The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

“Because it’s gonna happen.” His tone turned dark and twisted, making the air around me cold. “I know how to be persuasive.”

“Yeah, good luck with that, dick. Girls watch their drinks. She, or maybe one of her friends, will catch you.”

It was the second time Duncan had used the derogatory term, and awareness took hold. He wasn’t insulting the other man; he was merely using his name. Ice climbed over my skin, and my jaw set so hard, it ached. I’d never heard anyone address Richard Shaunessy as Dick before, but I’d never paid much attention either.

I stepped into the empty restaurant, lit by the security lights and red emergency exit signs, and spotted the two men standing beside the empty bar.

No, not men. They wore suits and each held an alcoholic drink in hand, but these were boys, posturing to outdo one another. Richard surveyed Duncan critically, watching as his acquaintance used a credit card to push white powder into lines on the glossy counter.

Neither noticed me lurking in the shadows.

“Stop calling me that,” Richard said. “It’s not my name, and if you want to keep being an asshole, I’ll take my coke somewhere else.”

Fury washed down me in waves, each more rage-inducing than the last. The audacity of them to do this out in the open, where anyone could walk by, was staggering. Had Duncan forgotten his father’s political ambitions, or did he not care how his actions had the potential to derail the campaign?

It was further proof of how entitled and impervious this younger generation of Cape Hill had become. Like Marist’s beloved Greek myths, my generation were the gods who’d created the monsters populating the mortal world.

However, it was the comment about persuading Sophia that broke my grip on my control. I wasn’t proud of the techniques I’d employed to try to win Marist’s affection, but the idea of drugging another person—especially Sophia—turned my stomach.

Seduction was a game a man should enjoy playing, and there was no victory in bedding a woman who couldn’t surrender willingly. Richard Shaunessy was a fucking coward, just like his father.

I cleared my throat, startling both men, and when their gazes spied me in the low light, they nearly pissed themselves.

“Mr. Hale,” Duncan said in a rush, dropping the credit card to the counter like he suddenly didn’t know where it had come from, and turned his back to the bar. Richard followed suit, both men looking extra pale in the security light as they tried unsuccessfully to hide what they’d been doing.

“Duncan,” I acknowledged with a look so severe, the boy’s gaze went to the floor. I turned my attention to the other one, and his name tasted vile on my tongue. “Richard.”

Their fear permeated the space like a dense fog, and I breathed it in like the Minotaur devouring the sacrificial mortals sent to him in the Labyrinth. Time suspended painfully for them, and I enjoyed it.

“Clean that mess up,” I snarled, jabbing a finger toward the bar, “and I don’t mean with your noses.”

“Yes, sir,” they said at the same time, whirling to hastily scoop the powder up into their hands. It was disposed of in the nearby trashcan, and then they stood, shoulder to shoulder with their heads tipped down, insolent children awaiting punishment.

“They’ve called for us to gather in the captain’s room,” I said, “and I believe we’ve kept Mrs. Gabbard waiting long enough. Let’s go.”

Relief released their muscles, and the two boys eagerly started for the back exit.

“Oh, Richard, one more thing.” I relished the way he halted and braced himself at my voice. “You’ll steer clear of Sophia. If you go near her, I’ll make sure you, and your entire fucking family, regret it. Do you understand me, son?” At my sides, my hands tensed into angry fists. “She is mine.”

THIRTEEN

MACALISTER

AN ALARM CLANGED IN MY HEAD, louder than the bell on Wall Street. The comment had come from me without warning and left far too much open to interpretation.

“My assistant,” I clarified quickly.

Richard gave a petrified bob of his head and followed Duncan, who’d already scrambled out the door.

It gave me a moment of respite, and I set Sophia’s glass of champagne down on one of the tables nearby, then used both hands to scrub my face. I was still jittery with outrage, but I had to get hold of myself. That slip had been exceptionally sloppy.

There was a mirror behind the bar, and I glanced at it. My hair was askew and my expression furious, and this absolutely would not do. I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath, and forced myself to hold it for three seconds. As I exhaled, I let go of the anger. I was in control. I rolled my shoulders back, smoothed a palm over my hair, and touched the pocket square Sophia had straightened.