Dragon Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

we’ll go shopping before we go home.”
    Henri looks up from his food, smiles.
    â€œSo you think you can behave?”
    The boy spears another chunk of hamburger, says, “Sure,” with his mouth full.
    The Monroe building sits just across the street from Monty’s parking lot. Henri holds my hand while we wait for the light on South Bayshore Drive to turn red. Every time a car drives by us, he squeezes hard. He cranes his neck as he stares at the top floor of the office building. “We’re going all the way up there?”
    I nod.
    â€œIt’s all ours?”
    The light changes and I lead Henri across the street. “All ours,” I say, neglecting to tell him that our family’s company, LaMar Associates, owns at least a portion of every one of the large buildings that tower over Bayshore’s western side. There will be plenty of time, I think, when my son grows older, for him to learn what a wealthy and powerful company his grandfather built.
    Henri’s mouth drops open when we enter the building’s lobby. He half slides his sneakers across the slick marble floor as we cross the room toward the private elevator that accesses LaMar Associates’ penthouse offices. Men in suits, women in business attire rush past us, coming and going from the bank of elevators servicing the other floors.
    Where once there was one man standing guard, two armed men — one gray haired, the other balding, heavy set and younger — flank LaMar’s private elevator, watch our approach. I shake my head at the show of force. I’d almost forgotten that Arturo had beefed up security after the incidents four years ago.
    The balding guard steps forward when we approach. “Sir?” he says, frowning at my shorts and T-shirt, and the small, similarly dressed child I have in tow.
    I grin, nod toward the older guard, try to remember his name but can’t quite dredge it up. He nods back. The younger man, oblivious to our nonverbal exchange, adjusts his belt and growls, “Sir?”
    Cocking one eyebrow at the man, I make a show of fishing in my pockets. I wait until a flush rises on the beefy man’s cheeks before I finally produce my key to the private elevator, hold it out for him to see. “I’m Peter DelaSangre,” I say. When the man doesn’t react to my name, I add, “Mr. Gomez and Mr. Tindall are expecting me.”
    The guard frowns even more. “I’ll have to check.” He turns, reaches for a wall phone.
    â€œHarry, for Christ’s sake,” the older man says. “Don’t you know who Mr. DelaSangre is? Let the man go up. Now!”
    Henri’s eyes widen when the elevator door opens. Inside I pick him up, let him push the PH button. The door closes and he giggles when we accelerate upward.
    Another guard greets us on the penthouse floor when the door opens. He points me to the new receptionist’s station. I pause for a moment, examine the rich mahogany paneling, the matching wood furniture that’s replaced the wallpaper and mica of four years ago and feel a pang of regret that Emily’s no longer here to greet me.
    Rita Santiago, the receptionist hired after Emily’s unfortunate death, stands up, comes out from behind her desk as soon as she sees me. She smiles, stares directly in my eyes, holds out her hand. “Mr. DelaSangre. We finally get to meet.”
    Her gaze, delivered at equal height to mine, surprises me. I’m used to being taller than most men, towering over most women. Not even Elizabeth, who’d chosen a fairly tall human shape, could look directly into my eyes — even on her tiptoes. But, with only the aid of short-heeled shoes, this woman not only can, but does so with disturbing intensity.
    I return Rita’s smile, take her proffered hand. For the second time today, the mere contact with a woman’s fingers affects me out of all proportion to the touch. It doesn’t help at