The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

“You want to see Vance with his daughter.”

“Yes. Among other things.”

I swallowed a breath and opened my eyes, staring out the window at the manicured lawn that seemed to endlessly stretch for miles around the Hale house. “Such as?”

In the taut silence suspended between us, I felt his gaze fixated on my bare back, drinking in all my vulnerable, exposed skin. The library was cold, and Macalister was colder still, yet when he moved in, there was the dark heat of his breath. It washed down my back and drew a violent shiver from me.

His lips were right beside my ear. “Wayne Lambert is going to get me a presidential nomination to the Federal Reserve.”

Oh, my God, of course.

Lambert had been a megadonor to the president’s election campaign, was a staunch supporter, and a close friend. It’d be easy for him to whisper a favorable word in the president’s ear. And Macalister had plenty of experience. He ran the second largest bank in the country and was scandal-free. He would likely sail through the confirmation hearing.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that this was what he desired. Being the head of HBHC was great, but there was far more prestige and control at the helm of the Federal Reserve. Overseeing the entire U.S. banking system and maintaining interest rates was ultimate power. It was the pinnacle of his career; he couldn’t ascend any higher.

“Oh,” I breathed.

“I think it’s only fitting,” his tone was distant thunder, quiet but full of power, “since my family helped build the Fed, that I should sit on its board.”

Yet another thing he felt entitled to, simply for being born.

And Macalister would mine Mr. Lambert’s connections in multiple ways. They could be equally useful to Vance, who was eyeing a career in politics.

“I’d wish you luck,” I said, “but I doubt you’ll need it.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “No, I won’t.”

I didn’t get a moment to catch my breath before the mood in the room changed. It shifted and turned darker, as if the air knew his motives.

“This dress you have on,” Macalister’s tone dipped and veered toward seduction, “I like it very much.”

Before I could react, a single cold fingertip kissed my skin and skated like a whisper down my spine. It was barely a touch, but I jolted away from it, sending my hip crashing into the side of the table.

The chess set rattled and teetered, and the tallest black piece with a cross at the top of its crown toppled over onto its side, rolling toward the edge of the table. I grabbed it instinctively to stop it from falling and unleashed my tongue. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”

“You’re right, you didn’t.”

Was that supposed to be an apology? I was trapped between him and the table, and genuine fear snaked through my body. Royce had installed a lock on my door. Emily had said Macalister believed he was entitled to everything, including people. And he’d purchased me like property. He probably believed he had every right to my body, and I’d been so fucking foolish—

“I shouldn’t have done that.” He abruptly stepped back. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

I clutched the game piece so hard, the sharp edges were uncomfortable in my grip. A little over a year ago, I’d stood in nearly this spot while Royce touched me the same way, yet the difference was staggering.

“You’re . . . shaking.” Macalister sounded surprised. “Are you afraid?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

He asked it when he already knew the answer. “Of what?”

“Of you.” I risked a glance over my shoulder and found him looking, of all things, perplexed.

“There’s no need to be scared,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

But couldn’t he see he already had? He’d driven a wedge between Royce and me, and for what reason?

It was like he could read my mind, and his expression went hard. “I only want what’s best for everyone involved. You were too attached.”

I said nothing, because there was nothing to say. I couldn’t argue. He’d seen me nearly break down last night as Royce had walked out on me.

His command was delivered in a firm tone. “Turn around and look at me.”

I filled my lungs with air, turned, and forced my gaze up over his suit and serious face until I met his icy eyes. In a different setting and with another personality installed in his body, Macalister Hale could be irresistible. He had nearly everything already. Looks, smarts, money, and power. And he was young too. He didn’t look fifty, even though he was, and he seemed decades younger than the other CEOs topping the Fortune 500 list.

His calculating gaze scrutinized, searching for my flaws and weaknesses and probably finding them in spades, but I didn’t dare look away. I gripped the chess piece tightly in my fist and stared back. Was this who Royce would become in twenty-five years?