Feathers and Thorne Series Books 1 - 3: The Complete Collection

Chapter Nine

Isabella

I struggle to keep my shirt and skirt intact as I stay put on the floor, a flicker of pink fear lingering across my cheeks. Carter pulls the seat behind the desk, taking Jacob’s spot, while the Lacey son and father duo from hell are opposite him.

He keeps his back to me, his cold eyes off me, and I almost prefer it that way, considering my battered and vulnerable state. He seems different in this office than he was at the supermarket, even the park, where he couldn’t help but look me over incessantly. He turns his back to me, leaning back leisurely in the chair he commandeered from Jacob.

“I came to talk business, boys,” Carter says, biting on the last word with the intent to insult.

William toys with his square lighter, flicking the cap up and down needlessly in a nervous tic. “We really shouldn’t discuss anything pertaining to business with her here.”

I flinch, all three sets of eyes looming over in my direction, but I only meet one set of cold, ocean blue eyes that calm my worries.

“No, she’s going to stay right there until I’m done, then I’m taking Isabella home,” Carter says… well, more like demands. “You’re going to deal with the Frances Johnson mess,” he adds, pointing to Jacob. “I’m going to write a check, you will bribe the editor to cut the story, and any money left over from your one-percent cut is yours to keep. The rest is for Frances’ sponsorship.”

Jacob rattles in frustration. Just a few minutes ago, he had planned to take it all out on me, but with Carter between us, I can see Jacob isn’t going to try anything with him as a witness. I don’t know what it is about Mr. Blackthorne, his aura indifferent but also dominating the entire room.

Something tells me every room he walks into suffers through the same thick tension.

“If that’s it, then write the check,” Jacob grumbles, his focus flicking toward me on the floor. “I have work to attend to with Isabella. She is my receptionist, after all. She works for me.”

William elbows his son in the shoulder. Carter resorts to snickering in response.

“I think bending her over your desk while she’s crying is hardly appropriate for a receptionist’s job requirements,” Carter groans. “She clearly wasn’t enjoying your efforts, either.”

“She’s a thief,” William spits. “We can cut off her fingers, or she can take her punishment like an adult. She crossed my family and my business and fucked with our money.”

Carter raises a brow, his face contorted in mild interest. “Really now? A thief? How much did she take?”

Jacob looks elsewhere as though morally above this conversation. “Five to six grand.”

Carter barks a laugh as William presses his temples into his palms in response.

“You’re torturing her over a few thousand?” Carter shakes his head in disgust. “Is the Lacey family really that tight on cash, tormenting a young receptionist over a couple grand?”

“No, business is fine,” Jacob says through a locked jaw.

“Obviously not,” Carter hums, his voice like velvet on my skin. “I’ll pay off her debt, and you can forget about this senseless need to torment her.”

I swallow hard, wanting to thank Carter, but Jacob snorts in response. He isn’t going to let his desires go that easily, no matter how demented they are.

“This doesn’t exactly involve you, Blackthorne.”

Even I shudder at Jacob’s stoic words.

Carter is less than intimidated in an irritated response, “I’m trying to run a business that involves the likeness of Frances Johnson, who was just ousted as an adulterer by some greasy editorial magazine downtown. If you think I want to be traced back to a construction company with the same morals, the same inappropriate conduct against a receptionist, then I’ll take my money and your cut of the deal somewhere else.”

Jacob scoffs. William pleads through his gaze that his son doesn’t fuck up any more than he already has. If there ever were a stark difference between these men, it’s William’s need for a fat wallet, while Jacob is only worried about the throbbing shaft in his gray, tacky slacks.

“Ten percent of two million dollars,” Carter states, speaking through a prim chuckle. “Two-hundred-thousand dollars from our deal goes into your wallet if you keep your hands to yourself and off the receptionist.”

My heart drops at that deal.

Two hundred thousand dollars in a deal to replace the five thousand I stole; Blackthorne has to be crazy!

“Deal,” William Lacey barks, leaning forward with greed in his eyes. “Fucking deal, she will be left alone from this point forward, I swear.”

Carter taps his fingertips on the desk, watching Jacob like a hawk would a mouse—or in this case, a rat.

“Fine, fuck,” Jacob grumbles, shooting daggers through a glare in my direction. “Take the whore home, for all I care. Fuck her if you want; sign the check, and I’ll handle the editor at… which one is it?”

“Page Eight,” Carter supplies.

Relief rushes through me, but I don’t let it show too much. I will have to wait, watch, and see if this deal is true. Carter Blackthorne has run into me three times in my lifetime, and he’s just held a deal over Jacob’s head for more money than I’ll ever make at this job.

I try not to think much about the political aspect of money transferring through a construction company for a mayoral candidate. If it means I don’t get assaulted in this office, I will block that peculiar deal out of my mind forever.

It doesn’t concern me or my job here at Lacey Construction, and I suppose it’s a sign of respect I can offer to Carter for digging me out of the grave I had been shoved into today.

Blackthorne fills out a check and pushes it across the desk to the younger Lacey.

“Well, with that settled,” Carter breathes, spinning in his chair until he faces me on the floor.

I go taut under his direct gaze, shuddering as he studies the torn and tattered remains of my clothes. I’ve been silently releasing tears during their peace talk, my heart heavy as images of Jacob throwing me around and pinning me to the desk still flash violently through my mind.

Carter peels out of his coat, handing the heavy material over to me. I take it willingly, though, with caution. My stomach churns at the expensive fabric and the warm bourbon scent stuck to the jacket. He nods as though giving permission, and I slide my arms into the sleeves and pull the coat together at the front.

At least when I stand, it will cover my bare, bruising ass from sight while I have to make the unfortunate trip outside and under the eyes of the construction brutes hard at work. They’ll have a field day with the sight of me otherwise. I push against the wall, standing to see how far the fabric falls.

Carter is beside me suddenly, his hands yanking at the hem of my skirt, pulling the ragged slit in the back to the side of my thigh like it was a sultry evening gown. He adjusts his jacket in the front of my chest, his fingers pausing before he brushes over the bloody spec that soaked into my blouse.

He goes taut at the sight of it.

His fingers tip upward, brushing my chin, so I’m forced to look up at his daunting height, towering over me in stiff silence, his lips pressed into a firm, glower of a line.

“If they ever touch you again, you grab my business card, come find me, and I’ll have their heads on a pole by the weekend. Understand me, little dove?”

I wince at his choice of pet name but nod solemnly in reply.

“Good,” he grates. “I’ll take you home.”