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“That you do, and I need to speak to Clementine—alone.”
“No, you really don't,” she says. “Seems like you two have some important issues to deal with. Feel free to do it elsewhere.”
He turns to face her. “I’m sorry. It was great seeing you again.” He kisses her cheek, and then brushes past me. “See you soon, little brother.”
When he’s out of range, I focus all my attention on Clementine. “Ten million dollars.”
“I can’t be bought.” Her voice carries across the graveyard. “I’m not a whore.”
“Fuck, Clementine, keep your voice down.”
“Like I said,” she says in a lower voice, “I can’t be bought.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“Not me.” She raises her chin in defiance, stubborn written all over her makeup-free face.
“Meet me at my home tomorrow at noon.” Maybe if I show her some of the benefits of living with extreme wealth, she’ll change her mind.
“I’m not going to your house.”
She moves past me and hurries across the grounds toward the parking lot as if she can escape this situation. She can’t.
I leave the graveyard and pay my death dues all evening.
I loved the manipulating bastard.
I did.
Not the man we buried today, but the grandfather who took in two orphaned grandsons when their parents died.
I have to hand it to him, even after death, Joseph Prince still wants to rule my life.
Of all the people my grandfather could have picked, why Clementine Bright?
She isn’t royalty. She’s not an heiress. She’s nothing.
She’s stunning, though—a natural beauty—with an air of innocence about her petite frame that my grandfather would have pegged for weakness. Is that why he chose her for me? Part of me thinks he fully underestimated her. He always had a weakness for a pretty face. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen, and I’d never fall for a woman like her. Her attitude is one in need of work.
Major work.
The next afternoon, when Clementine doesn’t show, I drive to the outskirts of town, past overgrown lots, to a small house on Pineloch Street. I smile at the potted plants blooming underneath the light blue awnings on each windowsill.
At least she tries.
I ring the bell.
Clementine opens the door, and shocked doesn’t even begin to cover the expression on her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t come to my home, so I decided to come to yours.”
“How did you even know where I lived?” She steps aside, letting me into her quaint cottage.
“I know a lot of things, Miss Bright.”
A small dark-haired child runs up, with his arms outstretched, yelling, “Mommy. Mommy.”
She shuts the door behind me, and already I feel like I can’t breathe. He plows into Clementine, wrapping his arms around her knees as she bends over to hug him.
This, I didn’t know.
