Page 3 of Twisted Play
“Can I help you?” the guard asked, barely glancing up from a tablet where he watched a sports game.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. “I have an appointment,” I said, proud of how steady I kept my voice despite the terror churning in my gut. But when he askedwho I was meeting, I faltered. Fuck. “You know what? I’ll call him.”
My hands shook so badly, I dropped my phone. No. I wouldn’t fall apart. I could handle this the same way I always handled everything.
I picked up my phone, wiped the gravel dust off the screen the best I could with the inside of my jacket, and dialed the number from last night.
“‘Alo?”
“It’s Eva Jackson,” I said, forcing my voice to stay professional despite my racing heart. “I believe you’re expecting me.”
The line went silent, and when I looked at my phone, my heart dropped to my feet. He’d hung up. My composure cracked, but before I could try again, the gate swung open.
“Stay on the driveway,” the guard said, his attention already back on the game.
Gravel crunched beneath my cheap flats, rocks digging into the thin soles with every step. Sweat poured down my face in the summer sun, and I winced at the picture I’d make when I arrived at the doorstep, face red, hair disheveled, a hot mess.
The house was huge—a mansion, a fucking lordly manor on the outskirts of Yorkfield.
I took a fortifying breath and then another before tugging on the hem of my jacket to straighten it. I pulled a tissue out of my bag and did my best to repair my face, glad I’d worn minimal makeup.
The door opened before I could knock, and the same cruel eyes from last night stared out at me, as terrifying now, in the light of day, as they had been sneering at us in our threadbare living room.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. “Jedediah Carter is waiting for you.”
Terror rolled down my spine. I thought—I didn’t know what I’d thought. Maybe that I was meeting with this man and not a fucking billionaire legendary for his ruthlessness. Jedediah Carter’s sports media empire chewed up athletes for breakfast then spit them out to leave them broken and unemployable. His sports betting apps dominated the App Store, and every team I worked with suspected he was manipulating games to increase his profits.
Silently, I followed behind the enormous man with the cruel eyes, not quite succeeding at hiding my awe at the immense wealth displayed in the house. Sports memorabilia lined the entrance hall—signed jerseys, hockey sticks, framed magazine covers featuring players I didn’t recognize. A wall of Emmy awards glinted beside Stanley Cup photos.
My eyes narrowed. No photos of the Frozen Four? His son played for Yorkfield University, but there wasn’t a hint of Yorkfield U memorabilia.
Sweat dripped down my back, sending shivers over my flesh as it evaporated under the icy air conditioning, bringing me back to the present.
The man opened an ornate wooden door, revealing a starkly modern room dominated by a wall of screens, each displaying different content—sports, news broadcasts, and stock tickers.
“In you go,” he murmured.
I squared my shoulders, steeling myself, then stepped past him and into the room.
A man in an expensive suit stood before the largest screen, watching a football game with intense focus, a phone to his ear.
“—don’t care about the streaming rights, just get itdone,” he snapped into one phone. “Tell Singapore I’ll take their call in an hour.” He ended the call and turned. “Please,” he murmured, gesturing to a chair in front of an overlarge desk. “Sit.”
Determined to show no fear, I lowered myself into the seat. He wandered around to the other side of his desk and sat, his piercing blue eyes shocking in their intensity as they raked over me.
I forced myself to sit gracefully, my back straight and my hands folded in my lap, my face carefully blank.
“Jedediah Carter,” he introduced himself with a quiet confidence that terrified me even more than the violence of his soldiers had last night. “You’re Eva Jackson, and your father owes me a million dollars.” When I opened my mouth to speak, he held up a hand. “Don’t.”
I dug my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to keep my focus.
“Your father borrowed three hundred grand from me a year ago and promptly gambled it all away. Nine months ago, he came back for another five hundred, and I turned him down.”
I kept my face neutral, even though my world was tilting on its axis. My father had told me he’d won the money to pay for my surgery. He’d said he’d borrowed it, gambled, andwon. Despite the revelations of last night, I’d wanted to believe him. I’d trusted him. The urge to scream clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down.
“He went to the Irish instead. I like doing business with the Irish because they’re not squeamish about women, not the way the fucking Italians are. This morning, I met with Declan Flanagan and paid off that debt. Then, three months ago, he went to the Russians and borrowed another twohundred. I bought that debt too.” His smile never reached his eyes. “I own every cent your father owes. And the interest.”
A notification pinged on his phone. Carter’s jaw tightened fractionally before he dismissed it.
