A Million Different Ways to Lose You (Horn Duet 2)

His mouth curved up. His eyes overflowed with adoration. He looked happy and unburdened for a moment…I would’ve done anything to keep that look on his face.

“Language,” he said, teasing me.

“You’re a very bad influence, Mr. Horn.”

“Damn right, I am,” he muttered in a tone soaked in lust. “And for your information––I fucking love you, too.” With that, he thrust his hips and filled me up. He was home. Where he belonged––and always would.

Chapter Eleven

After weeks of negotiations, the Albanian Minister of Justice had agreed to hold the meeting at Horn & Cie. At least, that’s what David Bernard told me when he prepped us for the meeting.

“Now remember, they will try to goad you into anything that resembles a confession. You must let me handle it.” His neatly combed, silver head swiveled in the direction of Sebastian who was half sitting on the corner of his desk, his face a study in power and confidence. “That means you, too.” Mr. Bernard’s sharp, blue glare brooked no argument. With a scowl fixed firmly in place, Sebastian tossed his Hermés tie over his shoulder and crossed his arms, his silver cufflinks clinking as they brushed together. Watching Sebastian back down was a rare sight––one I took secret pleasure in.

At present, we were in the conference room, the three of us on one side of the ten foot long conference table, them on the other. The attaché, Mr. Imami, wearing an Italian suit that looked far too expensive for a government official, sat unnaturally still. The two colleagues seated next to him looked bored and useless. It was clear they were only along as a show of force.

“She will have to admit to some degree of responsibility,” Mr. Imami stated, his English only slightly colored by an Albanian accent.

I didn’t need to see Sebastian to feel him tense. Stealing a sideways glance, I watched his jaw pulse and his nostrils flare, and I knew he was getting ready to strike back. “Not a chance,” Sebastian replied in an ominously low voice.

Interjecting before the meeting acrimoniously unraveled, Mr. Bernard clarified, “What my client means to say, Mr. Imami, is that we can all agree that there isn’t a shred of evidence to link Miss Sava to the theft.”

Mr. Imami’s heavy-lidded, dark eyes shifted back and forth between Mr. Bernard and Sebastian. The sharpness of his cheekbones made the heavy, dark bags beneath them more pronounced. But it was the incredible stillness of his body that had my attention. My instincts told me there was cunning behind that stillness, and possibly violence. It had me on edge.

“Are you suggesting that the missing money be explained as an accounting error?” His lips barely moved when he spoke. I understood the subtext all too well. It would have been an egregious mistake to imply that the Minister of Finance could have bungled something so thoroughly. It would’ve been construed as serious breach of respect, and any negations would have suffered a quick and sudden death.

“We’re suggesting that Dr. Sava acted alone. That Miss Sava had no knowledge of the crime until his apparent suicide,” Mr. Bernard concluded while stealing a glance in my direction.

My entire body turned to stone. Under the table, Sebastian squeezed my hand. They were going to pin it all on my father based on a slew of assumptions, without any concrete evidence. Mr. Imami showed no outward display of his consent. However, the tension in the room seemed to lessen by a few degrees.

“Furthermore, the five million dollars my client has agreed to donate to the university should go a long way to smooth any ruffled feathers the Minister may still have over the details.”

Five million dollars…sweet Jesus. The shame and guilt I felt at the moment was indescribable.

“Have you located the account in her name?” Sebastian inquired. Everyone’s attention slid to Mr. Imami who was doing a terrific impression of a statue. Sebastian’s expression altered, a sly understanding replacing his curiosity. Deducing the answer, he announced it to the rest of us still in the dark. “It’s not offshore.”

“Montenegro,” offered Mr. Imami.

I stood suddenly, my chair screeching across the marble floor. “My father is innocent!” I heard the words come out of my mouth too late to stop them. “And when I was interrogated the police said it was offshore.” All at once I felt the scorching heat of every pair of masculine eyes in the room. I sat down abruptly.

“They were bluffing,” Sebastian clarified. Mr. Imami simply stared back, his face a portrait of apathy.

Mr. Bernard didn’t miss a beat. “Then we can all agree. Miss Sava has clearly proven she had no knowledge of the whereabouts of the money. Let her give you an official statement indicating as such, and let’s have the matter be done with.”

“There’s still the issue of the money,” Mr. Imami added.