They’d made several public appearances since then, and each time he had to circle her waist, hold her to his side, pretend to be one half of an adoring couple. It was torture. That probably made him a masochist because every hit of her honey-and-citrus scent, every brush of her hip, every glance at that wicked mouth... Yeah, torture of the sweetest, dirtiest kind.
And yet, he held back. Didn’t even try to cross the line they’d crossed that night. Finding her with her father—with Gregory looming over her like the bully Cain knew him to be—had triggered Cain. His memories. Those age-worn but still sensitive feelings of rage, helplessness, fear. Her assurances that Gregory had never physically abused her had mollified the anger, but comforting her, holding her, had transmuted the emotion to a ravenous need that incinerated his control. Burned through him with the speed and destruction of a forest fire.
God, she’d been sweet. And potent. And lethal to his resolve. To his vow never to be under the thumb of another person. To never beweak.
Devon might not have known what her father had used as a threat—he believed her about that; her reaction had been too real, too visceral—but lack of knowledge about the details didn’t absolve her of responsibility. She was still a willing participant in her father’s blackmail. Like he’d told her weeks ago, she could refuse to participate and the scheme would end. But she didn’t. And so, giving in to the undeniable desire between them—her hungry mouth and taut nipples hadn’t lied about that desire—would be akin to capitulating to manipulation. To once more submit to someone else’s control, when he’d promised himself it would never happen again.
He would never be powerless again.
Barron Farrell had taught him early on that love was a convenient excuse to cuff another person’s will, to strangle their individual and emotional freedom...to steal their choices.
Cain wanted no part of the promise of pleasure in Devon’s eyes or the vulnerability she stirred in him.
The rise of voices behind a closed door dragged him from his thoughts, and he zeroed in on the number above it: 7. He grabbed the knob, and after a brief pause, twisted it and pulled the door open.
Desks that wouldn’t have been out of place in a high school were arranged on either side of the classroom and Devon stood in the middle aisle. Neither she nor the kids—ranging from early teens to young adults—noticed him standing just inside the entrance. One half of the room celebrated with high fives and fist bumps while the other side groaned and yelled good-natured gibes.
“Okay, okay,” Devon said, pushing her hands down in a “shush” motion. “Team Come At Me Bro, this is your chance to tie the score. Answer this question correctly or Team It’s About to Go Down will be ahead by three hundred points.” The kids quieted, and she faced the catcalling side. “Ready?” She held up a white card. “For three hundred points in the category of music. What is the name of the most famous left-handed guitarist?”
That’s easy, Cain silently scoffed.Jimi Hendrix.
But the teens didn’t immediately shout out the answer. They huddled together, furiously whispering. Then a young girl wearing a Hobbits Run Middle Earth T-shirt and beautiful dreads leaned in and murmured something to her team with an adamant wave of her hand. The other kids glanced at each other and shrugged.
Turning to Devon, the girl stood and stated loudly, “Jimi Hendrix.”
Devon stared at her, letting a dramatic pause fall over the room. “You’re correct.”
Stunned, Cain found himself smiling and mentally cheering with the team as they broke out in loud victorious shouts and some kind of dancing that looked both jerky and coordinated.
His bark of laughter took both him and the others by surprise. The room fell silent as all eyes swung his way. For the first time in years, a bout of self-consciousness swelled inside him, but he met the thirty or so gazes fixed on him. One thing he remembered from high school—never show weakness. Thankfully, curiosity and surprise filled their stares instead of the calculation and pettiness he recalled from his younger years at the exclusive prep school Barron had insisted his son attend.
“Cain,” Devon greeted, and then reached behind her to remove a cell phone from the pocket of her entirely-too-tight-for-his-sanity skinny jeans. Peeking down at the screen, she winced. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time. We were just finishing up here...”
“Uh-uh,” a tall, blond boy from the opposing side objected. “We still have two more rounds to go. You can’t just quit in the middle of Trivia Titans! This is war! And there’s a pizza party at stake!”
Cain smothered a snort at the exaggerated protest and the outrage coloring the kid’s declaration of battle.
Devon glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “Could you give me a few minutes to finish up here?”
“Yes.” And then, before he could ask himself, “What the hell?” he shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it across an empty desk. “Which team should I join?”
Shock widened her eyes and parted her pretty lips. With effort, he dragged his inspection from how soft and giving he knew that mouth to be and arrowed in on the team that included theLord of the Ringsfan. “Do you mind?” he prompted.
The teens stared at him in disbelief, some of them surveying his white shirt, blue-and-gray-striped tie, black dress pants and shoes. But in the next moment, almost to a person, they broke out in grins. “Hell no!” one boy yelled, waving him over.
“Justin,” Devon reprimanded with a frown.
The boy shrugged, offering her a sheepish smile. “My bad, Ms. Cole. I mean, yes, sir. Please do join us.” He threw the overdone invitation at Cain, who didn’t bother to contain his chuckle.
Cain slid into a desk next to Justin, and a series of objections and boos rose from the other side.
“No fair,” a younger teen girl yelled, eyes narrowed behind her bright blue eyeglass frames. “That means you have to play for us, Ms. Cole.”
“I can’t—”
“No problem, Ms. C,” another student rose from Cain’s team, her hand outstretched to Devon. “I’ll take over the questions. Besides,” she curled her lip in a mock sneer directed at the opposing side, “they need all the help they can get.”
The noise level in the room rose to deafening as everyone started tossing out smack talk. In a couple of minutes, though, Devon had confiscated a desk across from Cain’s adopted team and the trivia battle resumed.
