Page 1 of Theirs to Corrupt
CHAPTER ONE
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“The first time I saw him kill a man, he was balancing a tray of champagne.” I tip my head to the side, indicating Paxton Gallagher, my trusty bodyguard and the man I can’t imagine not having by my side.
My words hanging in the air, Johnson frantically looks at the man who is blocking his way out of the booth.
Pax shrugs. “And I didn’t spill a drop.”
In the most satisfying way possible, Johnson’s face contorts with fear.
Men like him are all too predictable. Swaggeringly brave when bullying others but crumbling under real pressure.
I lean back in my seat at the Rusty Nail, the fabric of my suit whispering against the cracked vinyl upholstery.
The man across from me—the latest in a long line of disappointments—squirms. Beads of sweat form on his balding head, despite the way the air-conditioning is valiantly struggling against Houston’s summer humidity.
The stench of Johnson’s fear clogs my nostrils.
He should have carefully considered his options before betraying my trust.
Allowing myself a cold smile, I continue the story. “We were at a charity gala. Black tie. Pax was undercover as a waiter.” I pause, savoring the growing terror in Johnson’s watery eyes. He can’t look away. “Whole thing was over in less than two seconds.”
Even now, though he appears relaxed, Pax is a mountain of barely restrained violence in a tailored suit. His gaze constantly scans the room, ever vigilant.
Johnson’s Adam’s apple seems to be convulsing. “Mr. Merritt, please. I swear I didn’t know about the discrepancies in the books. If you’ll just give me a chance to explain?—”
“You’ve had chances, Johnson.” I keep my tone conversational. “Three of them, to be exact. I don’t appreciate being lied to, especially not by someone I trusted to manage one of my investments.”
As I speak, movement catches my eye.
A server approaches our table, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard.
She’s young, early twenties perhaps, with a mane of chestnut hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her jeans are a little loose, as is her shirt. The caution in her eyes speaks of hard-won experience beyond her years.
And I’m intrigued.
Pax notices her too.
I continue addressing Johnson, but my attention is divided. “You have twenty-four hours to produce the real financials, or my friend over there might have to provide another champagne service.” I lean forward, allowing steel into my voice. “Do we understand each other?”
The woman is close enough to have heard my thinly veiled threat.
Her composure slips, her hand trembles, and the glasses on her tray clink together precariously.
She avoids my gaze as she fights to steady the beverages.
Why, I’m not sure, but I reach out to stabilize a teetering glass.
My fingers brush against hers, and a surprising burst of electricity jolts through me. Her hand is small, a stark contrast to those I shake in boardrooms and back alleys.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, refusing to look in my direction as she continues to a nearby table.
I track the sway of her hips as she walks away, noting the feminine grace in her movements despite her obvious nervousness.
She doesn’t belong in a dive bar.
So why is she here, waiting tables?