The Red Roots
The Red Roots
Text copyright © 2015 Andrea Johnson Beck
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lophan Publishing, North Carolina
Formatted by Champagne Formats
THE SKYLINE PUNCTURED the wide-open sky, not a single cloud drifted above Manhattan. The city bloomed into a fresh season, but Isla stood outside and inhaled the whiff of karma. People weaved around her along the sidewalk as she tipped her head back and followed the tower of granite and glass. Straight from the airport, her leather tote was packed for a quick jaunt to Sutton territory.
Isla pushed through the revolving door, entering into a lobby with the modern sophistication of white walls with abstract art and hand blown colored sconces. Behind a stainless steel desk was stationed a uniformed guard. He backed up against an encased wall of cascading vibrant turquoise water.
She approached the man who looked like a retired bodybuilder. “I’m here to see, Martin Sutton.”
“Name?”
“Really?”
“Name?”
“Isla Pierce. What happened to Donovan?”
He handed her a small key, ignored her question, and instructed her to enter the elevator on the left then insert the key above the number pad in the elevator. Not her first rodeo, she thought, though the penthouse visit was new.
“No funny business. I’ll be watching you. Give the key back to Mr. Sutton.”
Isla winked. “Got it, Mr. T.”
He scowled.
“You know, the A-Team . . . I pity the fool. You have the mohawk, and—and the chains.”
With a grunt he pointed over his shoulder.
“All right, I’m going.” She turned her back. “Donovan had a sense of humor,” Isla spoke under her breath.
The glass lobby swarmed with suits. A handful of men and women stepped on and off the elevators. In the corner, a tall brunette spit obscenities into her phone while her heel tapped against the marble.
Midtown was all business, as was she.
Isla stepped onto the elevator, along with two others. She cleared her throat and inserted the key. A bell chimed but a number never lit up. Isla removed the key, held it tight in her fist, and glanced at the man and lady.
Their eyes adverted hers. Isla gathered her curtain of thick dark golden brown hair and twisted it up on the top of her head. It was lovingly named the “bitch bun” by her friends. She checked out the perfectly put together woman. Isla was never a pencil skirt, silk blouse type of girl. Only when forced would she slip on heels and her mother’s diamond earrings.
The gears whined and grinded after each floor; the woman was the first to scurry out. The man remained silent and stared at his shoes until the elevator slowed and stopped on his floor. Gripping his briefcase against his chest like a shield, he sidestepped off. The corners of her lips lifted. She punched a guy in the gut for
accidentally
touching her ass in the elevator and now the entire building was afraid of her.
Awesome.
The cables tugged higher, a dash flashed on the panel. Martin had been holed up in his office for weeks, or so he had city officials believe. His family was in shambles, and he was stirring the family pot, upsetting investors and shareholders. Martin—the loose cannon—needed to stop taking pages from his spoiled daughter’s book.
The elevator dipped and halted. With a loud clang, the doors slid open. Isla cringed and stood transfixed on the row of buck, elk, and wolf heads mounted above a gathering of rich leather club chairs. The soles of her boots left the confines of the elevator and stepped into an urban hunting lodge. The woodsy aroma flowed about the room with notes of patchouli and cedar as the masculine bouquet clung to Isla’s skin.
Typically when she met Martin it was in his office fourteen floors below. It was sparse in contrast. A filing cabinet here and there, it was filled with standard office furniture, dark rugs, and a coffee maker in the corner near the receptionist desk. How many knew of his secret penthouse lodge? Probably not many, including the officials who would love nothing more than to toss him in prison for numerous allegations the State’s attorney couldn’t back up.
The windows were covered with sliding wood panels. The room of stone and varnish was illuminated by a chandelier of antlers and shaded lamps. Isla stepped closer to his animal trophies; she saw her distorted reflection in their black eyes.
“Breathtaking, are they not?”
She whirled around. “Not the word I would choose.”
“I hunted each one of these beauties.”
“Not an honorary member of PETA?”
Martin took the key from her. “No, but I’m sensing you must be.”
Isla looked over at the stuffed and displayed animals. “I enjoy a juicy ribeye like any other carnivore. I’m just not particular to mounting the cast of
The Jungle Book
up on my walls.”
Martin laughed, his tenor deep and hearty. If Isla closed her eyes, she’d envision a man with a heftier waist and trousers nestled just below his man boobs, not the man before her. Well-groomed in a black suit, Martin’s crown of ash was combed to perfection. He flashed his gleaming veneers at her and motioned to the closest chair. Isla sunk into the cool leather cushion and lowered her tote beside her feet. Martin unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down across from her.
