As if he sensed the movement, Cain’s regard shifted from Laurence to her. That gaze dropped to her mouth, and Devon dropped her arm as if caught mid-sin. Maybe thinking about wanting her fake fiancé to kiss the ever lovin’ hell out of her wasn’t on God’s list of sins, but it was on hers.
Falling for the enemy might be a great romance trope, but this was real life. If she allowed Cain close, when he moved on, she wouldn’t be left unscathed. And he would move on. If there was anything she’d learned since her mother’s death it was that anyone could be ripped away at a whim.
Better she remember that the next time she wondered if his body looked as powerful without clothes as it did in them.
Starting now.
Seven
Cain remembered the first time he saw theMona Lisa.
He’d been fifteen, and his father had taken him along on a business trip to Paris. It’d been boring as hell. For the five days they’d been in one of the most beautiful cities on earth, he’d spent ninety percent of it locked in conference rooms with his father and other businessmen. He hadn’t cared about acquisitions or profits and losses. At fifteen, three things had consumed him: the Boston Red Sox, beating his best score onCall of Dutyand getting to third base with Cassandra Ransom.
But then his father had allowed his assistant to take Cain on a tour of Paris. And he’d visited the Louvre and seenher. Mona Lisa. He’d spent at least an hour staring up at the painting of the mysterious Italian noblewoman with her dark beauty, wearing her enigmatic smile. The epitome of grace and yet, he always imagined that smile hinted at the woman’s passion, joy, mischief. But especially her passion.
No flesh and blood woman had ever intrigued and captivated him as much as that piece of art.
Until now.
As Laurence and his staff exited his office, Cain ordered himself not to turn around and study the silent woman who hadn’t moved from the wall where the green screen had stood. Not to turn and skim the interesting features only a blind man would call plain. Not to survey the breasts that had pressed against his chest, confirming every suspicion he’d had about their firmness and weight. Not to regard the almost dramatic flare of her full hips and the sensual thickness of her thighs. Not to stare at the mouth that had damn near brought him to his knees in front of an office full of people.
Jesus, the soft give of it, the heady, sultry taste of it—he’d lost control, forgotten about everything and everyone else except the woman sweetly surrendering to him, granting him her passion like a gift wrapped with a bow. That never happened with him, to him.Ever.And as he’d surfaced from the dark pool of lust, anger lit in him, but so did fear. Who had he become in those moments when he’d been drowning in her?
He’d suspected passion hot enough to reduce him to ash had existed behind that innocent demeanor. Had glimpsed it in the garden in those beautiful, deceptive eyes. And in the occasional flashes of temper and sarcasm. But to confirm it? To be on the receiving end of that lovely flame?
Goddamn. Since meeting her, his sleep had been disturbed with dreams of her. Now that he’d tasted her? He would be lucky if he ever slept again.
Clenching his jaw, he shut the door closed behind the last of the photography crew and crossed the room toward her. What else did she hide behind that Mona Lisa face? What else would he discover was a mask, a lie? If anything, today had shown him he could trust nothing about her.
The cherry on top of this shitty sundae would be for him to become a slave to his lust. To willfully turn a blind eye to her true nature just so he could be kissed by fire again. That’s probably what her father intended.
Well, he was no one’s puppet. Including his cock’s.
“I should probably go—” Devon began.
“We need to—” he ground out simultaneously.
Whatever they would’ve said remained unfinished and hanging in the air as his door flew open and Achilles and Kenan strode in as if it was their office instead of his. Technically, they weren’t wrong. Everything in this company belonged to them as much as it did him.
With that reminder, the bitterness he’d felt since the reading of Barron’s will simmered to the surface. And spilled onto the men who’d barged into his life much as they’d done his office.
“Please, come in. My obviously closed door is always open,” he drawled from between gritted teeth.
“Well, obviously,” Kenan drawled back, a smile curving his mouth. His sharp gaze, identical to Cain’s own, lit on Devon. “We heard a ridiculous rumor through the office gossip grapevine that you were in here with a photographer for an engagement photo shoot.” He surveyed the room with an exaggerated turn of his head and body. “No photographer, but we do have a possible fiancée.” Though his tone remained light and teasing, his gaze narrowed, and his smile hardened around the edges. “But that can’t be true. Because surely Achilles and I wouldn’t discover you were engaged to be married through the secretary pool? We would be devastated, right, Achilles?”
Achilles propped a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “Devastated,” he said, voice dry.
“Don’t let the stoic face fool you. Inside, he’s broken. As am I. So please clear it up for us, Cain. Is it true that you’re getting married and we’re the last to know? Like literally, behind the mail room clerk, last to know? And if so, why is it you didn’t think it was any of our business? You know, being brothers and all.”
“Brothers?” Devon gasped behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her wide eyes. And sighed. “Devon, let me introduce you to my half brothers, Kenan Rhodes and Achilles Farrell.”Brothersstill seemed foreign on his tongue. Like a language he hadn’t yet mastered. And wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Kenan, Achilles, this is Devon Cole...my fiancée.” It was a miracle he didn’t choke on that title.
“A pleasure to meet you, Devon,” Kenan greeted, his expression warming as he extended his hand toward her. Devon shook it, returning the warm gesture and smile.
And it wasnotjealousy that speared through Cain’s rib cage at the pretty sight of it. He didn’tdojealousy. And didnotcovet that warmth or wish it was directed at him.
“Devon.” Achilles dipped his head, the mouth surrounded by his thick beard remaining flat. The man could never be called emotive.
