Page 13 of Twisted Control

I follow him through the massive living room and into a dark-paneled study dominated by a huge desk. He gestures toward a green leather sofa. I drop into it casually while he settles behind the desk.

Then comes the silence.

Classic power play. He stares at me, waiting for me to fidget, look away, or show even a hint of discomfort. Instead, I lean back, stretch one arm along the back of the sofa, and get comfortable.

Maverick Whitmore doesn’t intimidate me. Not even a little. Why would he? The man made his billions peddling overpriced vitamins and protein shakes. He’s a supplement salesman with a fancy office.

I can see the calculation running behind his eyes. He doesn’t like my posture. He doesn’t like that I’m not playing the deferential little guest.

“My daughter went on a television show,” he says finally. “Now she’s receiving death threats. I want you on her at all times.”

He leans forward, hands clasped on the desk. “You’ll stay in the guest house. You follow her whenever she leaves the property. No one gets within ten feet of her. I have someone tracing the accounts behind the threats. When we find them, I expect them to be dealt with.”

“Dealt with?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

Maverick’s cold blue eyes lock onto mine. “I know exactly what you are. The only reason I’m allowing a man like you anywhere near my daughter is because if someone decides to act on those threats, I want them to understand there will be real consequences. Do you understand me?”

I tilt my head slightly. “We talking permanently?”

“Obviously,” he says, as if I’m slow.

I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Rich people really are something else. Some online comments and this guy’s already ready to green-light murder.

“That’s going to cost a lot more,” I tell him. “You know how hard it is to disappear a body these days? The mess, the logistics, the heat it brings…it’s a headache.”

He just stares at me, jaw tight, like he’s disappointed I’m not leaping at the chance to play executioner.

I shrug. “I suggest some creative disfigurement instead. That’s included in the standard rate. Done right, they get the message, they stay quiet, and there’s no mess to clean up.”

For a second he looks almost let down.

“Fine,” he says at last, giving me a curt nod. “We’ll start there.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, then hesitates, fingers drumming once on the desk. I stay quiet and let the silence stretch.

Finally he speaks.

“My daughter is a good girl. Usually very sensible. But she’s vulnerable right now. Making questionable decisions.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want her getting into any trouble. If you know what I mean.”