Page 7 of Red Retaliation
The eldest son is now the one in charge and therefore the one I’m here to see. Apparently, he’s the worst of them all.
In my innocence, being shielded from the ins and outs of exactly what my father did for a living and what it entailed, I had little understandingof what these Bateman people were doing to be so horrific. It was only after taking my place as the wife of a man involved in a similar trade, did I realize what at leastsomeof that entailed.
With what I’ve experienced at the hands of my husband, I question that if someone such ashimjudged the Batemans to be immoral scum, then it’s easier not to dwell on just how incomprehensibly twisted and deranged they are.
I distinctly remember, despite the awful state of my life, feeling grateful that I wasn’t married to a Bateman. Married to the man I’d been given to was bad enough, but a monster at an even lower level was unthinkable. Thankfully, there was no chance of me being the exchange with a Bateman. They are enemies of both mine and Roberto’s family.
But the question remained the same: why have I come to people worse than the one I’ve run from?
Because I’mcountingon the Batemans’ hating my family and the Bristonis enough to help me, that’s why.
But what if they don’t?
And if they do, at what cost will it be?
Perspiration breaks out between my shoulder blades to join the sweat that’s been running freely down my back since I picked up that blade to stick in Roberto’s neck.
I shudder. Even thinking of my husband’s name makes nausea roil in the pit of my belly. I shift from foot to foot, the skin on my heels red raw and my feet aching like never before.
My breathing quickens.This is a bad idea. Maybe there’s time to change my mind?
The man who eventually answered my frantic banging on the back door here doesn’t know me. At least he didn’t seem to. I’d almost given up. It wasn’t like I could go around the front and enter the Scorpio Lounge that way. I could not risk being seen.
Staggering over to a glass-topped desk, I lean on it for support, my legs like jelly. Gripping onto the edge, I shakily lower myself into an enormous leather chair. Its soft upholstery cushions me like loving arms, and I fight the overwhelming urge to succumb to sleep. Instead, I stare around the room in front of me.
This must behisoffice: Redmond Bateman.
Why he’s called that ridiculous name, I don’t know, but what Idoknow is that his office isn’t what I expected.
What did I expect?
Not this!
I swivel the chair to glance out of the floor-to-ceiling window, which offers a vista over the Thames and the rest of London behind it. It isn’t too different to the outlook from my father’s office. Or Roberto’s, come to think of it. It’s just theirs looks out from the other side of the river and are in a better location for the good shops.
I run my fingers through my tangled hair, struggling to explain how, in a situation such as this, I’m contemplating whether somewhere is within walking distance of Harrods. It’s not like I’ll need it soon.
Sighing, I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling. The double circular light in the center is massive, yet not blinding. Instead, it gives off a warm ambience at odds with what this office and this whole place means to me.
Against my better judgment, I have to admit it’s beautifully designed. Everything about it screams luxury and subtle understatement. From the cream gloss finish of the huge desk topped with spotless glass, to the floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted bookcases covering the entire wall to my left, each shelf illuminated with a warm, yet invisible strip of light. Gray leather armchairs and sofas surround nesting tables with polished wooden tops and tubular metal legs. There’s a large, faceted decanter full of a deep brown liquid on top, along with a cluster of matching crystal tumblers.
Over there is a big potted plant. I’m not sure what type it is - I’ve never been much good with that sort of thing, but it sets off the room. As does the shiny marble floor.
No, it’s certainly not what I’d expect from a bunch of no-hoper dropouts who only gained their status through intimidation and luck. They must have hired a top designer.
My eyes move to the desk. There’s nothing here except a pen pot. But there are drawers...
If I could just look, then...
Holding my breath, my hand hovers over a drawer knob. Shall I look? I’ve been here for ages. Perhaps they’ve forgotten about me?
With my eyes half on the door and my ears alert for footsteps coming down the corridor, my fingers close around the gold knob and I pull the drawer open.
CHAPTER
5
Red
