To Trust A Billionaire (The Billionaire's Baby Series, #4) by Claire Ava

Author:Claire, Ava [Claire, Ava]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: alpha male, alpha billionaire romance, billionaire, billionaire love, ava claire, billionaire erotic romance, billionaire romance
Publisher: Ava Claire
Published: 2016-11-14T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

I exchanged a wary look with Alicia, neither of us sure where she was leading us. This was no longer the Whitmore Estate, where Alicia ruled with an iron fist. It had become a whole new world, a horror more sadistic than anything I ever could have imagined.

Once upon a time, merely presenting Alicia with a wine glass with a smudge ensured a terrifying encounter. An unlucky and wet behind the ears staff member who missed a button, or worse, missed a speck of dust, was like life or death. Angelique was just as particular, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor as we navigated past the formal dining room. The table was set, per usual, plates and silverware glittering like diamonds. There was even a sweaty, cowering woman under the Whitmore’s employ that was standing at attention the best she could, all things considered. Weaving among the reek was the smell of something meaty. A hearty dish that was likely being carefully prepared. The best dish of the chef’s life because if it didn’t get a thumb’s up, there would be hell to pay.

“You really have a lovely home, Mrs. Whitmore.” Angelique broke the tense silence, rounding the corner with such ease and confidence that it gave me chills. I knew I’d been under surveillance, Jacob probably was, too. Angelique glided and turned like she could navigate the home with her eyes closed, which only furthered my suspicions that she’d been watching Alicia as well. Did they pull the blueprints for the house? Painstakingly plot how they’d terrorize the staff? Sketch out the trail of blood Jacob would leave as they dragged his unconscious body to some room to wait for us to arrive?

I tugged at my dress, sure they’d even gone so far as to raise the thermostat so we’d sweat buckets on top of everything else, dread rising in our throats and choking out any attempts to ignore the obvious. Alicia Whitmore’s name may be on the deed, but this wasn’t her home. Not anymore.

This house belonged to Eichmann.

Alicia and I almost collided with Angelique when she came to a hard stop in the middle of the wood paneled hall. The white hot disdain she hurled over her shoulder made me grateful we’d left a few feet of respectful distance.

“I just paid you a compliment, Mrs. Whitmore. Surely, all that money bought you a modicum of manners.”

I didn’t have to look at my mother-in-law to feel the air change. It was electric, taut with indignation and I dug my nails into my palm and held back the urge to whisper that Alicia should temper her response. I replayed the encounter from earlier, when Marco, a man that was 200+ pounds of pure muscle, booked it to the other side of the car, preventing Tomás from striking Alicia, like they’d both be in trouble if something happened to either of us. I hoped I was right in my belief that it would take more than a terse

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