predatory calculation that had made him a billionaire. “Though I must admit, Eleanor, I was somewhat perplexed by your documentation. You claimed your daughter Blair was merely a… minor clerical coordinator for your estate.”
Before Eleanor could respond, the service doors flew open.
Marcus strode inside, his massive left hand wrapped securely around the back of Preston Weller’s neck like an iron vise. Preston was deathly pale, his Brioni suit badly creased, his hair plastered to his forehead with nervous perspiration. Marcus carried Preston’s heavy monogrammed case in his other