A Man Of His Word. Sarah M. Anderson
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any of that in front of Thrasher.
“That’s my boy.” Cecil’s grin was wide. He looked downright happy, in an evil sort of way. “What did I tell you, Thrasher?”
“You were right,” Thrasher replied, the butt-kissing tone of his voice at odds with the way his face kept twitching.
Dan had the sudden urge to punch that face. Instead, he dug his fingers into the chair’s armrest. “I thought it would help if she could see you as a person, not just an adversary.” Although, with that grin, Dan was having trouble seeing Cecil as more than an adversary right now, too.
Cecil gave him the same look he’d been giving Dan since the day after his father’s funeral—the shut-up-and-be-an-Armstrong look. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how she sees me. I’m not running some feel-good love-in around here. I want you to find her weak spots. I want you to bring her down. Understood?”
Right then, Dan wished he’d never had to leave Texas. In Texas, he ran a tight ship. Armstrong Holdings was one of the twenty best places to work in Texas, or so some award hanging in the reception area said. But the South Dakota division of Armstrong Holdings seemed to be a different can of worms, and Dan was feeling particularly slimy today. He reminded himself that Cecil’s lack of ethics was the exact reason he’d come—there was no place for slime in any part of Dan’s company. “She won’t make me any copies of her files, but she’ll let me see them to take notes.”
A look that was dangerously close to victory flashed over Cecil’s face. “Well, then, that’s something, isn’t it? I underestimated you, son.”
Son. The chair creaked. Dan was in serious danger of breaking off an armrest or two. Thrasher had the nerve to snort in amusement.
“I’ve got a fundraiser in Sioux Falls Saturday night. It’ll be just the two of you,” Cecil went on as he made another note with the red pen. “I expect results.”
Dan would also like to see some results—but he wanted to believe his reasons were more noble. “Interested lust” was better than “cold-blooded scheming.” Wasn’t it? At least Thrasher hadn’t gotten this assignment. But then, Dan didn’t think Thrasher would get anywhere with Rosebud. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who went for jerks.
“What about him?” Dan didn’t even look at Thrasher—he was too afraid he’d lose the last of his cool and punch him.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about me,” Thrasher replied as he stood, conveniently moving out of range. “In fact, I doubt you’ll ever see me again, Armstrong.”
Dan shot to his feet. But by the time he got turned around, Thrasher was gone. Dan swung back around, his fists ready.
“We’re all on the same side here,” was all Cecil said as he locked the box back up.
No, Dan didn’t think they were.
He didn’t know whose side he was on.
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