his white, blood-splattered dress shirt gaped open. On his head, his dark hair stuck out in spikes. Cracked, bruised knuckles held a glass of what looked to be whiskey.
“Were you in a brawl?” I asked, tamping down an urge to coo over his injuries.
“Many brawls,” he intoned before draining his drink. He never removed his gaze from me.
Who had he fought and why? Dare I ask?
“The sweatpants I can understand. You’re stubborn. And vindictive. But the cooking?” He gave a clipped shake of his head.
Had I made a terrible mistake? Had Isobel avoided the kitchen? My shoulders slumped. But of course she had. “You don’t know everything about me,” I said, deciding to keep things casual. The serious stuff could come up tomorrow; surely he’d be in a better mood by then. “I have many talents that will astonish you.”