Gregory didn’t bend to pick up the contract or remove his stare from Cain’s.
“Oh see, that’s where you’re wrong. I know all I need to when it comes to you, Cain,” he murmured, a corner of his mouth kicking up in a smirk Cain hungered to knock off his face. “While your father entered into this arrangement because of his conceit and ego, he assured me you would comply because of one thing. Your loyalty to your mother. A love for one’s mother—it’s a powerful thing,” he continued in a silky tone. “And I don’t doubt that you would do anything rather than see Emelia Farrell’s name splashed across tabloid rags and dragged through the gutter by unscrupulous reporters. They would be relentless if they discovered that she had an affair while still married to your father. And they would be absolutely rabid if they received evidence of that affair—pictures, emails, texts...video.”
Bile rushed from his stomach in an acidic torrent. It burned, searing him. For an instant, he caved to the pain and briefly closed his eyes. But immediately, images of his mother’s face if this news became public swam across the backs of his lids. Devastated. Humiliated. Broken.
His mother, beautiful, proud, kind and so damn strong. In order to be married to Barron Farrell she’d had to be. She’d been the one stable, loving constant in Cain’s life—gentle where his father had been harsh. Affectionate where he’d been cold. Protective when he’d been the aggressor. She’d suffered during her marriage. Once upon a time she’d probably loved his father, but his belittling, verbal assaults and constant infidelities had whittled that devotion to scraps. And his insistence on “making a man” of Cain with his fists had eradicated even those remnants.
His mother had endured for Cain, and the knowledge, the guilt, ate at him. She could’ve left Barron at any time, but he would’ve fought her for custody, and with his power, money and influence, Barron would’ve won. And she’d refused to leave Cain to Barron’s “tender mercies.” So she’d stayed until Cain had been old enough to fend for himself both financially and physically.
Emelia Farrell had paid her dues.
So no, he didn’t blame her for stepping outside her travesty of a marriage and finding comfort where she could. Just...Christ.She’d made a mistake choosing this man.
“Another crime you’re confessing to, Cole,” Cain snarled, loathing scalding him from the inside out. “It’s against the law to release that kind of material without the other party’s consent.”
“Sue me.”
Cain straightened. Better to insert as much distance between them as possible. “And your daughter? She doesn’t care that the man she’s willing to chain herself to is only marrying her because of blackmail? That he doesn’t want her, doesn’t love her? Or is she like you, and all she cares about is digging her hooks into a wealthy man so she can bleed him dry?”
“My daughter does what needs to be done for her family,” he replied, smoothly. “And I don’t need your money, Cain. I have more than enough of that. But if my daughter is married to a Farrell, doors that money can’t buy will be opened to her.”
“To you, you mean,” Cain spat.
Another shrug. “Boston society is clannish, disdainful to those who weren’t born in your rarefied circles. You know as well as I do that wealth will only propel a person so far. Will only grant them entrance to the building, but not a seat at the table. If you’re born with a setting and a name card at that table, then you can’t talk to me about how to gain a place there.”
Bitterness tinged the other man’s words, and though Cain hated Gregory for his methods, for threatening his mother, Cain had to agree with him on that point.
He understood the cliquish, snobby and classist world he moved in. Understood that more often than not it was the name Farrell and everything it meant—history, heritage, power, affluence—that paved his way, granted him access, afforded him allowances others didn’t have.
But nothing,nothing, excused Gregory Cole.
He’d threatened the only person Cain cared about. That was unforgivable. Of him and his daughter.
“So when it comes down to it, you and your bitch of a daughter are willing to sell other people’s souls for business,” Cain said, voice as cold as the sheet of ice spreading through his veins.
“Business. Connections. Power. Influence. Your father understood that better than most,” he corrected. The smile curving his mouth disappeared and the humor fled Gregory’s eyes. “Enough chitchat. As you mentioned, you have meetings and I have appointments as well. So what is your answer, Cain? Are you going to marry my daughter or am I going to release my information about your mother’s dalliance to the media?”
For an instant, Cain transformed into that ten-year-old boy cowering in front of his father in that damn library. Cowering and crying because he wanted to fight back, to break free and be strong enough to face his father down. But he couldn’t then. And he couldn’t now. Once more he was as powerless and helpless as that boy.
Gregory Cole had made him go back on his vow never to be that weak, that vulnerable again.
And Cole would pay for that.
He and his daughter.
“I agree to marry her,” Cain said, meeting the triumph in those green eyes. “But that’s all I’m agreeing to. You’ve consigned your daughter to a union from hell. I’ll make sure of it. She’ll get my name and nothing more. You might have forged this farce of a marriage, but she’s going to be the one to suffer for it. I promise you that.”
Four
“Devon, is that you?”
Devon closed the front door behind her, momentarily holding on to the doorknob.Lord, give me strength, she silently prayed. And then grimaced, guilt for the disloyal thought scurrying though her. No matter how...demandingher father could be, he was still her father. And even if he’d changed so drastically from the protective, affectionate and laughing man he used to be when her mother was alive, he’d still never abandoned her. He’d provided for her, given her everything any daughter could wish for...everything money could buy.
“Yes, Dad, it’s me,” she called out, setting her purse on a chair then striding through the spacious foyer of the stately brick town house located in the heart of Back Bay.
Her father had shelled out seven million for the home—and he had zero problems bragging about it to anyone. It was gorgeous; she couldn’t deny it. With large, airy rooms and cathedral ceilings, oversized bay windows that offered views of the quiet tree-lined street and the private patio, cavernous fireplaces, beautiful bedrooms and luxurious bathrooms, it was a place Devon couldn’t have ever imagined calling home as a little girl. The one-bedroom apartment on the garden level even provided an elegantly appointed home office for her father. Add in the expensive art pieces, opulent furniture and state-of-the-art amenities, it was a showpiece.
And yet, for Gregory Cole, it still didn’t seem to be enough. Her father had this yawning, insatiable hole inside him that he tried to fill with money and things. A hole that family used to fill.
