The Temptation (Filthy Rich Americans 5)

“Complicated enough it sent your father to prison, I’m guessing?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor in shame. “Yes.”

For a single nanosecond, I wanted to undo what I’d said. To remind her my father had gone to prison, too, so I carried that secondhand shame as she did. But her lesson in the hotel room in Monaco came flooding back to me. She’d ‘tripped’ on the rug and played the victim to control what I saw. To distract.

I wasn’t going to fall for the same act today.

She sank down, sitting on the edge of the couch, and curled her fingers around the front hem of her skirt like she either needed to hold it in place, or wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. Emery had the posture of a woman who was ready to confess her sins, and I walked to the chair that faced her, took a seat, and gave her a look that said I would listen.

“I told you,” she said softly, “my dad knew how to get things from people, or for people. One of them was Wayne Lambert.”

“Your father worked for him?”

“Officially? No.” Her expression was a mixture of sadness and anger. “What he asked my dad to do was sometimes illegal, so there couldn’t be any affiliation between them. My dad became Lambert’s solution when he needed something and everything else had failed.”

It was more of a statement than a question from me. “He was his fixer?”

She nodded. “Anything Lambert wanted, no matter the risk, my dad got it done. He thought if he ever ran into trouble, Lambert would be there for him.” She leveled her gaze at me, and I saw every lick of fire burning inside her. I heard the disgust that filled her mouth. “But he wasn’t. When my dad got diagnosed with cancer, Barlowe was starting clinical trials of a new drug. One that was designed to slow or stop the growth of tumor cells in the lungs, and it showed a lot of promise. It wouldn’t have saved my dad’s life, but it probably would have bought him more time.”

Her eyes began to glisten with unshed tears. I sensed what she was going to say next, and I hated it.

“Lambert refused to put him in the trial. My dad was stage four, he said, so it wouldn’t help him. All it would do was make Lambert’s precious trial results look bad.”

“Fuck,” I uttered quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

“My dad was completely betrayed, plus he was running out of time. I think he wanted to secure a future for my mom and me, and the only way he knew how was if he got something he could use against Lambert. He hadn’t kept any records, but he knew Lambert did, and he knew exactly where they would be.”

Should it have bothered me that she was talking about blackmail? Because it didn’t. Lambert was obviously no stranger to it.

Emery glanced at the ceiling and wiped a finger under her eye, brushing away a tear before it could roll down her cheek. She was holding herself together by sheer force and sustained anger.

“My dad was pretty good at cracking safes, but he never got the chance with Lambert’s. The housekeeper came home early, heard an intruder upstairs, and called the cops. He hadn’t even started drilling by the time they arrived.”

My fingers tightened around the portfolio in my hands. “Lambert didn’t say it was a misunderstanding and have the charges dropped?”

“Are you kidding me? My dad had tried to steal from him. Lambert wanted him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

My brow furrowed. “He wasn’t worried about what your dad was going to say?”

Her smile was cruel, devoid of any warmth. “Like anyone would believe him. He was a criminal who’d broken into Lambert’s house, and Lambert claimed he’d never seen my father before. Plus, my dad had no evidence.” She said it like the thought had been eating at her for a long time. “I don’t know why he trusted Lambert so completely.”

It was quiet for a moment, before she drew in a cleansing breath and was ready to press forward.

“Lambert bought my dad’s silence, promising him he’d look out for his family, but that was a lie. The only reason I even knew about the agreement was because my mom freaked out when the money stopped coming.” She raised her chin in an effort to look strong. “It was three months after my dad died. Just long enough to make sure we didn’t have anything to come forward with.”

The bitterness rolled off her in waves, keeping me pressed into my seat, and when her gaze bore down on me, it turned me into a statue.

“When my dad got convicted, it was a death sentence.” Her chin quivered, but her voice stayed detached and even. “The doctors gave him a year to live, but he only made it eight months. He died in that prison infirmary alone, rather than surrounded by people who loved him. If he’d been free, we would have made the most of the time he had left, but no. Wayne Lambert stole that from us.” Injustice swelled inside her, spilling from her lips. “He stole that from me.”