fluidly. “Y-y-your father,” he barely manages to choke out.
My heart starts to pound in my chest as I narrow my eyes at the squirrelly man in front of me. “What about my father?” I hiss.
He swallows hard. I can actually see the lump of anxiety move its way down his throat. “He told us you weren’t authorized to fly anywhere.”
HEDGED IN
I’m so angry I could scream. Actually I have been screaming. For about the last three hours. I screamed at the brainless worker at the Larrabee airport hangar who wouldn’t let me get on the plane and actually had the nerve to restrain me when I tried to make a run for the jet. I screamed at the ticket agent at the American Airlines counter at LAX who wouldn’t sell me a seat on the next flight to Vegas because she claimed that all my credit cards had been declined. This is after I had swallowed my pride and deigned to fly commercial, something I haven’t done since … well, ever . Then I screamed at the ATM when it spit out a piece of paper declaring that my account had been frozen. I even screamed at some lawyer whose picture was on the back of a bus that happened to stop in front of me at a red light. The ad swore he could help me with my legal problems, but after I phoned him and he’d talked to me for a whole five minutes he said there was no way on earth he was going up against Richard Larrabee, especially in a case I didn’t have the slightest chance of winning. Not to mention how was I expecting to pay a lawyer when my entire source of income originated from my father’s estate? Or did I really expect my father to shell out the very money that would be used to sue him?
Then he laughed and I screamed some more.
I screech into my driveway, throw the Bentley into park with the car halfway on the pavement and halfway on the grass, and storm into the house. I toss the keys haphazardly on the table in the foyer. They make a loud clanking sound against the polished stone surface. Good. The more noise I can make the better.
“Kingston!” I call at the top of my lungs. My voice echoes across the marble floors and up the spiral staircase.
Kingston appears a moment later. “Yes, Miss Larrabee,” he says obligingly.
“Oh good, you’re here,” I say breathlessly as I start trudging up the stairs. Holly follows closely behind. She requires the momentum of her entire body to make it up each step. After about five, I bend down to pick her up and tuck her under my arm. “I’m just throwing a few things into a bag,” I tell him. “Then I need you to drive me to Vegas.”
There’s a silence at the bottom of the stairs and it takes me a moment to realize that Kingston’s usual swift response, “Of course, miss, I’ll be waiting out front,” has not yet been verbalized.
I slow to a stop but don’t turn around. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I say, in a measured tone, “Kingston, did you not hear me?”
“I did, miss,” comes his response, followed by another sickening lull.
“Then why are you just standing there?” I ask. I still haven’t dared look behind me but I know that he hasn’t moved an inch. I can hear him breathing.
“Well…” he begins, his voice wavering. “You see, your father has instructed me not to drive you anywhere.”
Now I turn around. My eyes cold and piercing. “What?” I growl.
He winces against my stare and drops his head, avoiding my gaze.
“Look,” I continue when he doesn’t answer me, “I don’t care what my father told you, Kingston. You work for me too. And I am telling you to drive me to Vegas.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Larrabee,” he replies sheepishly, “but your father told me he’d fire me if I drove you anywhere.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like they’re trapped inside a box. Then I watch wide-eyed as Kingston sidles up to the foyer table and proceeds to slide the keys to the Bentley off the surface and drop them into the pocket of his suit pants.
“What are you doing?” I ask
My heart starts to pound in my chest as I narrow my eyes at the squirrelly man in front of me. “What about my father?” I hiss.
He swallows hard. I can actually see the lump of anxiety move its way down his throat. “He told us you weren’t authorized to fly anywhere.”
HEDGED IN
I’m so angry I could scream. Actually I have been screaming. For about the last three hours. I screamed at the brainless worker at the Larrabee airport hangar who wouldn’t let me get on the plane and actually had the nerve to restrain me when I tried to make a run for the jet. I screamed at the ticket agent at the American Airlines counter at LAX who wouldn’t sell me a seat on the next flight to Vegas because she claimed that all my credit cards had been declined. This is after I had swallowed my pride and deigned to fly commercial, something I haven’t done since … well, ever . Then I screamed at the ATM when it spit out a piece of paper declaring that my account had been frozen. I even screamed at some lawyer whose picture was on the back of a bus that happened to stop in front of me at a red light. The ad swore he could help me with my legal problems, but after I phoned him and he’d talked to me for a whole five minutes he said there was no way on earth he was going up against Richard Larrabee, especially in a case I didn’t have the slightest chance of winning. Not to mention how was I expecting to pay a lawyer when my entire source of income originated from my father’s estate? Or did I really expect my father to shell out the very money that would be used to sue him?
Then he laughed and I screamed some more.
I screech into my driveway, throw the Bentley into park with the car halfway on the pavement and halfway on the grass, and storm into the house. I toss the keys haphazardly on the table in the foyer. They make a loud clanking sound against the polished stone surface. Good. The more noise I can make the better.
“Kingston!” I call at the top of my lungs. My voice echoes across the marble floors and up the spiral staircase.
Kingston appears a moment later. “Yes, Miss Larrabee,” he says obligingly.
“Oh good, you’re here,” I say breathlessly as I start trudging up the stairs. Holly follows closely behind. She requires the momentum of her entire body to make it up each step. After about five, I bend down to pick her up and tuck her under my arm. “I’m just throwing a few things into a bag,” I tell him. “Then I need you to drive me to Vegas.”
There’s a silence at the bottom of the stairs and it takes me a moment to realize that Kingston’s usual swift response, “Of course, miss, I’ll be waiting out front,” has not yet been verbalized.
I slow to a stop but don’t turn around. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I say, in a measured tone, “Kingston, did you not hear me?”
“I did, miss,” comes his response, followed by another sickening lull.
“Then why are you just standing there?” I ask. I still haven’t dared look behind me but I know that he hasn’t moved an inch. I can hear him breathing.
“Well…” he begins, his voice wavering. “You see, your father has instructed me not to drive you anywhere.”
Now I turn around. My eyes cold and piercing. “What?” I growl.
He winces against my stare and drops his head, avoiding my gaze.
“Look,” I continue when he doesn’t answer me, “I don’t care what my father told you, Kingston. You work for me too. And I am telling you to drive me to Vegas.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Larrabee,” he replies sheepishly, “but your father told me he’d fire me if I drove you anywhere.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like they’re trapped inside a box. Then I watch wide-eyed as Kingston sidles up to the foyer table and proceeds to slide the keys to the Bentley off the surface and drop them into the pocket of his suit pants.
“What are you doing?” I ask
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