She headed for the front door and was about to reach for the handle when the door jerked open. Startled, Emily gasped and looked up, locking eyes with the tall man blocking her path. He looked to be in his early thirties. He had tanned skin, unkempt black hair, and a sturdy build. His clothes—faded jeans, heavy military-style boots, and a black T-shirt that hugged his broad chest—said he was the type who wanted to be noticed, that he’d fuck you up if you messed with him. His soulless gray eyes said he wouldn’t give a shit if you cried about it when he did.
“Where the hell is my money?” he said with a scratchy, deep voice.
It was him, the man who’d called yesterday and told her to shut the fuck up.
She didn’t like being spoken to that way, but out of self-preservation, Emily pushed the anger down a deep dark hole inside her mind where she kept all the bad stuff. It was getting pretty crowded in there.
“I’m sorry. I’m just the receptionist. I answer the phone. I take messages. That’s it,” she said, praying that he too would just leave. There’d be no hope if he wanted to hurt her, which she assumed he would if he didn’t get his way. She knew the type. Dangerous.
He narrowed those gray eyes. “Get Sampson on the phone.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice as level as she could make it, “I just take messages.”
“You’re fucking telling me you can’t call him?”
She shook her head no.
He stepped forward, forcing her back against the desk, the front door closing behind him. He leaned down so she had a clear view of the displeasure in his eyes. “He knows the rules. He knows the consequences. If I leave here without my money, I’ll be forced to put a bullet in someone’s head. And, just in case you’re wondering, I only plan to stay for sixty seconds.” He reached one arm behind him.
She guessed he had a gun back there. Dangerous. Why did I have to be right about him? Maybe it was one of the few perks of her past life—she could now spot an Ed from a mile away.
“I want. My fifty. Thousand,” he added.
Fifty. Fifty. Her hands shaking, she slipped around to the other side of the desk and yanked open the drawer. “Here. Take it.” She slid the envelope toward him.
He snagged it, looked inside, and offered a snarl. “Tell Sampson to call me. Next time I have to come looking for my money, I’ll be going to his home, not his office.”
She watched the man leave, noting the huge gun shoved in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.
I’m so done here. Whatever this place was, whatever services they provided, she was not having any of it.
She waited a minute, to ensure the guy was gone, and then walked outside, locked the door, and threw the key under the mat. Tomorrow she would start combing the job ads, but she was never coming back to this place.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF is a New York Times bestselling author who’s sold over one million books around the world. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dreams.
Mimi lives with her Latin lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and their three spunky dragons (really, just very tiny dogs with big attitudes) Snowy, Mini, and Mack, in the vampire-unfriendly state of Arizona.
She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
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