Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(6)

“I assume you’ve contacted the police.”

Harrison nods.

“Deal with it. Call my father, get more men, double the details. I want foot patrols again. Those damned dogs aren’t doing their job.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My security chief leaves and I let out a slow breath. I should tell him. Victor loved that car, he’d be crushed to hear it’s been stolen. I can’t imagine why someone would break into the grounds and steal that car. It’s one of the least valuable in the collection. Victor once explained it to me; the numbers don’t match, whatever that means, because of his father’s modifications. The Rolls Royce, a Phantom II, is worth a small fortune on its own. Why would someone steal the Firebird and leave the others undisturbed?

I suppose I should feel violated. I’ve been robbed. My home has been defiled.

Except it’s not my car and it’s not my house, and it’s not my car, it belongs to Victor. I don’t care about his damned car. If I never saw it again I would not mind in the least.

Promise!

“Ma’am?”

Alicia stares at me. I realize I’ve been standing around for a good minute staring into space. I shake my head.

“We’re on a timetable. Have the car brought up.”

I don’t drive very often. Father pays drivers for that. The BMW sedan out front is my birthday present from last year, not that I care all that much. As long as they run, one car is the same as another to me.

I slip into the back seat and stare out the window as Alicia works, answering emails and contacts that are not sufficiently important for my extremely valuable time. I spend a good hour of that time brooding in the car, saying nothing, trying to think of anything but Victor.

My louse of a stepbrother. Even thinking about him makes me furious. I loathe him, after what he did to me.

That was another life, that happened to another person. She’s dead.

Long live the ice queen.

The ride to the airport is about an hour. I’m not flying by airline, ‘with the rabble’ as my father would say. We have a private jet, a sleek black Gulfstream. My seat inside is enormous and plush, and once my seatbelt is on and the plane is in the air, I feel comfortable catching an hour or so of sleep. It’s a short hop from Philadelphia International to LaGuardia, and it feels like no time has passed at all when Alicia wakes me with a gentle, but insistent, “Ma’am.”

I don’t suffer anyone to touch me. One of my assistants once presumed to shake me by the shoulder in a situation like this. I don’t know what she does for a living now. I don’t much care.

I snap awake, glad I didn’t dream. After landing I take a minute to sip a cup of black coffee and exit the plane, to a waiting town car. Alicia knows better than to chatter. The driver does not. I silence him with a curt look and watch mostly identical buildings glide by my window. New York traffic is annoying but I am never late. Late implies there will be some consequence for my failure to arrive on time. They will wait for me. My lips curl in a hint of a smile.

I keep trying to feel something. It’s not working.

After perhaps forty-five minutes for a few miles of driving, the town car pulls into the garage. Thorpe has sent some chattery underling to meet me. He extends a hand, I walk past him, Alicia in tow. One of the lawyers follows. Sline, I think his name is. Something like that. The others shy away from me in the elevator, even the underling charged with turning the key to take me to the private upper floors for the meeting. I don’t look at any of them. The ride up is quick, the doors open, and I walk through the executive offices. The doors are open, the occupants all look up as I pass, shivering as I walk by. The boardroom is at the far end. I suppose I should be impressed. The view is magnificent, a panoramic, one hundred eighty degree expanse of city skyline and Hudson river. I’m not impressed. I’ve seen it.

Thorpe is waiting for me.

I size him up. I’ve seen pictures. This is the first time we’ve met in person.

Jim Thorpe is about five eight, soft and round but not fat, and looks like old money. They all look the same.

Except Victor. Victor looks like a model.

Be quiet, little voice.

He offers me a soft hand. I deign to shake it, and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jacket. Alicia discretely hands me an antibacterial wipe as she spreads out our materials at the head of the long conference table.

I’m good at reading people. Thorpe is scared. He knows why I’m here, he knows he needs me, and he wants to sleep with me. I try to ignore the last part. It’s not me, it’s a power thing. Two-thirds of the executives I meet are obviously picturing me naked. It’s a defense mechanism. They can’t be afraid of a woman, so that’s what they make themselves see. It’s hard to feel predatory and afraid at the same time.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ross,” he says in a voice that holds no hint of pleasure. “Glad you could be here.”

“Quite. The others?”

“The board will be arriving shortly, I’m sure.”

“Good. That will give me a few minutes to set up. Alicia.”

There’s a podium at the head of the table. I can tell Thorpe is used to sitting there from the look he gives me when I claim his seat. My face is as still as tranquil waters, but inside I feel a hint of satisfaction. A secretary appears and hands him some files. I recognize her from the pictures the private detective sent me. She’s the one he beds when his favorite is out of town. What do you call it when a man has something on the side and is cheating on his mistress? A double mistress? There should be a word for that, if there isn’t already. Thorpe stands there awkwardly, eyeing me as I lay out my papers. Alicia has our projector in a case and sets it up, wires it to the laptop and aims it at the wall. I sip from a bottle of water and roll my shoulders.