Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
His cock jerked. He ached to touch her. He didn’t want anyone else looking at her.
Son of a bitch, he needed to focus, keep Madison safe and protected. But in that moment, all Matt wanted to do was strip her bare, get her on her knees, and remind her in a hundred filthy ways that she belonged to him.
Ethan cleared his throat. “You all right, buddy?”
He tried not to sound like he was dying to fuck Madison. “Yeah. Thanks.”
With a nod, Ethan disappeared toward the kitchen. Matt held his breath until Madison slowly turned, hoping she’d meet his stare. But she didn’t. In fact, she acted as if he didn’t exist. Her tense body language told a different story, though. He felt her awareness of him as a man, as her lover, as the only person she trusted in this room full of vipers and assholes.
Fuck, this was going to be the longest three months of his life.
An older couple entered then. The man, likely pushing seventy, was still tall and trim, dressed in a designer suit with a dark, astute stare as he skimmed the room. The woman clinging to his arm looked at least two decades younger. Her hair, floating around her shoulders, was such a pure shade of blond Matt doubted it was real, but it fit her surprisingly soft face. He’d bet she’d had Botox and lip injections and maybe a facelift, too. But he’d also suspected she’d done that because she’d once been the trophy wife of the stiff at her side. She scanned the room with sorrowful eyes, then dropped her stare to the intricately patterned carpet.
Montrose and Genie Westbrook. Matt recognized their pictures. Clearly, Montrose was here to prove he had the balls to run with the big dogs and wouldn’t let something like the murder of his son dim his ambition. On the other hand, it was painfully obvious Genie wanted to be anywhere else. The unrelieved black of her dress, shoes, and jewelry—all fit for a funeral—screamed that she still grieved.
Agatha greeted them like the consummate hostess, offering her cheek to the ass-kissing man before she grabbed his grieving wife’s hands like they were the best of friends. “Genie. I’m so glad you came.”
“Thank you for inviting us, Agatha.” The words sounded wooden.
“Of course. I’ve been thinking about you so much. If there’s anything we can do to ease your pain…”
“You’re too kind,” Montrose cut in, speaking before Genie could.
Every word these pricks said sounded more insincere than the one before. How did anyone live like this?
“What can I get you to drink?” Agatha asked the couple.
Montrose requested a scotch. Genie demurred, but Agatha still shoved a glass of white wine in her hand. “It will soothe you.”
Like a few fermented grapes were going to help her forget that her only son was gone forever?
Matt turned to Madison with a silent question. Could this hag be more condescending?
She shrugged as if to say this was Agatha’s usual behavior. Still, empathy softened Madison’s face. She felt for Genie.
Montrose’s wife took one sip of the vino Agatha had forced on her, then set it aside and clung again to her husband’s arm. She looked seconds from bursting into tears.
Madison approached Genie, but Agatha intervened before she could comfort the grieving mother. “Look! Time for dinner. I’m sure my dear Winston will be here momentarily. If you’ll all step this way.”
When she gestured to a door, the nearby maid opened it with a curtsy, and everyone filed into the dining room, Madison last with Matt trailing behind her.
She seated herself, as did everyone else. Despite Genie abandoning her last glass of wine, one of the maids poured her another at Agatha’s behest. Meaningless chatter ensued. Beside Madison, Cynthia “helped” drain Genie’s second stem when she thought no one was looking.
Finally, a disturbance on the far side of the room grabbed everyone’s attention. The door opened. Collectively, the room looked up, breath held, as Todd entered, now dressed in a black shirt with a douchy gray-patterned jacket, black slacks, and designer loafers. It was all Matt could do not to roll his eyes at the GQ wannabe.
Behind him, an old man entered, complete with white hair and a pristine navy-blue suit. Winston Pershing. The senator might be pushing eighty and he might not be physically intimidating at barely five foot nine, but his presence filled the room, bolstered by his swaggering politician’s smile.
Matt didn’t dare believe Winston’s affable expression was anything but calculated. The old man expected people to underestimate him, and he probably raised his figurative blade the minute they did.
Slowly, he made his way across the room, gnarled fingers wrapped around a cane while he nodded in greeting, dissecting everyone with a shrewd blue stare. Though he looked weathered and slightly stooped, and time had faded his mouth to a skin-colored slash, none of that diminished his charisma. The entire room seemed to hang on the senator’s every move and breath.