bother threatening me. You couldn’t possibly do anything to me that would be worse than what you’ve already done. I’m no longer afraid of you.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
He crossed to the door of the den and pushed it open. “Prove it.”
Chapter Five
H e had issued a challenge from which she couldn’t back down, just as Beck Merchant had done earlier. It wasn’t within her to stand down. She had inherited some traits from her father, like it or not.
Acknowledging that she was probably playing right into his hands, she followed him into the den. She had said she was no longer afraid of him. He probably didn’t believe that, but whether he did or not wasn’t important. What was important was that she believe it. She didn’t need to prove her fearlessness to him. But she needed to prove it to herself.
From over two thousand miles away, it was easy to boast about recovery and indifference. However, the only valid test of one’s mettle was to come face-to-face with the enemy who had dealt you near-fatal blows. Only by doing so would she be wholly convinced that her fear of Huff was long past and that he no longer held sway over her.
So she followed him into the den. With the exception of the large-screen TV, it looked much the same as she remembered. As she looked about, she tried to recall one pleasant memory associated with this room. There wasn’t one. For her Huff’s den evoked only painful memories.
She’d been banished from it when she was a little girl having to compete for Huff’s attention. Chris and Danny had been allowed, even welcomed, into this inner sanctum, but rarely had she been, and it was an exclusion based solely on her gender.
It was in this room that Huff had explained to her and her brothers how sick their mother was. Acting as spokesperson, she had asked if Laurel was going to die. When he told them yes, she and Danny began to cry. Huff had no patience for tears. He told them to buck up, to behave like grown-ups, like Hoyles. Hoyles never cried, he told them, and he held Chris up as their example. You don’t see him crying, do you?
But she had cried in this room on one other occasion. She had cried copiously, hysterically, begging Huff not to do what he had ultimately done. That was the night she couldn’t forgive. That was the night she had come to hate him.
His footsteps sounded heavy on the hardwood floor as he crossed to the bar and offered her a drink.
“No, thank you.”
He poured a whiskey for himself. “Want me to have Selma get you something to eat? She’s itching to feed you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“And even if you were starving, you wouldn’t eat food paid for by Hoyle Enterprises. Isn’t that right?” He sank into his recliner and looked at her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of bourbon.
“Is that your opening volley, Huff? Do you want to see which of us can score the most points against the other? Batter each other with words until one of us concedes? Because if that’s what you have in mind, I don’t want to play. I’ll never play any of your damn games again.”
“Your mother would not have approved that kind of language.”
She leveled a condemning stare on him. “My mother would not have approved a lot of things. Should we talk about some of those?”
“Still sassing me, I see. Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised. In fact, I think I’d have been disappointed if you’d lost that sass.” He reclined his chair, reached for a box of matches on the side table, and lit a cigarette. “Sit down. Tell me about your business.”
She sat down on one of two matching sofas that faced each other, separated by a coffee table. “It’s doing well.”
“One thing I can’t stomach, Sayre, is false modesty. If you’ve done it, you’ve earned the right to brag about it. I read that piece about you in the Chronicle. It was quite a spread. Pictures and everything. Said you were the decorator of choice for San
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
He crossed to the door of the den and pushed it open. “Prove it.”
Chapter Five
H e had issued a challenge from which she couldn’t back down, just as Beck Merchant had done earlier. It wasn’t within her to stand down. She had inherited some traits from her father, like it or not.
Acknowledging that she was probably playing right into his hands, she followed him into the den. She had said she was no longer afraid of him. He probably didn’t believe that, but whether he did or not wasn’t important. What was important was that she believe it. She didn’t need to prove her fearlessness to him. But she needed to prove it to herself.
From over two thousand miles away, it was easy to boast about recovery and indifference. However, the only valid test of one’s mettle was to come face-to-face with the enemy who had dealt you near-fatal blows. Only by doing so would she be wholly convinced that her fear of Huff was long past and that he no longer held sway over her.
So she followed him into the den. With the exception of the large-screen TV, it looked much the same as she remembered. As she looked about, she tried to recall one pleasant memory associated with this room. There wasn’t one. For her Huff’s den evoked only painful memories.
She’d been banished from it when she was a little girl having to compete for Huff’s attention. Chris and Danny had been allowed, even welcomed, into this inner sanctum, but rarely had she been, and it was an exclusion based solely on her gender.
It was in this room that Huff had explained to her and her brothers how sick their mother was. Acting as spokesperson, she had asked if Laurel was going to die. When he told them yes, she and Danny began to cry. Huff had no patience for tears. He told them to buck up, to behave like grown-ups, like Hoyles. Hoyles never cried, he told them, and he held Chris up as their example. You don’t see him crying, do you?
But she had cried in this room on one other occasion. She had cried copiously, hysterically, begging Huff not to do what he had ultimately done. That was the night she couldn’t forgive. That was the night she had come to hate him.
His footsteps sounded heavy on the hardwood floor as he crossed to the bar and offered her a drink.
“No, thank you.”
He poured a whiskey for himself. “Want me to have Selma get you something to eat? She’s itching to feed you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“And even if you were starving, you wouldn’t eat food paid for by Hoyle Enterprises. Isn’t that right?” He sank into his recliner and looked at her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of bourbon.
“Is that your opening volley, Huff? Do you want to see which of us can score the most points against the other? Batter each other with words until one of us concedes? Because if that’s what you have in mind, I don’t want to play. I’ll never play any of your damn games again.”
“Your mother would not have approved that kind of language.”
She leveled a condemning stare on him. “My mother would not have approved a lot of things. Should we talk about some of those?”
“Still sassing me, I see. Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised. In fact, I think I’d have been disappointed if you’d lost that sass.” He reclined his chair, reached for a box of matches on the side table, and lit a cigarette. “Sit down. Tell me about your business.”
She sat down on one of two matching sofas that faced each other, separated by a coffee table. “It’s doing well.”
“One thing I can’t stomach, Sayre, is false modesty. If you’ve done it, you’ve earned the right to brag about it. I read that piece about you in the Chronicle. It was quite a spread. Pictures and everything. Said you were the decorator of choice for San
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