Page 3 of Rivals & Revenge

Losing out on the kill and subsequent payment was only a minor irritation, even with it being the third time she had beaten me to the mark this year.

No, the thing about this rose that really ground my gears was its existence, its placement more specifically. Exactly eighteen inches from my front door; on my doorstep.

To say my house was remote was putting it mildly. After my father’s untimely death, I bulldozed the house to the ground and rebuilt something more to my taste. Then, I bought up all the surrounding lots, even the ones on the other side of the lake that bordered my property on one side, putting even more distance between me and the outside world.

Twelve feet of wrought iron fencing on all sides and nearly half a mile from anything resembling a roadway, all patrolled by the two most loyal beasts known to man.

Yet somehow that infuriating woman managed to sneak in and deposit the measly flower at the entry to my home, quite literally at my feet.

And if all that wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, I hadn’t even been able to catch her on camera, not the slightest wisp of her blonde locks, not even once.

My phone chirped in my pocket. I pulled it out, swiping to read the message.

“0”

The solitary number mocked me from the screen. “Zero” as in, there are zero open jobs on the board.

I slid my phone back in my pocket and pushed the door closed, the offending flower still pinched between my fingers.

“I know just what to do with you.” I murmured to the empty room, tossing the rose on thekitchen table.

“Mr. Rossdale,” my assistant, Tori, called out, “Your four-thirty is here.”

I nodded, swirling my hand in the air without bothering to look up from the screen. Richardson was a prick, but he still had something I needed. Four things, to be exact.

The door opened moments later, and he stepped in. I immediately took umbrage at the pale blue tie he wore. I mean, really, who wears robin’s egg blue this time of year? It was nearly October, for fuck’s sake.

Musky, yet cloyingly sweet, his expensive cologne heralded his entrance as he mumbled his greeting. I was sure he thought it was a power move, wearing the same scent my father wore every day of his miserable life—though, he didn’t wear it in nearly the same quantity as Richardson.

I slapped on a terse smile, grumbling my response, maintaining only the thinnest veneer of civility. My eyes still trained on the offending accessory.

I briefly entertained the idea of accepting a job taking him out. Hell, I might have even offered to do that one for free. The thought of introducing his head to my Dragunov slowed my pulse and brought a genuine smile to my face.

“Well, Scotty.” I smirked, leaning back in my chair and cocking my head to the side. “You called this meeting, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’re here. Unless…”

I left the words hanging in the air for him to fill in the blanks. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the only sign I unnerved him. My extracurriculars were an open secret. I never left a shred of evidence that would lead the authorities to look my way, but I didn’t deny the whispered rumors either. I actually took pleasure in starting a few of them myself.

Somehow, Scotty here was one of the few men in this sleepy town who had the nerve to mouth off to me or stand in my way. But even he must know that I wouldn’t be patient forever.

“I came with a proposition.” He said with a cough to clear his throat.

“Proposition?” I barked out a laugh. “I’m usually three fingers of scotch into my evening before I start looking for company.”

I dragged my eyes over his disgusting form, much the same way I would over a woman’s curves. “I think I would need at least twice that before I would consider your offer if I were being honest.”

His face heated, red blotches covering his cheeks, and the tips of his ears as he sputtered.

“That’s not what I fucking meant!” he swore, adjusting himself in his chair.

He fought to regain control of himself, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, and his mouth hung open like a dead fish.

Whatever it was, he must want it badly if he’s willing to allow himself to be the butt of the joke.

His fingers traced over the edge of his tie, as if drawing my attention back to that would do him any favors.

“Those four tracts of land we have previously discussed. I—uh, I might be willing to part with them.” He said, a tinge of smugness seeping into his tone.

That got my attention. I owned every apartment building in the greater Black Hills area from the high-end high-rises with the glittering rose colored glass to the dankest rat-infested slums. Some owned through the Rossdale Group directly, others through smaller companies, a misdirect so as not to sully the Rossdale name.

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