The Willing Read Online Free

point of the pen glided across the inside of my palm. We were standing so close I didn't know if I should look at the scribbles he was applying to my skin or the circles under his eyes. When was the last time he'd got any sleep?
    Abruptly, he released me and capped his pen. "You'll be at that address tomorrow evening at eight."
    "I'm flattered, but--"
    "You'll be there," he insisted, "or I'm prepared to leak word of Mrs. Madrigal's business endeavors to the feds. I think we both know I'll do it."
    My breath caught. The son of a bitch had cornered me like one of his loaded moguls: he was going to leverage the only thing I had left against the last thing I wanted to do. The magazines had it all wrong; Oliver Shepherd wasn't just the pretty face of Emerson Industries. He was the Machiavellian brain behind its success.
    I watched him leave with a sinking sense of trepidation. He was a good showman; he even kissed Madam's hand as he made his goodbyes in the foyer.
    My own hands, I discovered, were shaking badly.
     

Chapter two
     
    My problem was an easy one to fix. Just don't go , I thought. Madam Madrigal had more than one wealthy benefactor willing to bend the law to preserve the use of her services—and if that didn't pan out, I imagined she must have contingencies in place for these kinds of stunts. Or so I hoped.
    If I stood Oliver up, I knew I'd be forced to tell Madam what had almost happened, to warn her about the trouble coming her way. I wasn't sure how well she'd react to my putting her business in danger simply because I didn't have the guts to face off against a control freak.
    I would probably end up fired at the end of the day, with a bank loan to pay back that was well outside my means.
    But suppose I don't stand him up... Who knew what he expected of our meeting? I knew his type—all money and no mercy—and could easily imagine the aberrations loitering in his sick little mind. No doubt having a woman at his beck and call would be just the thing. I'd read those books, too, thank you very much.
    Stumped by my lack of ideas, I did the only thing I could think of and called my best friend. Carrie picked up on the second ring with a drowsy "hello?" She worked nights just like I did, but her graveyard shift was served in the prenatal ward of St John's Hospice. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was only ten in the morning. Carrie would've gotten home only a couple of hours ago, she'd probably just fell into bed.
    She answered on the third ring.
    "It's me," I said, biting back the flood of guilt. "It's not important, I'll call later."
    Carrie wasn't so easily fooled. "You okay?" I heard shuffling in the background and realized she was sitting up. "It's Jo," she said, voice slightly muffled as she spoke to someone on her end of the line. "Duncan says hi. Are you home?"
    "Hi back," I said and winced. "Yeah, I'm home. I'm fine…" I was suddenly hung up on another, far more salient detail: Carrie's husband was at home at a time of day when he should have already left for the office. "Is Duncan playing hooky again?" It was the most delicate way I could think of to ask if he'd had another episode without spelling it out.
    Duncan and Carrie had been high school sweethearts: he'd been the star quarterback—or the equivalent thereof for lacrosse players—and Carrie had been the nerd who wouldn't give him the time of day. Junior prom had changed things and they hadn't left each other's side since. I think they would've gone to nursing school together if Duncan could stand the sight of blood. He couldn't, so he'd settled for accountancy. He had a good head for numbers; Carrie would sometimes joke that she only married him so she'd have someone to do her taxes. I didn't believe her for a second. One look at the pair of them together was enough to restore my faith in all the sappy, Hollywood-fuelled nonsense about finding true love. 
    I didn't want to bring up Duncan's MS if I could help it. Every time I did it