Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“I apologize if my words about your father were insensitive,” Forsythe replied, formal and inflectionless.
“It’s the fucking truth, isn’t it?” Ash shot back, sucking in a wet, hoarse, rattling breath. “I’m a rich spoiled fuckup and I’m not ready for this. But my Dad’s dying and he wanted me to do right by his company, so I’m gonna try. You know what the job is. You know what it pays. Are you going to help me, or not?”
Forsythe remained silent for so long Ashton thought he wouldn’t answer, at first. He glanced back at the man, who watched him with unreadable eyes shielded behind the glint of his glasses.
Then Forsythe swept a bow, inclining forward with the grace of a man much smaller, agile and smooth.
“Ask of me,” he said, something in his rich, rolling voice trailing velvet shivers over Ashton’s skin, “and it shall be done, young Master Harrington.”
BRAND FORSYTHE STOOD IN THE doorway of the suite he had been assigned in the Harrington household. Frankly, after a stony, silent ride in the back of Harrington’s hired car—Brand would be putting a stop to that quite soon—he was mildly startled Harrington hadn’t consigned him to a broom closet. Not immodest in size, the suite was rather tastefully furnished in earth tones and linens, textured muslins making up much of the upholstery. Tall French doors to one side of the suite opened out onto a private paved patio, looking out over the lush gardens of the massive enclosed estate. All in all, it was a rather expansive accoutrement for a newly hired valet.
He turned his head, looking down at his new charge.
“No,” he said.
Ashton Harrington—young Master Harrington—blinked up at him, his long-lashed blue eyes wide and puzzled. He was barely more than a wet-eyed pup, his hair a wild disarray of inky black, pale golden freckles scattered across soft amber skin and dotting his fine, delicate nose. Brand had been informed the young Master was a tender twenty-three.
With his lean, wiry frame dwarfed inside an ill-fitted suit at least two sizes too large for him, he looked practically twelve.
And wholly unprepared to deal with Brand, let alone the intricacies of managing a multibillion-dollar global business.
The young Master blinked again. “No?” he repeated.
“No,” Brand said again. “Where are your chambers?”
“Um.” Harrington glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. “I…I was living in the pool house. I haven’t moved up to the main house yet.”
In that awkward admission was an unspoken cry of youthful rebellion. Some attempt at independence, when this man-child had never known a moment of independence or self-sufficiency in his life. He was accustomed to being told what to do, Brand thought—and while he might resist, perhaps sulk a touch, in the end he would do as he was told.
Only now, with his father ill and—from the tabloid rumors—his mother apparently long divorced and returned to her home country, there was no one to tell him anything. He was spinning. Flailing.
And waiting for someone to point him toward something resembling north.
Brand sighed, folding his arms over his chest. “Choose a master suite. One with adjoining servants’ chambers.”
Harrington’s gaze flew back to him. “Wh-what? Why?”
“If I am to be your valet, I must be available to you at all hours. When you call, I come. It makes for a more convenient arrangement if my room adjoins yours.”
A faint flush darkened Harrington’s cheeks. “I don’t…know if there are any rooms like that in the house.”
“It is your house. Find out.”
The boy scowled. The slight inner folds of his eyes, evidence of his mother’s influence, drew tight, turning his angled eyes into irritated, snakelike slits. “I didn’t hire you to boss me around.”
“You hired me,” Brand pointed out, “to get your affairs in order. Since you do not seem to have a plan for doing so, it falls on me to make the decisions until you are ready to do so yourself.”
“How do you know I don’t have a plan?”
Brand arched a brow. “Do you?”
Harrington’s lips parted. His mouth was rather pouty, pink and sullen, and for a moment the tip of his tongue darted over his lips before retreating, disappearing, as he slumped. “…no.”
“When you have one, I will take it under advisement,” Brand said. “Until then, young Master Harrington, I would thank you to trust me to do my job.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Sighing, Harrington curled a hand against the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ll talk to the housekeeper. She’ll know.”
“I’ll need to be introduced to her as well, along with any other staff. You’ll need to inform me of their pay schedules and employment records. Are their payments managed by direct deposit, or by check?”
“I don’t know!” Harrington flared. “I don’t know any of this, okay?”
“I suggest you find out.”
“I will!” Harrington shot him a glare. His voice became thick, heavy. “Look, two days ago my Dad was right here handling all this. Now he’s…he’s fucking…he had cancer for three years and he didn’t even tell me, he just…he just left me here to deal with all this shit and you think I can just pick everything up and act like nothing’s happening when he could be—he could be—”