Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,282

We were both at her fundraiser for some charity or another.”

I nod, remembering as vaguely as he does, but enough to know I was there. “Yes, but I don’t believe we met.”

“Not formally.” His eyes make quick work of my clothes like they aren’t there and he can see what’s beneath. “But who could forget a woman like you?”

Clem Ford is sixty if he’s a day, and he might be a bigot and an opportunist, greedy and corrupt, but he’s not a dirty old man, as far as I know . . . so I’m not sure why he’s trying to convince me that he is. His eyes, poured into their deep sockets and surrounded by a network of wrinkles and saggy flesh, hold no real interest, at least not of a sexual nature. He’s not a man who does things for no reason, so why is he bothering with me?

“Can I help you?” Grip asks from behind Ford.

If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I would have missed the glint of satisfaction in Ford’s eyes before he turns to face Grip. No, he didn’t have any real interest in me, but he knew how to draw the person he is interested in. I was the unsuspecting bait in whatever trap he wants to set for Grip.

“Mr. James.” With his back to me now, I’m left with the unflattering view of the balding back of Clem’s head. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to hear from you this evening.”

Grip’s eyes remain locked on Ford, assessing, picking around his intentions.

“From me?” Grip quirks one brow, but otherwise shows no response. “Wasn’t my night.”

“Dr. Hammond is definitely a worthy opponent in a debate.” Ford slides his hands into his pockets and rears back. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s up to no good. “But you’re the man everyone’s talking about and listening to. You’re the voice for this new American Dream.”

Grip watches him, waiting for the point. Despite the languid posture, arms folded over his chest, he’s on high alert, ready to flare barbs like a porcupine at the first sign of threat.

“I know you don’t think we have much in common,” Ford says, “but you’re wrong. I can think of at least one thing we both seem to love.”

Grip’s eyes slit and he swallows, and I feel him bracing for Ford’s next words. I’m sure they’ll be handpicked to antagonize him, and I silently will him not to fall for it.

“And what’s that?” Grip asks.

Ford steps closer to whisper into Grip’s ear. I don’t hear whatever nastiness he feeds Grip, but in a flash of lightning and with a thud that sounds like thunder, Ford lands beside me on the wall, pinned there by the manacle of Grip’s hand.

“Say it now.” Grip’s voice razors through air viscous with animosity.

Even under the weight and pressure of Grip’s hand, Ford forces a strangled, taunting chuckle. The chatter in the room dies down as people turn their attention to the drama playing out between these two men.

I ignore Ford and step close to Grip, placing my hand on his arm.

“You need to let him go,” I say fierce and low. “Now.”

Frustration bunches the muscle along Grip’s jaw and his fingers tighten fractionally around Clem’s throat.

“Man, he’s not worth it,” Dr. Hammond says, materializing on the other side of Grip. “This is what he wants—for everyone to see some violent thug when they look at you. Whatever he said, it’s not worth it. Let him go before somebody turns the cameras back on or calls the cops. Or even worse, start a riot in here.”

He glances at the crowd, a few of Ford’s supporters making their way toward us, wearing outrage on their faces. Others inch closer, trying to catch the words flowing between us. A tall, suited man, apparently from Ford’s security detail, steps forward menacingly, but Ford holds up a staying hand, stopping him from intervening.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” Grip asks Clem, loosening his fingers but not letting go. “The violent thug?”

“I knew he was in there,” Ford rasps. “It’s just a matter of knowing which button to push. We all have our weaknesses.”

His eyes flick to the side and find me, a wretched grin sawed into his face.

“Don’t look at her.” The words fire from Grip’s mouth. “Look at me.”

Clem takes his time turning mocking eyes from my face back to Grip.

“You want to push my buttons?” Grip demands. “You’re using her to provoke a response?