Page 150 of American Hellhound
“No. You know you can’t.”
“I know.” He sank down next to her, shoulders slumped. He looked as tired as she felt. “Damn.”
In the silence that followed, Maggie wondered if Aidan had heard their voices through the wall, if he knew they’d been arguing. She hoped not, but knew it was likely.
“He’ll never go for it.” He said it so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
She pressed her arm into his, leaning into his side. “He will if I ask him to. Mom’s nuts, but Dad is the least scary person on the planet.”
Ghost slouched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, spine curled up in a vulnerable way. “Do I have to wear a suit?”
“Do youhavea suit?”
She smoothed a hand across his back; the muscles were rock-hard with stress beneath her palm. “It’ll be alright.”
“Not really.”
~*~
His collar was choking him. He reached to loosen it, but it wasn’t buttoned;stresswas choking him.
He didn’t have a suit, but he had black jeans, and a black button-up shirt, and a tin of boot polish in the back of his closet. He put on his favorite leather jacket, but left the cut at home.
The bank where Maggie’s dad worked was a freestanding structure designed to look like a Greek Revival mansion: tall columns, second-story balcony out front, pediment. If not for the handicapped parking spaces snugged up to the porch, no one would have known it was a place of business. Ghost’s eyes tracked over the tasseled, maroon drapes he could see through the windows, the little plaque beside the double doors, the dazzle of sunlight on the Beamers and Benzes out front.
His breath came in shallow little pants, not deep enough to expand his lungs properly. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck, trickled down his spine and gathered at the small of his back. “He knows we’re coming?”
Beside him, Maggie looked beautiful and all grown up in a knee-length blue dress and heels. His oversized jacket should have ruined the effect, but if anything it lent her an edge.Yes, I’m elegant and competent, it said,but I can kick your ass, too.
“I asked him to set aside an appointment for me,” she said. “I thought it’d be best to talk about the loan face-to-face.”
His stomach cramped. “So he doesn’t know I’m here? I’m gonna be the worst surprise of the day?”
“I know my dad,” she soothed, reaching up to settle his collar. She’d done it twice at the apartment; it must be a nervous tic. “This is the best way to approach him.” But her gaze held a hint of uncertainty. If the pulse pounding visibly in her throat was anything to go by, she was in a near-panic too, same as him.
He swallowed hard. “Okay.” It didn’t feel okay, not at all, but he was here, and the only thing more shameful than his stomachache was the idea of walking away.
Through the front doors they stepped into a long black-and-white tiled hallway laid with a maroon rug, sets of half-open French doors leading into offices the size of parlors; Ghost glimpsed the brick edge of a fireplace through the glass panes of one door. Instead of droning fluorescent tube lights there were chandeliers, brass and crystal: diamond-shaped shards of light splashed across the ceiling.
Maggie walked like she knew where she was going, straight up to the reception desk at the foot of a grand staircase. This place looked the way Hamilton House once had: Southern grandeur and opulence.
The receptionist, a cool blonde with a severe bun, greeted Maggie with a smile. “Hello, how can I help you today?” There was recognition there – Maggie’s dad worked here, and this woman knew it – but professional frostiness, too.
Ghost hated her on impulse.
“We have a two o’ clock with Arthur Lowe,” Maggie said, just as cool. “He’s expecting us.”
The woman’s eyes swept to Ghost, harsh with disapproval. She took a beat too long before saying, “You can go on up, then.”
“Thank you.”
Ghost gave her his best stink-eye, rewarded when she shrank down into her turtleneck.
Maggie led the way up the stairs and down an ivory-carpeted hall to a door marked with her dad’s name. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered over her shoulder, before she knocked once and let them in.
Ghost’s first impression was of a movie set, because that was the only place he’d ever seen a room like Arthur Lowe’s office. More ivory carpet and the maroon drapes he’d seen from outside: heavy, layered folds held back with brass hooks. A massive desk was situated in front of a wall of bookcases, loaded with leather-bound books, small potted plants, knickknacks, and what looked like awards. Golf trophies, maybe, judging by the little figures on top.
Arthur sat with his hands clasped together on top of the blotter, crisp shirt cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his dark brown jacket. His sweater vest, Ghost noted, matched the curtains.
