A photo which was printed that day in a Chicago newspaper.
A photo with the caption, Reunited lovers Isabella Austin and Prentice Cameron, out on the town with Cameron’s children.
Prentice would have paid them to print it.
Prentice would have paid them double for dropping Laurent Evangelista’s name from Elle’s.
Luckily, he didn’t have to do either.
He turned on the light in the foyer and pressed the button for the speaker on the security panel by the front door.
“Yes?” he asked and listened to the static that seemed satisfyingly heavy.
Finally, Carver Austin demanded to know, “Is my daughter there?”
Prentice grinned before saying, “Carver, it’s late. If you want to see Elle while she’s in town, call her. We’ll meet you for lunch.”
“Let me up,” Carver commanded.
“No. It’s late. Elle’s sleeping.”
“Cameron, I’ll stand here all night pressing this infernal button, damn it, let me up.”
“Suit yourself,” Prentice replied casually and hit the button to buzz him up.
He looked back into the apartment filled now with boxes.
Although Elle’s apartment was large, roomy and had an amazing view of Chicago, it was pristinely clean and decorated in a beautiful but cold way that was vaguely unwelcoming. It was as if it was a show apartment, meant to be viewed not to be lived in.
Upon entering it, he’d felt a not vague at all sense of alarm at the thought of his Elle inhabiting this impersonal space until he’d seen Elle nervously surveying her own home likely looking at it through Prentice’s eyes.
So he’d kissed her, open-mouthed and long, even in front of the children.
“All right,” Jason said, cutting their long kiss shorter than Prentice meant it to be, “I said you could snog but I’m thinking I didn’t mean it.”
Sally giggled.
So did Elle.
And her nervousness, something that Prentice noted was always at the surface, sometimes minutely, sometimes acutely, slid away.
At least, Prentice thought, he hadn’t seen her clench her fists, not since the night she burned her hand.
That, he hoped, was something.
There was a knock on the door and Prentice opened it.
At the sight of Prentice, Carver’s face paled before it flushed with anger.
Prentice watched Carver’s jaw tense as he pushed in asking, “Where’s Isabella?”
He closed the door behind Carver but Prentice didn’t guide them out of the foyer. “As I said, she’s sleeping. Is there something you’d like me to tell her?”
Carver started to move to the hall. “I’ll speak to her directly.”
Prentice was stunned that this man thought he could stride into Elle’s home in the middle of the night, wake her up and have an unpleasant chat.
Hell, he was stunned Carver seemed to think it was his due that he’d woken Prentice and treated him like an unwelcome butler so he could have his f**king chat with his daughter.
However, he didn’t allow either reaction to delay him from curling his fingers around Carver’s upper arm, stopping his advancement.
Carver’s eyes went to Prentice’s hand and then to Prentice’s face. “Take your hand off me.”
Prentice didn’t do as he asked. “You’ll no’ be waking her. If you have something to say, say it to me. Then leave.”
“I said, take your hand off me,” Carver repeated.
“As it’s the middle of the night, my guess is you have something on your mind. Share it so I can get back to Elle.”
“I will repeat,” Carver said softly, angrily, “take your hand off me. I’ll talk to Isabella myself.”
Carver yanked at his arm as his body leaned toward the hall but Prentice’s fingers flexed and he got close to the older man.
“And I’ll repeat, you’re no’ waking her. You have two choices, you leave your message for Elle with me or I eject you from this apartment physically.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Carver straightened and hissed back.
Prentice didn’t reply.
Carver read his non-answer correctly and threatened, “If you manhandle me, I’ll call the police.”
“I hope you do. I’m sure the gossip magazines will enjoy relating this latest story in all its glory.”
Prentice was pleased to see Carver go pale again.
Yes, he’d seen the article that painted him as a monster.
Prentice felt like laughing.
He didn’t.
Carver jerked his arm out of Prentice’s hand and he stalked to the living room. He’d turned on a lamp before Prentice arrived and was surveying the chaos of boxes and filled rubbish bags which was far more welcoming, even given its sense of departure, than the room was normally.
Carver’s eyes cut to him and then dropped to his chest before he ordered, “For God’s sake, put on a shirt.”
“I’ll just have to take it off in five minutes so I’ll no’ waste my time,” Prentice returned. “Say your piece and then go.”
Carver glared at him, anger etched in every line of his expression.
Prentice held his glare, finding himself completely at-ease as he studied Elle’s father.
He was old and, if not frail, he was no longer strong. His power was gone, what he emanated was false, conjured, believed in only by him.
He was a joke.
Carver didn’t think so. Prentice knew this when his eyes lit with something vile.
And he didn’t hesitate with spilling his malevolence into the room.
“A million dollars,” he said.
“Pardon?” Prentice asked, taken off-guard by his bizarre words.
“No, make that three,” Carver amended. “One for you and one for each of your children.”
Prentice realized what he was saying and he didn’t feel at-ease anymore.
The anger had returned.
“Get out,” Prentice said between clenched teeth.
“All right. Six,” Carver responded instantly. “I’ll give you six million dollars and you’ll leave Isabella and never see her again.”
Prentice could not f**king believe this bloke.
“Get out,” he repeated.
“Twelve,” Carver countered.
Prentice leaned in at the waist and clipped, “Out.”
Carver crossed his arms on his chest and said condescendingly, “Cameron, let me do the math for you. That’s four million for you, four for your son, four for your daughter. Invest it wisely and those children will live a very happy life.”