gave another start. “Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that,” she said in a slightly cracked voice.
Distress spilled from her eyes, which made him feel more like a heel than ever. Realizing he was on the verge of falling off a very high cliff, he stood and muttered roughly, “Sorry.”
When she didn’t respond, he added, “Look, stay and finish your breakfast. I’ve got work to do.”
Rupert Holt slammed the paper down on the desk in his study so hard that his cup rattled in his saucer. Coffee sloshed on the wood. “Damn!”
He ignored the mess his burst of temper had made, continuing to seethe. Let one of his maids clean it up. He paid them enough.
The last thing he wanted was for Collier Smith to get that appointment to the federal bench. No son or stepson—it didn’t matter—of Mason Williams would succeed in any political arena if he had his way. And as long as he had the money to back up his mouth, he usually got what he wanted.
But then, so did Mason. He had as much clout, prestige and money as Rupert himself had. Yet Rupert was determined to best him. Besting his contemporary had become one of his most sought after goals. He felt justified, too, since the law firm of Williams, Smith and Rutledge had represented him on a lawsuit that had gone sour, costing him a bundle of money.
While that was bad enough, Mason’s superior attitude rankled just as much. The fact that he hailed from an old Southern family, with roots going back before the Civil War, didn’t make Mason any better or his shit smell any sweeter.
Rupert would have given his left ball to have the same social clout Mason and his family had, but no matter how much money he made, no matter how many of the rough edges he whittled off his personality, his efforts never seemed to be enough.
In the social circles of Haven and the surrounding county, he was always going to be one down simply because he didn’t have a family tree of distinction.
A crock of crap. That was his thought on the subject. He had news for the snobs: he could hold his own when push came to shove. And with this federal appointment wide-open, the shoving had started.
Hell, he was a staunch Republican, in good standing with the party muckey-mucks, and he had his own man in the race for the judgeship, a man who was much more qualified than Smith.
Before he could mount an attack against the William and Smith armies, however, he had to fix a more pressing problem—Brittany Banks. Somehow he had to make up for the damage he’d done to her before she returned the favor and damaged him.
Sweat dampened his shirt as the ramifications of his poor judgment hit home. He couldn’t remember when he’d gotten that drunk or lost control so completely and so quickly.
But when she’d told him no and looked at him as if he was some reptile that had just crawled out from under a rock, he’d lost it. He remembered slapping her hard at least once. What happened after she cried out remained fuzzy, except for when he shoved her out of his vehicle.
If she blabbed and his wife found out… Sweat covered Rupert’s entire body as he suddenly lunged up from the table and walked to the window. The grounds of his mansion were a sight for any eyes, especially when the leaves were at their peak. Now the beauty of his estate held little fascination for him. His mind was too cluttered with neutralizing the damage.
He’d already ordered two dozen long-stemmed red roses to be sent to the travel agency that afternoon if Brittany showed up for work. Suddenly his entire system threatened to shut down.
What if she was dead?
Although it hadn’t been freezing last night, it had been cold and raining. And he’d just dumped her on the side of a highway like a piece of garbage. Someone could have come along and run over her, or worse.
His sweat turned into a chill, making him shake. He’d already called the local hospitals to see if she’d been admitted. So far, so good. If she didn’t show up at work in a few days, he would have to hire a private eye to find her. If she was dead…
He almost lost the contents of his stomach. He shouldn’t have gotten so stinking drunk. He knew he couldn’t handle it. Angel, his wife, would have his head on a platter, not to mention what would happen to his position in the company. She would strip him of all power. He thought he’d conquered his drinking problem, or at least had it under control, but apparently he hadn’t.
The thing was, he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long time. And he couldn’t remember ever wanting one as badly as he wanted Brittany, even if she was trailer trash.
And to think she’d rejected him. No one thwarted Rupert Holt and got away with it. This time, though, he feared he’d taken his rage and vindictiveness too far. Until he knew for sure, he had to back off.
His only hope was that Brittany was a survivor. Considering what she’d been through already, she would bounce back. When she surfaced, he would make amends, take care of the problem. Her brother was her Achilles’ heel, so he’d keep hammering on his willingness to help Tommy. Before long, he would wear her down and get back into her good graces. She would never say a word to anyone.
Suddenly feeling better, Rupert turned his attention back to Collier. He eyed the cordless phone on the buffet and reached for it. Might as well start the dice rolling against Smith.
He punched out a number and waited.
Five
Would this mess ever end? The rain had been falling all day and into the night, which meant the bridge was completely submerged. They were truly marooned.
It had to quit. It just had to. The day had been long and not really profitable, though he’d remained in his room for most of it. When he was lucky enough and got a respite from thoughts of Brittany, he’d actually gotten a little work done. Not nearly enough, however. He’d used most of his energy debating what to do about her.
Absolutely nothing, his common sense had told him. As soon as they were able to get back to civilization, Brittany would no longer be his responsibility. So why did he feel so responsible? Go figure.
It was apparent she’d wanted to avoid him as much as he had her. Still, he’d forced himself to knock on her door a couple of times and ask if she was all right, telling her to help herself to anything in the kitchen she might want. Once he’d heard her rummaging around in there and been tempted to join her, but he hadn’t. He knew he wasn’t playing the gracious host, not anywhere close to it. But this entire situation was so bizarre that he had no real idea how to behave.
Brittany Banks made him uncomfortable. That was the stark truth. She made him want something he couldn’t have. Her. Every time he was around her, he got a hard-on. He wasn’t proud of his urges, but he was proud that he’d stayed away from her.
As it was, she’d been to hell and back. He had no intention of sending her back there again, which was what would happen if he touched her. Just that thought knotted his stomach even tighter. He wasn’t thinking like a rational man but like a teenager in heat.
Actually it was worse. Instead of tending
