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Chapter Thirty-Seven
“You seriously expect me to hand you ten million dollars right now?”
Jethro shrugged, his heart thundering in his chest like racehorses after the shot and his stomach as disturbed as the dirt of the track. Even talking like this made him feel sicker than he’d ever been, and he’d had the stomach flu, not to mention more than a couple of nights puking in gutters after drinking too much with his brothers.
How could a person put a price on his family?
But here Duncan was, staring at him with coldly assessing eyes. Nothing like Sables’s warmly golden hazel ones.
“Given your…status, I wouldn’t expect you to know that a person can’t just cut a personal check for ten million dollars.”
“That’s not my problem,” Jethro said, doing his best to keep his voice even and disinterested. “But since I’m in a charitable mood, how about this. You cut me the biggest check you can now, and we’ll write up a contract for the rest. I saw a lawyer buddy here of mine earlier, I’m sure we can get him in here to witness it. Not that I think a stand-up guy like yourself would try to weasel out of a handshake deal, but you know. A guy like me can’t afford to lose out on ten million dollars.”
Duncan glared at him. “And this…friend of yours, he can keep his mouth shut?”
That was rich. Jethro wanted to laugh—yeah, Arthur could keep his face shut, clearly. Duncan had no idea Arthur went to Hive or what he did there. Most kinky folks could keep a secret because their reputations and sometimes employment or custody of their kids depended on it.
“He’s the very soul of discretion.”
The glower on Duncan’s face didn’t go away but in fact intensified. He didn’t argue, though, perhaps doing the calculations on how he could out of this deal after the papers had been signed. Which was fine.
Jethro had no intention of taking Duncan Hollingsford’s money.
He did however want hard evidence to show Sable. Not that he was looking forward to telling her about all this because it would break her fragile heart, but she had to know. Regardless of whether she wanted to marry him or not, she had to get away from her toxic family—there was no way Duncan had done this without running it by Deirdre first. Hell, it could’ve been her idea.
“Fine. Go fetch this man, and I’ll draw up a contract and grab my checkbook from my office.”
Fetch? Really? Jethro’s molars ground together again. He didn’t think being a dog was an insult—dogs were smart, loyal, and would protect their pack no matter the cost. But he knew Duncan well enough to know the man didn’t mean anything of the sort.
* * *
Half an hour later, it was all over. Jethro had a piece of eight-and-a-half by eleven paper folded around a check burning a whole in his inside-jacket pocket.
One million dollars. A check for a million dollars and a signed contract stating he’d get the other nine million as a wire transfer once he provided Duncan with his account information.
Yeah, he could’ve looked it up on his phone but it wouldn’t be bad to reinforce Duncan’s impression that he wasn’t very bright. That, and he didn’t want the fucking money, not even for a second.
He clapped Arthur on the back and shook his hand.
“Thanks for doing that, man,” he said grimly. He’d explained the situation to Arthur briefly but it was fair the guy was having trouble processing the sheer level of crazy.
“You’re welcome,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “In all my years of being an attorney, I’ve never seen anything like that. I hope it all works out the way you anticipate. For you and for Sable.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
Jethro blew a breath out his nose. It’d been a night. Hell, it had been a week. A week that felt like a year.
“Now I gotta go find my girl.”
He left Arthur by the sushi station and set off in search of Sable. Luckily he didn’t know many people at this party so no one stopped him or tried to talk as he stalked the rooms, looking for his beloved. She had to be here somewhere.
Maybe she’d gone to her old room for a breather? Except he didn’t think her childhood bedroom would be particularly relaxing for her given what he knew of her childhood. Maybe her mother had dragged her off again? But no, Deirdre was holding court in a corner by the tree, champagne glass in her hand, laughing about something one of her cronies had said.
He’d just have to text her and ask, which was fine. Or call. Sable was more of a texter, but sometimes calling was just more faster.
Jethro found a quiet-ish alcove off a hallway and slipped his phone from his pocket and called Sable. He wanted to see her, hold her, smell her, know that she was okay. He wanted to protect her from all of this and the first step was getting her the hell out of this house.
She didn’t answer, which was a little odd, but maybe she had her phone on silent? Or didn’t feel the vibrations from her bag? That was possible, so he shot her a text. She rarely went for more than a few minutes without checking the damn thing. Which they’d have to discuss because he didn’t think that giving people the expectation that you were reachable at all hours was a good idea, but he’d make use of her habit for now.
