Page 35 of Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy 2)
The implication that I’m not staying on top of my business because of Keira infuriates me. “Right now. Let’s knock it all out. Neither of us is leaving this room until every single outstanding item has been covered. You think I’m distracted? You’re fucking wrong. Nothing has changed.”
Even as I say the words, I know I’m lying.
Everything has changed.
Keira
I still have exactly one outfit from which to choose, but the only difference this time? It’s in Mount’s closet. I suppose I could attempt to turn one of his custom-tailored shirts into some kind of fashion statement, using a fancy tie for a belt.
The thought crosses my mind for all of two seconds before I take the black-and-white striped dress from the hanger and slip into it. Once again, it’s designer, expensive as hell, and fits like a dream. Oh, and the accompanying lingerie actually includes a thong and a beautiful lace bra this time, so that’s a plus.
When I open the door to Mount’s suite, V is waiting outside. He silently delivers me to work—sans hood—
and I keep the plug in for the prescribed hour before sneaking into my bathroom to remove it. Then I bury myself in work and deal with one thing after another until I can almost forget this morning.
Almost.
I’m a widow.
It shouldn’t be a startling realization considering I’ve believed that for months, but knowing that it’s only now true is a completely different situation.
I should feel sorrow, or something, for the fact that Mount “took care of” Brett sometime after he left last night and before I woke up this morning. But, truthfully, all I feel is relief.
How terrible of a person does that make me?
I can’t even blame it on Mount’s influence, because after my first encounter with him in this office, I remember thinking that if Brett were still alive, I’d kill him myself for putting me in this situation. And last night, when he was describing how he’d kill my family, I wanted to rip the gun from his hand and unload every bullet into his chest, except for maybe saving a single shot to put right between his eyes.
I brace my elbows on my desk and drop my head into the cradle of my hands.
Who am I?
I suck in a wild breath and lift my gaze to the ceiling. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m sitting in my office, the one I’ve dreamed about having since I was a little girl, wearing clothes selected for me by a man who murdered my husband or had him murdered, and instead of going to the police to tell them what happened, I’m thinking about how badly I wanted him to fuck me on his desk this morning.
What is wrong with me?
It’s a question I can’t answer, so I go back to my pile of work, pretending I’m not being torn apart by a moral crisis I’m pretty sure is going to land me in hell because I can’t drum up a single bit of remorse.
I lose track of time, probably because my last conference call drones on for an hour longer than necessary as I negotiate the preliminaries of a supply contract before turning over the details to the lawyers to draft.
“So, we’ll see you in Dublin in a couple days to celebrate the deal in person at GWSC?” Roy asks. He’s a premium organic-grain supplier I need as a backup to my primary so I’m not sole-sourced.
GWSC is the Global Whiskey and Spirits Conference, an event I’ve wanted to attend since my dad went with my grandfather when I was twenty. After that, Dad said it was an expense the company couldn’t justify, and since I’ve taken the helm, that’s continued to be the case.
“I was hoping to get a ticket last minute, but the event I’ve got coming up is going to change those plans.” My answer is complete bullshit. I haven’t even attempted to register because it would be the height of irresponsibility to jaunt off to my dream conference when I can’t make payroll. At least, I couldn’t before Mount intervened.
Regardless, I’m not about to admit that Seven Sinners is having money issues to a potential supplier.
“That’s disappointing. They’ve got some heavy hitters coming in. We’re really excited to attend because we’ve doubled our grain output this year and have a lot of interest on the supply side.”
I read between the lines of his comment. “I hope that’s not your way of telling me you’re going to play hardball on these negotiations, Roy. You know we made a deal.” I say it with a smile in my voice but grip the pen in my hand, using it to make a stabbing motion toward the doodle-edged notepad on my desk.
Roy guffaws. “Of course not. You know me. Man of my word.”
“Good to know that there are still men like you who have unquestionable credibility. That’s such a rare commodity these days. Hopefully, I’ll see you at GWSC next year.”
We hang up, promising to get the lawyers going on the drafting of the contract, and I look at the doodles on my notepad around the contract terms.
I’m getting a good deal, as long as his lawyers don’t screw it all up when they draft it. I swear they love to make simple things complicated.
