Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(86)

“That’s a lie,” I say, my face heating with anger. Since he knows I’m recording him, he’s trying to switch things around. “Don’t call me again. I want nothing to do with you.”

I hang up the phone then. It’s been two months since I last saw him. Two months since he last put his hands on me. I could call the police. The problem is, he is the police . . .




Evan



My Jaguar skids, again, and again, and again, fighting to keep pace with the other drivers insane enough to travel the Blue Route in this weather. Chunks of wet snow pelt my windshield. My wipers squeak against the glass as they race to keep my line of sight clear when yet another vehicle cuts me off, pelting my windshield with more melting ice. My current struggle with life and death does not, of course, discourage Maxine from barking messages over my Blue Tooth. “Yodel called again, they want you to reconsider.”

“No,” I answer, cutting my steering wheel toward the left when my car veers right. “We’re representing Mellon, their biggest competitor. It’s a conflict of interests to supply both companies with the same technology.”

I mutter a curse, when the minivan in front of me slams on the brakes and I just miss ramming into her bumper. And because we’re in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly love, the woman rolls down the window―allowing snow into her vehicle just to wave an irate middle finger at me. “Rich Bitch loser,” she cries out.

I rub my face. Why am I here again? Before I can finish the thought, Maxine reminds me.

“Evan, I don’t think your stepfather will agree with your decision. The company needs the revenue.”

“Not at the expense of our ethics.” The company is at risk, yes, but it’s mostly due to poor business practices such as the ones Maxine is suggesting I entertain. I understand she learned these tactics by my predecessor, but he was conniving snake―which is why he’s currently serving time for embezzling the company’s money and I was recruited from our London branch to save the enterprise from financial collapse.

“What about your eleven a.m. with the V.P. of County General?”

“Have Ann and Clifton begin if I’m not on time. I emailed them the presentation last night―”

“Do you really think they’re qualified?” she interrupts.

I open my mouth to argue and insist that they are―and to remind her I’m her superior, not the other way around. But Ann and Clifton are still fairly new. They’re not at the level I need them to be. However, they’re learning fast under my tutelage and the only ones from the original staff that I currently trust.

“Evan?” she presses.

“Maxine, Ann and Clifton will handle it. That’s my final word.” I disconnect then, swearing as I take the ramp and practically glide down sideways.

“Get a real car, f*cker,” another proud Pennsylvanian hollers.

I rub my face again, both because I’m tired and equally frustrated. Three in the morning. That’s the hour I arrived home earlier today. It wouldn’t have taken me as long had I been driving a vehicle capable of enduring this ridiculous weather.

I glance up, releasing a tense breath when the sign from the Ford dealership I researched this morning comes into view. Saving iCronos will take me time. Time I can’t spare driving a Jaguar on roads better maneuvered via dogsled.

My car slows to a stop in front of the massive dealership. The combination of the vehicle I’m driving along with the expensive suit I’m wearing beneath my long wool coat commands attention. The moment I step inside, a young woman with short dark spiky hair hurries over. “Good morning, sir. Are you interested in acquiring a new vehicle?” she asks.

She seems young, but eager, a respectable attribute. Yet no sooner does she finish speaking than a man about my age steps in front of her, adjusting the jacket of his gray suit. “I got this, P,” he tells her. “Get us some coffee, will you?” He holds out his hand. “Hello. I’m Oscar Nelson. Welcome to Ford Nation.”

My frown bounces from his hand to the young woman whose face is now bright red with anger, humiliation, and possibly more. “Are you his secretary?” I ask her.

“No,” she answers. “I’m a car sales representative for Ford Nation―”

Oscar begins to talk over her, but it’s the stomping sound of quickly approaching footsteps that lures my focus. A woman with a pinstripe jacket and matching skirt storms forward, the quick motions of her long toned legs causing the edge of her skirt to brush above her knees and swing her hips seductively. Long hair flutters like a black silk sail behind her, revealing a face better suited for my wildest dreams. Sapphire blue eyes shimmer behind a thick layer of dark lashes, lighting her creamy white skin and full pink lips.

I spent the first two years following my completion of my masters in either a lab or boardroom packed with men in alternating stages of balding, and these last three months working eighteen hour days trying to rebuild an empire. I haven’t had the opportunity let alone the time to meet women. But if I knew women like her existed, I would have spared a moment.

Good . . . Lord.

I don’t realize I’m gaping until she stops directly in front of us and juts out her chin. “Problem?” she asks Oscar.

Oscar stiffens his posture. “No. I was just showing Mr. . .” He motions to me. “My apologies, what’s your name, sir?”