AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter One
Ryder
Elliot Perry is late.
I shift on the seat in his waiting room at his understated offices. The pretty receptionist has flirted, undone three buttons on her form-fitting top to let me admire her tits, and given me her number.
One I just might use.
I close my eyes. No, Ryder, no. That’s the kind of shit that’s gotten me sitting here in the first place.
Normally I wouldn’t give a flying fuck about image. But apparently, others do. Including my father. Who’s dead.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
“Mr. Sinclair?” The receptionist breathes the words in a way that would put Marilyn Monroe to shame, and as I stand, she flutters long eyelashes over green eyes that have to be tinted lenses.
Not that I care. The package is pretty, tempting, and put together by a masterful hand.
I saunter over to her and lean forward on the desk. “Your boss needs to learn time is money.”
She leans in, giving me an interesting view right down into her cleavage, and the soft swell of those breasts are basically begging to be touched.
I’d like to touch them.
Pity taking her up on her offer is what they like to call a very bad idea, and I’m on a tight schedule. But I take the time to smile and wink at Lena—according to the nameplate—not just because she’s curvy and hot and willing, but I know the supposedly inconsequential people are always way more important than one might suspect. I know of deals that have fallen by the wayside because a mail guy didn’t like how the prospective client spoke to them.
Not me.
Besides, I’d totally do her.
Four weeks. That’s all. Four weeks of good behavior.
And then I’ll finally have my slice of the family heritage pie.
“Which way, Lena?”
Her hand flutters as she points down the small, plain hall on the fifth floor of the offices nestled in the heart of SoHo. “To your left.”
“Gotcha.”
I stride down and see the nameplate in discreet gold letters. Elliot Perry.
This dude is meant to be the best, so good most people haven’t heard of him. And he’s what I think I’m going to need.
I give a perfunctory knock, then open the door, stepping into the art deco styled room. Cozy and understated. The kind of look that says competence, confidence, and discretion.
The parquet floor glows and shows off its intricate design of dark and pale woods, the desk is a high gloss satinwood with rounded edges and small detailing. It looks original, a Ruhlmann if I’m not mistaken. And the chairs with their wide matching curves and burnt orange leather backs and seats are gorgeous.
The paneled glass window that looks out over Prince Street and its wintry-like day draws the eye, as does the mirror edged in black and gold with a graceful silhouetted Twenties woman on it that’s more art than function. It sits to the right on another curved table, this one higher, with a growing orchid, slender, beautiful in its purple shades balancing it out.
There’s a lady palm to the left and a long, curved deco sofa against the far wall.
And no one inside.
I glance about and see a door. It’s tucked to the far right along the way, and when it’s shut, you might not see it. But it’s open and bright light spills out.
I sit in the chair opposite the desk and cross my legs, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the day’s schedule I already have in my head. I don’t mind waiting, but not for this kind of shit. So I clear my throat.
