Page 23 of A Thin Line

One side of his lip actually curled up in amusement, and it made me want to scream at him. Again, though, I managed to keep my composure. “Ms. Miller, I’m a bastard. I’m a bastard through-and-through, something I fully intend to demonstrate over the next several years. But I am not a heartless bastard.”

What the hell did that even mean?

“I can arrange to hire a driver in Winchester to be at your father’s beck and call. Would that ease your concern?”

I nearly lost my breath. Had I heard him correctly?

Was he actually showing an ounce of compassion?

“Um…yes.” As an afterthought, I added, “Thank you.”

“As for your student loans…we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Had I heard him right? “We?”

“Unless you have some other plan, I imagine I’ll have to take care of that for you.”

I should have been grateful—but the arrogance in his voice, the smirk on his face, the knowledge that I would again be indebted to him rekindled my anger.

Then, as if to add insult to injury, he added, “I can’t imagine it would add up to much.”

I decided that he had definitely intended it as an insult—that any amount I’d had to borrow to pay for my education, money I obviously didn’t have or I would have paid out of pocket, was nothing but a drop in the bucket to him.

I couldn’t even muster a phony thank you. Instead, I looked back out the side window, trying to wrestle my emotions into submission—because this man would no doubt continue with the insults and cuts and prodding throughout my time serving him.

Meaning I’d better grow a thick skin and get used to it.

Chapter 8

I was surprised how my perspective had changed in just a few hours. Earlier in the evening before the course of my life was completely altered, I’d run into Sinclair Whitter and had almost felt faint at how charming and good looking he was.

Now, sitting next to him in the spacious limousine that felt tight and confining, I found him ugly. Not because of his face but because of his blackened heart. He was evil and cruel and the worst part was that he seemed to take sheer pleasure in being that way.

Was it money that had made him like that…or something else?

All the students at the school who’d thought of Dr. Rakhimov as Cruella de Vil had no idea what true evil was. I would be staring it in the face every day for ten years.

Once we approached Castle Rock, the traffic increased, despite the late hour, and undeveloped land began to vanish. It wasn’t long before we arrived in the thick of things, driving through the Denver Metro clump of cities all mashed together. At first, I had thought the entire urban area was Denver—but there were small signs here and there indicating that I was wrong. Apparently, Denver had gobbled up and comingled with other communities until they had become one unending casserole, foreign to a girl like me who was more familiar with life in a clearly delineated town.

Had I not been filled with such hatred for the man next to me, I would have asked all sorts of questions, my curiosity having been piqued. But I wasn’t about to give him an ounce of pleasure from having the knowledge to answer questions. I would fulfill my obligation but I wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction of any kind if I could help it.

Still, I felt overwhelmed as we continued north. There were so many lanes on the freeway and lights everywhere…tall buildings of stone and glass. The sky was pinkish and I couldn’t see a single star. And, although there weren’t lots of cars on the road, I was shocked at how many people there were driving around in the wee hours of the morning.

After some time, we approached what I knew was downtown Denver. I’d seen so many pictures of its recognizable skyline, buildings that made the state capital unique. The limousine took an exit off the freeway and soon we were driving through residential and business areas alike, densely packed humanity. The sides of the roads had cars lined up like sardines with no breaks at all and in such a short time there were so many traffic lights that I knew had already outnumbered the total in Winchester.

I was all at once overwhelmed…and in awe.

Not wanting him to know how I felt, I tried not to crane my neck or twist my head to get a better view of sights as we passed, but as we moved into an area with narrower streets, some one-way, and historic buildings, I yearned to walk along the sidewalks rather than be escorted in a vehicle, because I imagined I would see so much more. And daytime would reveal far more than the glimpses I saw now.

The farther we went, the more impressive the homes—larger, more stately—and I suspected we were getting close to the Whittier mansion. Soon, the driver turned down a side street and then turned down an alley. Because I wasn’t looking forward, it wasn’t until he pulled the limo through an open garage door that I knew we’d arrived.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t caught a glimpse of the building because of the direction we’d approached and because I’d obstinately refused to look ahead.

Once the car had been shut off, I considered opening my door—but, as much as I hated to admit it to myself, I knew I was no longer in control here. I didn’t know if it was time to get out, and, even though I was simmering with anger and defiance, I also didn’t want to incur his wrath any more until after I’d had a good night’s sleep.

I would wait.

The driver exited the car and, shortly after, opened my door, indicating I should get out. In the meantime, Whittier also stepped into the garage.

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