Page 136 of The Anchor Holds

“Sit.” He gestured to the velvet sofa. “Drink?” he offered, from where he was standing, pouring his own.

“Vodka,” I answered, sitting in the armchair across from the sofa, crossing my legs.

His eyes followed the journey of my exposed calves, down to my ankles and the open-toed, Hermès sandals I was wearing.

He had a foot thing. I wiggled my bright-red painted toes.

I was using every weapon in my arsenal. My life depended on it.

After a second of leering, Gregory quickly focused his attention back on the drinks. He was a sick fuck, that was true. But he was older, more practiced. He wasn’t overtly threatening or sleazy. His salt and pepper hair was groomed like his dark eyebrows, his smooth forehead hinting at the Botox he indulged in, the handsome, aged face pleasant to look at. He was always dressed casually, like he was on vacation in the Bahamas instead of running one of the most ruthless criminal organizations in the world.

Linen shirt, pale pink that day. Tan slacks. Loafers.

You’d peg him as wealthy with the flashy watch and the expensive clothes, no matter how casual because of the way he carried himself, as if he owned everything in the room because he indeed had enough money to afford it.

That energy translated to people. He was pleasant to everyone because he knew he could own them in an instant, having them buried a second later if they displeased him. He considered himself a god.

And seated in his office, I considered myself a god killer.

Dressed in my usual attire—an off-white pencil skirt that clung to my body like a second skin, displaying a modest amount of leg.

The blouse I was wearing was white lace, unbuttoned just enough to peek at my breasts without overtly displaying them. I had a flashy watch of my own on my wrist, a tennis bracelet, diamonds in my ears, hair pulled back tightly.

I felt powerful and looked it—for a woman, at least. Gregory was no idiot; he was cognizant of how dangerous I was, as much as a man could be. He’d seen the skirt, the heels, things designed to make it harder for a woman to run.

Except I wasn’t running. Not anymore.

“Thank you.” I reached up for the chilled glass he handed me. I didn’t react when his fingers purposefully brushed mine, the subtle scent of his cologne wafting into my nostrils.

“You’re welcome,” he replied politely, sitting on the sofa he’d offered me, watching as I took a sip.

The vodka was ice-cold and felt good going down my throat. I knew that Gregory wasn’t going to drug me. He considered himself too civilized for something like that. If he wanted to rape me, he’d do it the old-fashioned way, with pure brute force.

Not that I suspected he would do that either.

Though it wasn’t out of the question.

Rape was a crime of control. More often than not, men did it when they felt powerless, not turned-on.

And I was about to make Gregory feel pretty fucking powerless.

“I’m happy to see you back where you belong.” Gregory leaned back to cross his ankle over his knee. “It has been difficult trying to work with others. They don’t have your skill. We’ve gone through many … less than competent replacements.”

I sipped my drink again. This time it was not soothing going down. I did not show that, though. Didn’t even blink at the insinuation that they’d likely killed the last person who tried and failed to do my job.

This was how Gregory spoke. In expertly veiled threats, designed to catch those not paying attention.

I was always paying attention.

I placed the glass down on the table beside me. “I wish you luck in finding someone as competent as me, because I am not back.” My tone was sure, confident, not an ounce of hesitation. My back was straight. “I understand it was a … disrespect, resigning so abruptly.”

Gregory watched me carefully, his posture still casual, as if he were enjoying drinks at a beachside bar.

“I will admit, I was disappointed at the turn of events last year,” he sighed. “But I understand that even though you are not like most women, you still have female sensibility.” He waved his hand. “Hormones and such.”

I tilted my head, now smiling. “I understand that hormones are more of an issue for men of a certain age with rapidly disappearing testosterone, resulting in them not feeling powerful or motivated and unable to get hard. It tends to make them angry. Unreasonable. The male sensibility is the more volatile one, Gregory.”

His eyebrow twitched as he regarded me before he chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Calliope, how I’ve missed you.” He drained his drink then got up to pour another. “Not even my most trusted and ruthless men have the courage to speak to me like that.”

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