The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

I let out a tight breath. After he returned to his office victorious, he’d have all the leverage and would expect me to want to cut a deal to save Royce’s job. I swallowed down my emotions and my desire to fight, and instead I kept my tone even.

“All right,” I said coolly.

This time, his pause wasn’t manufactured— He’d anticipated pushback, and I’d genuinely caught him off guard. “Excellent. I will meet you in the foyer at seven thirty tomorrow.”

He didn’t say goodbye; only the abrupt silence on the other end told me he was gone.

Macalister was wrong, though. He couldn’t be meeting with me, because . . . tomorrow?

I’d become Medusa.

NINETEEN

Now

DISAPPOINTMENT HAD ETCHED ROYCE’S FACE when he asked me to go with him into the office this morning and I’d turned him down, claiming I was too nervous. I told him I loved him, wished him luck, and kissed him goodbye.

I hoped he’d forgive my deception when it was all over.

He turned and went down the front steps to the car that was waiting, a pair of headphones in his hand, and I expected he’d spend the entire ride to Boston using them to shut the world out and focus. Maybe he’d listen to Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” as he visualized the meeting and ran through his notes.

Macalister must have been skulking in the shadows watching us, because as soon as Royce’s car drove away, he appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Every cell in him seemed to be inflated with his pure arrogance as he descended the steps and walked toward me.

“Good morning,” he said.

He probably thought it was.

His appreciative gaze ran over me, taking in the fitted red sheath dress I wore. It was the most powerful color I owned and the same shade as the red, hissing mouths of Medusa’s snakes. I stared back at him in his black three-piece suit and pale gray dress shirt. His tie was rich black and pin-dotted with silver, and the silk of his pocket square matched.

I didn’t acknowledge him with words. I simply lifted an eyebrow, turned, and strode out the front door. The heavy clops of his shoes announced he was following as I walked down the stone steps, heading toward the sleek black Range Rover as it pulled to a stop.

Macalister’s hand was on the door handle before I could reach it, but I didn’t offer any gratitude as I ducked inside the back seat. I slid over the leather bench as far away from him as possible.

He asked it when the door was shut behind him and the car crawled down the driveway, heading for the main road. “How was he this morning?”

“Don’t,” I said. “I agreed to come along, but I didn’t say shit about talking to you.”

He didn’t like what I’d said, but rather than sour his good mood, it made desire flare in his eyes. He loved to be challenged, and he was excited for the impending showdown. He peered at me now as if I could be the amuse-bouche to his main course.

“It’s a long ride to Boston.” He shifted in his seat, angling his knees subtly toward me.

I narrowed my eyes. “If you wanted someone to chat with, you should have invited your wife.”

He let my statement deflect right off him. “Have you considered what he will be like after today? My son doesn’t handle disappointment well.”

“Neither do you. Have you considered how you’ll react if this doesn’t go the way you want it to?”

He smiled like I was being ridiculous. “That’s not possible. I have personal assurances from at least four members, and I’ve made it perfectly clear to the board that voting against me is the fastest way to lose their seat.”

My pulse throbbed and banged. I had to hope at least one of those four had lied to Macalister and told Royce the truth, or he was screwed. I tamped down my fear and let it fill my voice with strength. “I think you’re going to look back on today and be filled with regret, Macalister.”

His laugh was cruel. “Perhaps you’re thinking of Royce.”

I didn’t say another word the rest of the way. He was riding a prebattle high, and it made him more cocky and talkative than ever. He filled the silence with the speech he was preparing to give at the meeting and then revealed who he was confident would vote in his favor.

At least it was the four names I suspected.

It wasn’t until we were alone in the glass elevator and he’d grabbed my hand that I spoke and told him he was nervous. I fought the urge to shake off his hold or remind him he might lose his hand. But either the meeting played out like I hoped it would and this was the last time he ever touched me . . .