Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Rafe picked up the contract and waved it in the air. “Done. With this we’ll both get what we need.”
Hop nodded. “Good. I don’t want to hate you anymore anyway. It’s too exhausting.”
“Still with the hate?”
“What can I say? You inspire strong feelings.” With that cryptic statement, Hop left and Rafe couldn’t help the feeling that nothing had been settled between them.
* * *
As dictated, Rafe arrived at the Lockwood residence Thursday evening with a bottle of 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion in an understated but high-end gift box. He wanted to throw the damn thing on the pristine marble tiles in the foyer and watch Roland’s horrified face turn as ruddy as the vintage. But that would be a waste of what the sommelier had promised him was an exotically perfumed and elegantly structured Spanish red.
Rafe wasn’t a wine enthusiast so he didn’t know what any of that meant, but the man had assured him he couldn’t go wrong. Since he was still required to act respectful, it meant he’d forked over almost three hundred dollars for a bottle of what was basically grape juice.
He’d never gotten used to the spending habits or extravagant tastes of the rich. It was like they didn’t know what to do with their cash so they tossed it at anything that glittered.
As soon as the butler opened the door, Rafe handed the box and his briefcase over.
“Hi, Fred,” Rafe said, shrugging off his coat.
“Good evening, sir.” The old man took Rafe’s coat over his elbow and returned the wine and bag to Rafe.
“How’ve you been?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Not working too hard, are you?” Fred was almost eighty and he’d been working for the Lockwoods since he was eighteen.
Fred’s smile was fond. “Only as hard as you, sir.”
Rafe followed him down the hall. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“I do.” This time his smile was bright and teasing.
They turned the corner into the library. “Mr. Marson has arrived.” Fred made the announcement and left.
Rafe strode into the ornate room. By now, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with hardcovers of various shades didn’t faze him, but the first time he’d seen them he’d been impressed. He’d grown to understand it took more than possessions and a good decorator to make a man.
Roland was seated in one of the tufted leather sofas with a cigar between his fingers. As Rafe approached, Roland tipped his wrist to check his watch.
“I always admire your punctuality.” He sucked on the end of the cigar.
“Being prompt is the best first impression one can make.” Rafe handed him the wine and gritted his teeth when Roland didn’t even check the label before putting it to the side.
“Shall we get down to business?”
“Of course,” Rafe said.
Roland stood, his pressed pinstripe slacks still as straight as they’d likely been upon purchase even though he’d undoubtedly been wearing them all day. Without a word, he headed toward his office, another room Rafe was no longer impressed by. The dark leather and even darker wood was too oppressing, but he figured that was probably the whole point.
“Have a seat,” Roland said, lowering himself into his throne—literally. The man’s desk chair was a huge tufted-leather winged swivel complete with brass nail trim. It was exactly what most people imagined when they thought of old world elegance and money.
On the other hand, the seat Rafe was directed to use was a straight-backed rickety wooden piece that was too small for his large frame. It creaked every time he sat it in, and every time, Rafe wondered if it’d finally give up and collapse under his weight.
Roland tapped the end of his cigar in the ashtray. “I feel as though it’s been more than a month since your last update.” His voice full of censure.
Rafe busied himself with pulling folders from his briefcase. “Really? I can check my calendar, if you wish.” Suck it, asshole. When he looked up to hand Roland the prepared report, he noted the man’s flash of scorn.
Roland flipped the leather-bound binder open and scowled at the pages. “Why are profits so low?”
If he still had enamel on his teeth by the time this visit was over, it would be a miracle. “They’re not low. We’re at capacity every night. Sometimes the line wraps around the block.”
“Then you should be seeing numbers three times as large.”
“I disagree. We keep the head charge low to encourage admission. The drinks are set at a competitive price and the entertainment ensures they stick around longer.”
“I never agreed with your idea of charging so little for entry. The best way for it to feel exclusive is to make it difficult to enter. You should be catering to affluent clientele, forget about the average Joe, they won’t earn you profit.”
Rafe’s fingers tightened into fists on his knees. “The model I’m using is working. I see no reason to change it.”