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Never seen him as far as I can remember, save for perhaps passing him on the street decades ago while in town.
Yet here he is, ready to prostrate himself and lick my metaphorical boots.
There was a time I would have relished this power, the terrified look in his eyes that match his daughter’s, but knowing the pain this conversation will bring to Callista makes it impossible for me to enjoy it.
He gives me a little half bow, awkward as fuck from a man who considers himself powerful enough to have involved himself with Rosewood. “I um…”
“You um, what?”
His eyes dart up to the house, but I sure as hell am not about to bring up his daughter.
I simply raise a brow, waiting as I use the axe blade to clean my fingernails absently.
Disinterest always makes people nervous, causes them to sweat. They don’t know what to do when the other party in a conversation appears not to give a shit about them. I’ve used it to my advantage many times, and today, I do it again to buy the time I need to ensure our guest of honor can make it down the stairs on her injured foot.
Harold clears his throat. “I came to ask…”
I hear the footsteps behind me before he even finishes the question, and Callista comes flying out the door behind me, limping badly in her effort to rush.
“Dad!”
She hits the first step, attempting to put her full weight on her stitched sole, and stumbles on her way down.
I reach out quickly and grasp her upper arm, holding her steady. Her eyes immediately dart to mine, a thank you written in her gaze as she tries to tug herself out of my hold without a word.
Harold’s eyes widen, and he rushes forward toward her. “Callista, are you okay?”
His gaze darts down to her bare feet and the bandage wrapped around her wound. I tighten my grip on her arm, helping to keep her upright while she tries to balance on her one good foot.
She sucks in a little breath like she’s fighting back a bite of pain and looks to her father. “I’m all right. I just cut my foot a little.”
Harold casts a furious look my way. “You hurt my daughter?”
I release her arm so she can embrace her father, snarling at the incredibly daft man. “Fuck you, Fox. You sent her here as a goddamn sacrificial lamb after your fuck-up. So, don’t go accusing me of hurting her when you’re using her like a piece of meat.”
Harold pulls away from her hug, keeping his arm wrapped around her shoulder to help support her. “I didn’t send her up here. I told her not to come.”
I glance at my watch, the old tourbillon that’s been in the family for hundreds of years and still keeps precise time. “Yet it took you three days to show up. You must not have been that concerned.”
He scowls at me. “Callista is quite crafty when she wants to be. She waited until I left the country on business to come because she knew I would have chased right after her if she attempted it while I could intervene. As soon as I landed and found out what she had done, I came after her.”
It’s the same bullshit placation Callista offered on her father’s behalf, an insistence that he isn’t to blame for the situation when this all comes down to him.
“Yet you left town, knowing that note had been stuck to your door.”
Harold’s worried gaze darts to the axe still in my hand, and he gulps again, tightening his grip on Callista, who shivers.
“Daddy, really, I’m all right…”
Her effort to defuse the situation tugs at something in my chest. It’s almost like she’s attempting to defend me to him.
Why the hell would she do that?
Callista presses a hand to her father’s chest, then glances between us. “Mr. Barker has been”—she swallows thickly, her gaze locked on mine—“very hospitable.”
I bite back the laugh at her description of our last few days together, vacillating between being glad she describes it so unemotionally and annoyed that’s the best word she can come up with for the time that’s felt like torture for me.
Harold examines her for a moment, trying to gauge her veracity, then turns his attention to me again. “What do I need to do to resolve this issue, to make things right?”
