He stalked from the room, and Cain snorted. If that was supposed to be a show of parental concern, Gregory had failed. A man like him didn’t care about something as tender as his daughter’s feelings or well-being. Hell, he was trading both for more business, more wealth and an entrance into an inner social circle whose doors had been closed to him. No, more likely he worried about not controlling the situation.
Welcome to the fucking club.
As soon as he disappeared, Cain turned back to Devon...and slow clapped, the gesture condescending.
“Well done,” he drawled. “I congratulate you on a stellar performance. Your father must be proud of his star pupil.”
“Cain, I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He snorted. “You’ll have to be more specific. For what? Lying in wait for me during my father’s funeral? For tag-teaming with your father to extort me?”
For making a fool out of me? For making me believe I saw sweetness in you? For every sweaty, hot night I woke up hard and aching for a woman who didn’t exist?
As the too-vulnerable questions whispered through his mind, he locked his jaw and strode past her to the bar he’d spied when he’d entered the well-appointed room. Part of him detested partaking of anything that belonged to Gregory Cole—and that included his daughter.
But the other half acknowledged that this conversation required a drink. And that he needed to keep his hands busy—before they acted of their own accord and mapped the dangerous curves showcased by the simple long-sleeved T-shirt and dark, hip-hugging jeans.
She was like the lily of the valley—elegant, sweet, virginal. But if ingested, poisonous.
Tearing his gaze from her, he poured a finger of Scotch into a glass and brought it to his lips. He downed the alcohol in one swallow. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the smooth burn. It warmed him, spreading as it hit his stomach. Anything to distract him from wondering if those beautiful breasts would spill over his hands if he cupped her. If her nipples would be a slightly lighter hue than her caramel-colored hair, or would they be a deep rose.
He poured another drink to try and convince himself he didn’t care.
Yeah. Not enough Scotch in the world for that.
“Cain, I know you won’t believe me, but I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this...” She faltered, not finishing the sentence, and he threw back the second drink, slamming the glass down as the Scotch hit the back of his throat.
“Into this shit show, you mean?” he supplied, arching a brow. “You offer up that pretty apology as if you have nothing to do with this. As if your selfish demands aren’t screwing with my life,” he growled. “I don’t have much of a choice here, but you? All you have to do is tell your father no, that you won’t go along with it. But you’re not going to do that, are you, Devon? Not when both of you have dollar signs in your eyes.”
She swept her hands over her hair, dragging away the few loose strands that had escaped her ponytail. She turned away from him, giving him her profile to study. The high forehead. The impudent tilt of her nose. The top-heavy bow of her mouth. In another era, artists would’ve competed to paint the elegance of her features and lushness of her body. Now, in this more materialistic and shallow society, beauty like hers earned criticism instead of praise. Which just proved society was dumb as well as blind.
Her curves, dips and hollows would lure men to their downfall like currents sweeping ships to crash against jagged rocks.
Well, screw that. He might find himself shackled to her, but damn if he would be a casualty to his dick.
“No,” she said, facing him again, her chest lifting and falling on the audible breath she inhaled. “I can’t back out of it.”
He’d expected the answer—had known the answer. And yet it still slammed into him, the knowledge reverberating through him like an earthquake. As if there had been a small part of him hanging on to the hope that he’d misjudged her. That he hadn’t been so damnwrong.
How many times would he be a fool for this woman?
Never. Again.
“Even though the thought of chaining myself to a gold-digging bitch and her bottom-feeder father makes my skin crawl, part of me is glad you said that,” he murmured.
Ignoring the jerk of her chin and the slight recoil of her body, he stalked closer, eating up the distance he’d placed between them. She shifted backward, but the couch prevented her from going any farther. And he took advantage of it. Trapping her body between his and the fussy piece of furniture. He stopped just short of pressing his chest to hers, but near enough that her scent—a sultry combination of honey and sharper citrus notes—teased him. Taunted him. Steeling himself against it, he cocked his head to the side and studied her.
Not caring that both his open inspection and the infiltration of her personal space sped past rude and parked next to inappropriate. There was nothingappropriateabout any of this.
“Because now, when I do everything in my power to make your very existence a living hell, you’ll know exactly why you’ll receive no mercy from me. I hope you enjoyed that moment of satisfaction when your father told you he got me on the hook. Because that’s the last time you’ll feel anything close to it again.”
“Does it make you feel better to threaten me?” she asked, and he resented her calm, the evenness of her voice. Like he was the only one drowning in emotion.
God, he wanted—needed—her to go under with him.
“Yes,” he replied, and she blinked at his blunt candor. “But you don’t need to bother with this act on my behalf, sweetheart. Pretending to be the sweet, concerned,honestwoman who introduced herself in the garden—it must’ve been tiring, maintaining that charade. No need to keep it up when I can see right through you.” He lifted a hand and gently dragged the backs of his fingers down her cheek, imitating and mocking the touch he’d surrendered to before. Before he’d discovered that soft heart was actually made of stone and yearning for large denominations. “That might be the one thing you’ll enjoy about our marriage. The freedom of no pretense. I’m going into this already knowing you’re a coldhearted, greedy social climber who would do anything to get what she wants.”
Fire flashed in those eyes and, God help him, excitement twisted with anger in his blood, creating an unholy union. Desire—he recognized it, acknowledged it. He might despise everything Devon stood for, but that didn’t prevent lust from locking him in its jaws, from hardening his body to the point of pain.
