Damn. Her front bumper was toast. Not again. Father would go ballistic.
She glared. They needed to expand the front gate. This was the third time she’d turned a teeny bit too tight and wrecked her pretty car.
Driving to the portico, she stomped up the entry stairs. Marcus had the door open before she hit the top step.
“Did you have a nice afternoon of shopping?” He took the bags from her.
She always said she was going shopping, which she did. It just wasn’t the entire truth. Her parents wouldn’t see the value of her spending time in a South Boston library.
She shook her head, curls whipping across her face. “I bumped the gate.”
One white eyebrow shot up. “Again?”
“An animal jumped out from the bushes.”
“Oh, Miss. Did you hit it?”
“No.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Could you...?”
“I’ll call the repair shop.” He tipped his head. “Your father would like to speak with you.”
She frowned, then forced her face to relax. She didn’t want a permanent furrow between her eyebrows, but it was hard. Nothing was right in her world. It had been off-kilter for months. “Where is he?”
“In his study.” Marcus headed up the left stairway with her packages.
Courtney’s heels clicked on the black-and-white foyer tiles. She longed to kick off her shoes, but she wasn’t sure what Father wanted. Had she done anything that might have irritated him lately? Last month it had been how late she was coming home, as if that mattered now that she was twenty-six. The month before he’d lectured her for a half hour about gossiping at the dinner table. And in February it had been the way she treated her new sister-in-law.
I can’t help that I’m not my perfect brother.
Outside Father’s study, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed the skirt of the red Versace sheath she’d worn to lunch with Gwen. Her eyes didn’t pop as much when she wore red. Now she wished she’d bought the dress in green, too.
She’d buy the green dress tomorrow. Better yet, she’d have them deliver it to the house.
Staring into the hallway mirror, she forced a smile onto her face and arranged her black curls so they cascaded over one shoulder. She was her father’s princess, even though he hadn’t called her that in years. The blasted furrow formed between her eyebrows again. She pressed on the hideous lines and took a deep breath. Opening the door, she glided into the room.
Father didn’t look up. He pointed to a guest chair and kept typing.
She stood next to the chair. Her dress looked so much better when she stood. She examined her manicure and waited.
Still not looking up, her father ordered, “Sit.”
Courtney gritted her teeth, but obeyed, moving around the chair. She slipped into her seat just as she’d been taught in the finishing classes she’d been forced to attend during high school.
Instead of crossing her ankles, she rebelled against the voice in her head and crossed her legs. By crossing her legs, she could admire the red soles of her Louboutin heels. They were a perfect match with her dress. She sat with her back ruler-straight, remembering the way the instructor had made her balance a book on her head.
Wasn’t she her father’s perfect daughter, dressed to the height of fashion? She folded her hands in her lap, but what she really wanted to do was thread her fingers through her pearl necklace. It had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday from her father, but Mother had probably signed his name to the card.
She could wait him out. She didn’t have anything else to do.
He looked up. Inhaled and exhaled. Twice.
Uh-oh. What had she done? He couldn’t already know about her car. She chewed her thumbnail, then quickly dropped her hand to her lap and twisted her fingers together.
His gray eyes narrowed and he held up an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”
Was he kidding? “An envelope?”
“Your credit card bill.”
She nodded, feeling her eyebrows coming together again. “Okay.”
“No. Not okay.” He pulled out the wad of paper. “Five thousand dollars at a shoe store?”
Shoes? She tapped her lip with her fingernail, longing to chew on it again, but she wasn’t fifteen anymore. “There was a sale.”
“So you spent five thousand dollars?” He spread out the pages, facing her. “We talked about this two months ago.”
“About what?” Whoops. She’d forgotten about that lecture. Paying bills wasn’t her responsibility. It was her father’s.
“About wasting money. About your shopping excesses.” He pushed back a black curl that slipped across his forehead.
She’d inherited her father’s hair, but she hoped never to see the white that peppered his. He might look distinguished, but women had to hide any sign of aging.
“It was an incredible sale.” She pointed to her shoes. “No one else I know owns this pair.” Or most of the shoes she’d picked up that day.
His face turned red. “Because they aren’t spendthrifts.”
“You always tell me to look my best.” It was all he’d ever expected.
“You have a mountain of clothes.” He pointed at the bill. “Two mountains of clothes based on the money you’ve spent. You’re done.”
“Done?” What was he talking about?
“I want your credit cards.”
“What for?” She couldn’t catch her breath.
“As of today, the endless spending stops.”
“But...”
He held out his hand and she dug into her Furla wallet. He stared at each card as she handed it to him. Pulling out scissors, he said, “Cut them up.”
“But what will I do?” If she couldn’t charge meals, drinks or clothes, what else was there?
“Get a job. Make your own money.” Her father threw up his hands. “Marry one of those worthless boys you hang around with and spend their money.”
He’d never been this angry. Ever. She swallowed and took the scissors and the first card. She cut it in half. Then half again. And kept going. The handle of the scissors imprinted on the base of her thumb. It hurt, but she couldn’t complain while her father glared at her.
“You now have a five-hundred-dollar credit limit on this card.” He held it out. “I expect that to be used for gas and parking to get you to job interviews.”
This couldn’t be happening. She leaned over the divide of his desk, touching his hand. Then she smiled, the smile that used to get her father’s attention. “Daddy, just last week you told me you liked the way I dressed.”
“Because that’s all you’re good at doing. Looking pretty.” He spit the words out and flipped her hand away.
She waved at her dress and shoes. “It costs money to look like this. Ask Mother.”
“You should have enough clothes to do that for years to come.” He stood, leaning on his fists. “I mean it. It’s time you got a job.”
Her spine slumped against the back of the chair. The imaginary book balancing on her head tumbled to the floor. The furrow between her eyebrows dug deep. “A