Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(54)

“I am not him,” he bites out again, a charge barely contained just beneath his surface.

“No,” I say, and not ready to tell him I know about the cartel, I settle on, “You’re headed to much darker places and we both know it. Translation. Dead or in jail, and one of those has no return.”

He glares at me, his emotions pushing against mine, wanting a reaction, but it’s in moments like these, when someone else loses it, that I excel and win. “What now, Derek?” I challenge softly.

“What indeed,” he replies softly, his voice practically vibrating, before he abruptly releases me, putting several steps between us. “Wherever I go,” he says, tugging his jacket straight, “if you stay here, you’re going with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, brother, and mark my words, I’m not following you where you’re headed, nor is this company.”

His lips twist and he lets out a tight rasp of laughter. “You amuse me, brother. If our father dies tomorrow, I have the vote, and you’ll be gone. And I’ll do anything to make sure I keep that vote. Anything. And we both know you don’t have the backbone to stop me.”

He heads back to his car, and I’m not sure, but I think he just told me that he’d kill our father to ensure that vote happens when he wants it to happen. Or maybe he meant he’d kill me. I have no idea who Derek is at this point. He’s damn sure not the brother I grew up idolizing. I’m halfway to my car when he speeds past me. I stop and stare after him, and the whirlwind of emotions I can’t even name, which I’ve been suppressing not just today, but this whole damn year, begin a slow boil. I need the hell out of here. I need everything I can’t have.





EMILY


An hour after Shane disappeared onto that elevator, shutting me out, I am still at my desk working on one edit after another to the deal memo his father is using for the hedge-fund recruits. Brandon Senior, on the other hand, busies himself rejecting every version I give him, in between hacks and phone calls. And being here is making me crazy, when all I can think about is Shane and the torment I’d seen in his eyes moments before that elevator had shut. Finally though, I think I’ve nailed it and I carry the memo into Mr. Brandon’s office.

“Here you go,” I say, setting it on his desk, noting the white ring around his lips and the ruddy look to his skin.

He glances down at it, scanning for several seconds before looking at me. “Finally, Ms. Stevens.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon.”

His brow arches. “Feisty this morning to submissive this evening. You know, don’t you?”

“Know?” I ask cautiously. “Know what?”

“About my cancer.”

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

“Who told you?”

“You,” I say, dodging a direct answer. “With the bloody cough.”

“Who told you?” he pressed.

“Does it matter?”

His lips thin. “I suppose it doesn’t. You may go, Ms. Stevens.” I don’t move, unsure I should leave him alone. He might be an *, but he’s coughing up blood and he is Shane’s father. He arches a brow at me. “Something you need, Ms. Stevens?”

“I’m not sure I should leave you.”

His eyes glint hard. “If I drop dead, I’m sure you’ll clean up the mess tomorrow. Get the f*ck out of here.”

The outburst jolts me and I rush across the room, exiting the workspace, having learned a big lesson. Concern pisses him off. I grab my purse and I don’t bother to say good-bye, nor do I stop walking until I’m at the elevators, punching the button. The car to my left opens and Shane’s mother exits.

“Mrs. Brandon,” I greet, facing her, and she’s still in her same black pantsuit, her hair and makeup still perfect.

“Emily,” she greets me, finding her way to the space directly in front of me. “I was hoping to catch you. We should talk.”

“Talk? About?”

“Are you aware my husband is sick?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, you are. You’re bright.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “It’s cancer and it’s terminal.”

“‘Terminal,’” I repeat. The word rings with a grimness I’d not quite fully digested until this moment. “Is it manageable?”

“He did a clinical trial and has done well, but I understand he’s hiding worsening effects from me now. What do you know about that?”

“I know today was a bad day,” I say, cautiously.

“That’s a carefully weighed answer I can’t afford.” Her hands go to her hips. “Stick it out with him and I’ll pay you a fifty thousand dollar bonus.”

My eyes go wide. “Fifty thousand dollars?” Alarm bells go off in my head. “Why would you pay me that kind of money?”

“I need someone close to him I can trust and who won’t leave.”

“That you can trust?”

“That’s right. You’d simply call me once a day and give me an update on his medical condition and the projects he’s working on.”

“‘The projects he’s working on,’” I repeat. “Why would I do that?”