Cold as ice, Hunter smiled, shaking his head.
"Billie and I have the kind of relationship you could never understand."
"Cold, calculating, and cut-throat? I understand completely."
"You should be nicer to me, little girl. Thanks to the terms of your grandfather's will, my son will inherit the entire Benedict fortune—your precious home included. I might not be able to toss you and your bitch sisters out, but I can make your lives miserable. Or not." Hunter's near-black gaze traveled the length of Destry's body. When his eyes lingered on her breasts, he licked his lips and smiled. "I can think of one or two ways you could keep me happy."
Freaking crazy. How else could she explain Hunter's sudden, and stomach-turning come-on? Was she supposed to wither with fear? Or worse, capitulate to his demands? Perhaps he hoped she would beg for his mercy—preferably on her knees like the good little girl he pictured her to be. Boy, did he have the wrong woman.
Under the sophisticated demeanor he presented to the world, Ingo Hunter was vermin. Worse, he was dangerous, as Destry's sisters learned the hard way. For years, he'd screwed with Andi, Bryce, and Calder, pulling strings no one could see out of greed and spite.
Destry was angry and frustrated, and damn tired of pussyfooting around. She didn't raise her voice, but her tone cut like ice.
"Just so we're on the same page, let me be perfectly clear. If you ever try to force yourself on one of my sisters or me—heck, for the sake of argument, if I hear you harassed any woman, anywhere—I will snap you over my knee like the old, brittle piece off shit you are and leave you where you fall to be swept away with the rest of the trash."
Destry's promise—she never made threats—should have worried Hunter. Or, at the very least, given him pause. Either his ego was too bloated to believe she had the skill and nerve to follow through, or he was dumber than she thought. Probably a combination of the two. In her experience, ego and stupidity often went hand in hand.
"So much passion." His sigh was filled with regret. "You'll never find your equal in the pool of men you date. You need someone older, more experienced."
Someone like Ingo Hunter? Ugh! Destry's skin crawled at the thought—and her anger grew because no amount of mental scrubbing would ever remove the image completely.
Breathe, she told herself. And walk away. Without another word, Destry brushed past Hunter as if he'd become invisible. He wanted her attention; he fed on her ire the way a vulture fed on roadkill. He wasn't worth her time or animosity.
Her mistake had been to engage with him at all.
Normally, she took the stairs at a brisk pace. Knowing Hunter tracked her every move, her steps were measured and deliberate, as though she didn't have a care in the world. When she reached the second-floor landing, she was tempted to flip the creep off. Instead, she moved from his view and took the next flight of stairs two at a time. She needed a shower—desperately. Partly to wash away two days of travel. But mostly, to remove the unavoidable layer of ick Ingo Hunter left wherever he went.
Destry took the key to her room from her backpack. Until recently, she never locked her door. Unfortunately, her mother's terrible taste in men meant a new measure of security had been implemented by all the Benedict sisters ever since Calder's fiancé, Adam Stone, found Hunter snooping where he didn't belong. He claimed he got off the elevator on the wrong floor—a lame excuse no one bought.
They didn't like the idea of keys and locks inside their home, but where creeping scum was concerned, better safe than sorry.
Home. With a sigh, Destry kicked off her boots and fell backward onto her bed. As her eyes traveled around the room, she felt the calm and contentment momentarily eclipsed by her meeting with Ingo Hunter start to return.
The décor, from the buttercream-colored walls to the curved lines of the furniture, to the soft, muted blues of the handmade quilt she lay on, was designed with one purpose in mind—to soothe.
By choice, Destry's life was fast paced. When at work, she traveled at adrenaline-fueled, breakneck speed because she wouldn't be content any other way. At home, she slowed down, but not by most people's standards.
A woman always on the go both physically and mentally, needed a place to wind down. The lines of her bedroom were simple, without a trace of fuss or frills. And quiet. Lord, she loved the absolute quiet. She didn't own a TV, and music never bounced off her well-insulated walls.
When Destry closed the thick, oak door, she turned off her phone, turned off her mind, turned off the world. Sometimes her solitude lasted hours. Sometimes, she was content with five minutes. Either way, she left rejuvenated as though she'd spent a week at a high-priced spa—without the annoying staff, disgusting mud wraps, or what they called food but in reality, was better suited for a gerbil than a healthy, human carnivore.
The thought of food made Destry's stomach growl. The knowledge that a few floors below was a kitchen filled with Mrs. Finch's homemade goodies, not to mention the woman herself, was the impetus she needed. With no set plans to leave New York in the foreseeable future, she would have plenty of time to relax. Right now, she needed a shower, food, and best of all, some time with her family.
No need to rush, Destry took her time. Her shower was big enough for three people—always adventurous, she might one day test the theory—the Italian marble tiles glistened as an endless stream of hot water cascaded with smile-inducing pressure over her body.
She sometimes spent months living on the fringe of civilization without complaint. Deprivation was part of the fun. However, she wasn't a fanatic. When luxury was available, she jumped in with both feet.
Fragrant, no-expense-spared body wash, organic shampoo and conditioner, and towels so thick and plush, she almost wept tears of joy at the feel of the luxurious cloth against her equally soft skin.
The dichotomy of Destry Benedict. She could rough it with the best of them. Then on a dime, morph into a pampered heiress—and not think twice about the difference. Her life was a mixture of two quite different influences. Park Avenue on one side, the mean streets on the other. She used to wonder how the two could coexist in one person.
After a few wrong turns, a lot of soul searching, and the guiding hands of her sisters, she stopped trying to conform to society's mandates. Instead, she embraced who she was. As a result, she didn't simply exist—she flourished.
Dried, slathered from head to toe with moisturizer, Destry slipped on her favorite embroidered red silk robe, left the steamy bathroom, and snagged her backpack from where she dumped it by her great-grandmother's étagère.
Ornate and highly stylized, the piece seemed out of place next to the sleek lines of her furniture. She didn't care. Her room was never meant to be featured in a snooty design magazine. Eclectic, Destry liked the pop of surprise supplied by the placement of an antique wardrobe in the middle of modern simplicity.
Destry set the pack on her bed. Before she did anything else, she checked the contents, removed her dirty clothes, added clean underwear, jeans, socks, and several t-shirts. She replaced the supply of bandages and antiseptic cream and made certain her supply of tasteless, but nutritious power bars was in good shape.
Rule number one, always be prepared. If she had to leave at a moment's notice, her bag needed to be ready to go with her. She adjusted the contents if she had to fly—some items, like a knife and scissors, she picked up once she landed. The rest were essentials she never left home without.
As for her gun, Destry's sweet little pistol was still in Washington State. She cut corners and skirted the letter of the law on many issues, but where firearms were concerned, she adhered to every rule and regulation. Licensed to carry a concealed weapon in all fifty states, she paid to store an arsenal of handguns and ammunition in strategic locations all over the country. The convenience was essential whenever she had to take a commercial airplane.
As Destry took several condoms from the box in her bedside table drawer, she placed them in an inside po
cket. She'd only used one, but, boy, oh, boy. Memorable didn't begin to describe the sex. Destry set the pack aside. She and the blue-eyed Irishman made a memory neither of them would soon forget.
I had fun. Liam's words, and the surprisingly sweet kiss goodbye they shared, brought a half smile to Destry's lips, a far-off look in her dark eyes. She didn't socialize when on a job. Content with her own company, the self-imposed solitude suited her fine. She wasn't on vacation or out to make friends. Her purpose was to get in, get out, with as little fuss as possible.
If she had to raise some hell along the way, all the better. The devil in her blood needed the occasional outlet, and the bad guys of the world were a perfect solution. However, she never wanted to endanger someone else's safety.
Luckily, Liam wasn't just a decent pool player. He turned out to be an asset to have around in a fight. He kept his head, knew how to use his fists, and could follow orders; when she said run, he ran.
Yes, the man had some serious moves—with and without his clothes. Destry's smile widened to a grin. She wasn't one to look back with regrets; looking forward was so much more productive. Just this once, she allowed herself a moment of curiosity to wonder what a day or three holed up in a motel room with Liam would be like. Who knew what sexy things they might have discovered about each other if they'd moved the show from the floor to the bed?
Entering her walk-in closet, she turned in a slow, contemplative circle as she looked over her wardrobe. Though not much of a shopper, Destry loved to cover herself in the finest silk, the softest cotton, the most luxurious tweed, and linen, and satin. She discovered at an early age that the girly-girl in her was a regular clothes horse.
The contents of Destry's closet changed every time she was away—one of the benefits of having a fashion designer in the family. Andi provided her three sisters with cutting-edge wardrobes, and they gave her feedback about what they liked, and what didn't work. Because the oldest Benedict was a meticulous craftsperson with an eye for what women wanted now, and in the future, very few of her designs received a thumb's down.
With the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, Destry perused the array of choices. She loved color, and because she was blessed with a flawless, peaches and cream complexion, colors loved her. In the spring, she favored pastels in every shade. Summer called for bright tones of the rainbow.
Normally, come the first week of September, Destry was ready to transition into the jewel tones of fall. However, a heatwave had turned New York into a muggy mess. To compensate for the humid conditions, she decided light and airy was the only way to go.
Destry stood in front of a full-length mirror as she buttoned the sleeveless, cotton blouse with a subtle gray and white-checked pattern—the perfect foil for a pair of flowy, wide-leg linen pants colored the palest of lemon yellow.
"Are you decent?" Andi's voice, so wonderfully familiar, came from the bedroom.
"Am I ever?" Destry called back, grinning.
"You have your moments."
Andi didn't pause at the closet door. Two strides of her long legs and she enveloped Destry in a welcoming hug. Right behind her—to Destry's delight—were Calder and Bryce. Together, they formed a warm, loving circle.
"We've missed you," Bryce sighed, her gray eyes bright.
"A lot," Calder agreed.
"We spoke almost every day," Destry reminded them, but she wasn't in a hurry to end the embrace. More than the city, or the house, or the inanimate objects within, her sisters meant home. As much as she craved adventure, she was never as content as when her family was near.
"Why are you here?" Destry stepped back long enough to brush her hand over Bryce's dark, red hair. "Andi said you and Zach were headed out to make your movie."
"We are." Bryce's smile lit up the room. Happy in all aspects of her life, she glowed from within. "Zach had a last-minute meeting with an investor. Since I wanted to be here when you arrived, I told him to pick me up on the way to the airport."
"Speaking of arrivals." Calder took a seat on the padded bench near the door. She flipped her long, dark hair over one shoulder, sending Destry a look of censure. "We wouldn't have known you were here if one of the maids hadn't reported to Andi."
Destry sighed. She hated to bring up an unpleasant subject and put a damper on the reunion, but she didn't see an alternative.
"I planned to head straight for the kitchen to see Mrs. Finch and fill my woefully deprived stomach. Unfortunately, I ran into Ingo Hunter. After a few minutes in his smarmy presence, I lost my appetite and needed a shower."
"The man's a lurker." Calder shuddered.
"Among other things," Bryce said, joining her twin on the bench.
Of all of them, Bryce knew firsthand the extent of Hunter's evil. Destry shuddered when she thought how close she came to losing her sister. There was no proof, but they knew who was responsible.
Wisely, Hunter had kept his distance since the night Bryce was attacked. Now, he was back.
"What changed while I was gone?" Destry queried. "Hunter seemed more arrogant than usual."
"Billie."
Destry sighed. Their mother's name had become a curse word, with good reason. Recently, Andi discovered new depths to their mother's self-centered nature. Duplicitous, conniving, and down-right nasty were now at the top of the list of Billie's faults.
"The revelation of how she manipulated my relationship with Noah—"
"Conspired to break up your engagement, you mean." Visibly angry, Calder practically spat out the words.
"Billie had help," Andi pointed out. "My father and Ingo Hunter were equally to blame."
Silently, Destry added Noah Brennan to the list of the guilty. Her sister's fiancé was manipulated, but he let his insecurities compound the situation. Three years later, he was back. She wouldn't have forgiven him quite as easily. Because Andi was happy—happier than ever—and Destry really did like the guy, she held her tongue.
The reasons for what they'd done—petty jealousy and spite on Billie's side, fear, and weakness on the side of Andi's father—were hard to swallow. The hurt was fresh, and she was a long way from forgiveness. One day, maybe. Right now, reunited with the only man she ever loved, she was content with her father out of her life and her mother at arm's length.
Letting the air from her lungs in a long, slow sigh, Andi continued.
"As I was about to explain, instead of cowed, Billie has repainted the incident in her mind to make herself the victim. How dare I berate her? How dare I express anger? After all, she's my mother."
"And pregnant." Bryce rolled her eyes. "Don't forget the little bundle of joy. Her unborn child has become a get out of jail free card."
"Baby or no baby, Billie never takes responsibility for her actions." For both their sakes, Destry rarely exchanged more than a word or two with her mother. The woman's self-serving version of the truth was enough to make a saint contemplate violence—and Destry was about as far from sainthood as she could get. "She'll never change."
"But now, she has our future brother to use as an excuse. Pregnancy has made her more insufferable than usual. When she announced Hunter had returned, I wanted to slap the smug expression off her face." Andi's fists clenched at her side. "But I couldn't."
"I could," Destry declared. But she was all talk—as her sister knew.
"Please," Andi scoffed. "You aren't as callous as you pretend. Hit a pregnant woman? Never."
"Fine. I'll wait until she gives birth."
"We all agree Billie could benefit from a good slap." The image brought a smile to Bryce's lips. "However, you won't hit her, Destry. Not now, not ever."
"Because she's my mother? Please." DNA was the only thing that connected Destry to Billie—and an ever-diminishing sense of familial responsibility. "You'll have to come up with a better reason."
"You won't hit her because, for all your tough talk, you don't prey on someone weaker than you. Billie qualifies on every level.
Physically, and mentally, she'll never be your equal." Bryce took Destry's hand. "And one more thing—the most important reason."
Already smiling, Destry felt a laugh bubble up in her throat.
"Go on," she urged.
"You have a kind, loving heart."
The laugh poured out, but she knew Bryce was serious. Only a handful of people ever saw the softer side of Destry Benedict. And most of them were currently in her closet. Her sisters. Her confidants. They, their support, and unflagging love, were the reasons she wasn't hard, brittle, and most likely, utterly miserable.
"If I can't hit Billie, at least let me take a swipe at Hunter. After the way he came at me today—" Destry shuddered at the memory.
"What happened?" Andi's green eyes grew concerned.
As Destry recounted her run-in with Ingo Hunter, she felt the last of the anger fade. Even if they couldn't come up with a solution, talking to her sisters always made her feel better.
"Until now, Hunter has taunted us while he gloated about the baby and his place in our home. But you're the first one he's come at sexually since he and Billie hooked up. Please be extra careful around him," Andi warned.
Before Billie, Ingo Hunter hit on each of the Benedict sisters and was firmly turned down. He then moved on to their mother—a much easier target.
Though she appreciated Andi's concern, her words pricked Destry's pride.
"Don't you think I can take care of myself?"
"Under normal circumstances, yes. Hunter is unpredictable. And as we learned, he won't hesitate to hire someone else to do his dirty work."
They believed Ingo Hunter hired two men to kill Bryce, knowing her inheritance would revert back to Billie. The ex-cons were also Zach Devlin's—Bryce's fiancé—brothers. A sick twist to the story, they initially pointed their fingers at Hunter. Unfortunately, when they gave their formal statements to the police, both recanted.
"We can't prove Hunter was involved any more than we can prove he paid Zach's brothers for their silence." Frustration vibrated in Bryce's voice. "But we know he's guilty. We know he's dangerous."
Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4) Page 6
