by Maya Rose
Selena calls me when Xavier is driving me to work as usual. “Are you alone?”
Xavier has been my driver for five years now, but I never take calls in the car, even with the privacy screen up. But this seems important, so I hit the button for the screen before asking her, “What is it?”
“Jenna’s dead. Some flying mishap.”
My heart trips. Then pounds. Jenna. The only person who could have influenced Warren against me. She never took to me. Treated me with disdain, like I’m dirt that somehow wrongly ended up in her house because they left the door open. She’s out of the way. Which means...fuck.
“Eli? You need to talk to him. Today. You get that, right?”
Damn right I do. He needs to tell me what I want to hear. I don’t want to wait till the end of the day for our regular call. Looks like he has the same idea. Because he calls me five minutes after I’m in my office.
“Cancel your next meeting. We need to talk.” He says, looking more purposeful than brokenhearted.
This is happening. Fuck, this is really happening. I take a minute to reschedule my next two meetings, and then for the first time in what seems like forever, I set my phone on silent.
“I trust you, Eli. More than anyone else I know. Since the moment I brought you home. You know that, right?” He starts, more serious than I’ve ever seen him.
There’s a moment of fear. I want all that is his. It’s all I’ve wanted for years now. But that doesn’t make the concept of a Warren-less world any less intimidating. “Yeah, I do.”
“And you? Do you trust me?”
The question takes me by surprise. But the answer is uncomplicated. I can never forget what he did for Scotty and me. Sons of the disgraced and corrupt Vaughn King. When no one wanted to touch us with a ten feet pole. But he did. All because at some point, the two men were friends. Until their fallout when dad started making a living out of bending the law. But Warren still came through for us the minute he heard the news. I won’t let you and your brother get punished for Vaughn’s crimes, Eli. You’re going to be fine--I promise you that.
“You know I do, Warren.”
“Good.” He nods, as if satisfied. “So if I ask you to do something, you’ll do it? Even if you don’t like it? Even if it’s not what you want?”
What? What the fuck is going on? “Warren, I don’t under--”
“I need you to find my daughter, Eli.”
Chapter 2
Eli
◆◆◆
Goddamn hell.
This is where she lives? Alone in one of the most squalid neighborhoods in New York city? I tell Xavier to keep the car running, before I step into the building that is tilting like the Tower of Pisa. Loud cackling and drunk noises from an alleyway plug the quiet of the night. My choice of timing is deliberate. Less eyes. And looks like it’s panned out. I’m surprised to find an elevator inside the building. I don’t trust the rickety old thing, but taking an empty elevator seems more discreet than using stairs and passing through every floor.
I messed up, Eli. Really bad. I cheated on Jenna, I broke two hearts, and I failed an innocent little girl. I need you to find her for me. My daughter.
Illegitimate. From an affair. He wouldn’t tell me why he wants to talk to both of us together. I haven’t slept since. Lost all sense of consciousness. I can’t lose what I’ve worked so hard for. Not now when I can almost taste it. I’m probably worrying over nothing. Warren read the PI’s report. The girl’s way too much of a mess for him to leave her anything that matters.
Ariel. Her mother’s family wouldn’t have anything to do with the two of them. So after her mother--the woman Warren cheated with--was diagnosed with Alzheimers, she’s been in and out of three different foster homes until she was eighteen. She kept stealing money and pawning household valuables from the families. Then opted out of the system when she turned eighteen, never went to college although her scores were phenomenal, and has been working multiple jobs to make rent for this decrepit place and pay for her mother’s spot in the nursing home. She doesn’t even have a bank account, so I can only imagine how much funds she has saved. I’m not sure how she hasn’t been evicted yet. So if Warren wants to set her up with a trust fund or something, I can live with that.
I take a second in front of her door. I’m edgy. Yes, it’s the money. But it’s also about meeting someone who has an actual right over Warren, and everything he is and has. Everything I’ve strived for my whole adult life. And she gets it on a silver platter. NO. Warren won’t do anything stupid. Unless she plays the victim card. She came by to meet Warren once, and he turned her away, but she made quite an impression. She didn’t even cry when I said I don’t know her, Eli. She knew I was lying through my teeth. She could have simply asked for a paternity test and that would have been that. But she didn’t. She let me get away with it. His voice broke when he talked about it. And that was nine years ago. She’s been on her own. No doubt she’s picked up some handy tricks along the way to get men to listen.
Winding my fist, on my guard and prepared for a sob story, I knock with my knuckles. I strain my ears for movement behind the door, but there is none. She’s home. I know that. The PI said her days are like clockwork. I raise my hand to knock again, when the door suddenly jerks open.
……….Good
Holy.
God.
I see beautiful women every damn day. Coming on to me, coming, period. I wish I could remember any of them. Because the one in front of me is blindingly exquisite, sucker punching me in the gut.
This is Warren’s daughter?
It is. Christ, she is. Everything matches the description in the folder. And there’s resemblance to the included pictures. But how was all of it so goddamn inadequate? Does she not photograph well or did I not look hard enough?
Everything about her is straight out...plush. Healthy flawless face, pale pink at her cheekbones. Fleshy lips shimmering with a soft gloss. Big eyes the color of dark honey. Dense golden red hair tied back in a careless ponytail, thick shiny errant tufts escaping everywhere. A t-shirt clings to her, making the most of where it is, her proud breasts pushing against the thin fabric with everything they have. They’re confined in a bra, I can see the outline, and my body stirs with the need to set them loose. Maybe press my face down in the warm space between. The ankle length denim she’s wearing waist down, snugly fits her shapely legs. She’s not wearing anything on her feet, and has to lift her neck almost all the way to meet my eyes. Nineteen and two months. God, so young. How is she so damn sexy?
The PI took two days to find her, and trailed her for three more before handing me the report. He had plenty of opportunity to look at her from every angle. And yet he decided against giving me a fucking warning. So he’s clearly either incompetent or gay or a complete moron. Athletic build, my ass. These are curves that can start a war. Features that pale everything around her, even when she’s standing expressionlessly with one hand on the door, blocking my entrance into her apartment.
Her eyes rake over me, leisurely, thoroughly, and my three piece suit might as well be transparent. Her appraisal ends with the lift of an eyebrow.
“Lost your way, fancy dress?” The sound is rich and smoky, like the rest of her. It makes me forget every thought that came before it. “And your tongue, looks like.”
Fucking fantastic. I’m gawking at her like I’ve never seen a pretty face before. Talk, Eli. Words. Use. Now.
“Ms Jenning, I’m Eli King. Warren’s…” What? I’m Warren’s what? “...I work with Warren. He wants to meet you.”
I’ve been a permanent fixture in the news ever since Warren named me the COO of Walton hotels. So she should know me, and she already knows who Warren is. It’s what makes this whole thing far-fetched and...messy. She knows he’s her father. They’re living in the same city, in vastly different worlds. Dropping his name should move this thing along.
Or not.
Did she hear me? Because her face damn well won’t
tell me. I’m trying desperately to get a read. She should have shown some level of excitement by now. But all I’m getting from her is...a whiff of citrus. Blood oranges? Peaches? What the fuck is the matter with me?
Look at something else. Fucking look at anything else. I force my eyes away, and take a stock of the barebones room behind her. Grubby two seater couch. One wooden table, no frills. No TV. Empty kitchen countertop.
“Is there more, Mr King, or are you done?”
My eyes flit back, beckoned by her voice. God, that voice.
“More?” I repeat, relaxing the knot of my tie. Hell, is that me sounding so vapid? “More what?” I ask, forcefully.
“More bullshit.”
What the… “Excuse me?”
A frown touches her forehead, and her face is pure curiosity. “What else would you call it?”
“Call what?” How is she doing this? Making me feel stupid?
Her eyes narrow, crinkling at the corners. “Do you want to take a minute and then come back, so I don’t have to repeat everything I say? Or is my hot body too much of a distraction?”
I hate that she’s somehow a step ahead in our five minute interaction. So I say it before I can think better of it. “I eat girls like you for breakfast, you presumptuous brat.”
But she just effortlessly rolls her eyes, unfazed. “And I’m sure you leave them adequately satisfied.” Then she taps her foot, like she’s in a hurry and I’m wasting her time. “For the last time, are you done?”
I’m speechless. Pissed off. My dick is confused. And so alarmingly turned on it’s a fucking disgrace.
And then all of a sudden, the door is slammed in my face.
My mood turns vicious, adrenaline pumping furiously. What the hell was that? What the actual fuck was that?
“Open the goddamn door!” I pound on it, uncaring of the loud ruckus I’m creating in the silent hallway of that building. In a place like this one in New York, the chances of some good Samaritan caring enough to interfere are slim to none. Everyone’s probably bolting their doors and sealing their ears.
She takes her time opening the door, and when she does, I wish I’d just walked away. Because she’s used the minute and a half to change into a tank top and shorts. Faded and worn out, but showcasing a creamy spread of peaks and valleys in all the right places. I’m hot, I’m seething, and if I open my mouth, it’s likely to start dribbling at the corner.
“Yes?” She asks primly, like she’s seeing me for the first time.
I see the challenge in her eyes. Fuck, she’s not at all what I was expecting. This is no victim in distress, eager to escape her miserable life. This is a siren who’s ready for a fight. And I have to stop letting her pick one. I’m good at this. Keeping my cool when shit goes south is my thing.
I take a deep breath to calm down before I talk again. I need to be the grown up here. If Warren has even a snippet of doubt about what he wants to do, or which one of us deserves this... “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot--”
“Oh for God’s sake, did they not teach you to take a hint at lackey university?” She crosses her arms, leans on the door, and gives me a bored look while she cuts me off.
Did she just call me…? And why is my brain limping like a wuss at that? “Lackey? I’m the man who runs your daddy’s--” I bite out poisonously, coming to a piping stop when I hear the door behind me jiggle open. I don’t turn. We don’t need an audience, or the tabloids picking this up. Not until Warren tells us what he’s cooking.
But she smiles past me. “Hey Bruno.” And out of the blue, deep dimples swiftly mark her cheeks.
Dimples? I’m so firing the PI.
“You’re sure about that raincheck, beautiful? I promise I’ll be a gentleman this time.” Bruno asks her behind me, and she straightens, visibly sticking her chest out.
“Sure you will.” She says with an impish look, dragging the u in the sure, fluffing up her ponytail. “Maybe ask me tomorrow again.”
Is she flirting with this asshole right in front of me? And what the hell does this time mean?
“You know I will, peach.” I wait for him to leave, hopefully before I give in and throw a punch. But he doesn’t. “Who’s the suit?” He asks her instead.
Her hazel eyes come back to me again. “He was just telling me that. Go ahead, Mr King.” She says with phony politeness. “You’re the man who what?”
I glare at her. I’m the man who’s going to smack her round pert ass. Spank all that insolence out. She won’t be able to sit when I’m--
“Sorry.” Now she looks at him with an embarrassed look. “He’s a little slow.” She crinkles her nose, and half-mouths, half-whispers the last word, like she’s trying not to hurt my feelings.
A ring fills the air before I can say or do anything, and the character behind me laughs and starts moving. “Gotta go, babe--laterz!”
She blows him a kiss, and I’m fucking done. I tried rational and normal. It didn’t work.
I hold it in till I hear the ding of the elevator. Then I stalk in her direction, and she steps back instinctively, arms coming down at her sides.
“Get the fuck inside.” I command her with gritted teeth, my hand holding the door as she takes another step back.
I don’t break my stride as I barge inside, and she has no choice but to keep backing up or push me away. She chooses the former. I don’t stop till I’m all the way in, hitting the door closed behind me.
And yet, her eyes on me are defiant, not the least bit alarmed. “What now? You’re going to fling me over your shoulder and take me to your leader?”
It’s the damnedest thing. I don’t know if I’m more amazed or furious. There’s a crazed riot in my body, an animal struggling against its leash. Women don’t react to me like she is. Even at my lowest, all it takes is a two second smolder, and I always--always--get what I want. Never this passive and detached look. Like I’m a mild inconvenience. While my dick can lift weights, thanks to the image she’s just put in my head. Flinging her over my shoulder.
I edge closer, till there’s less than an inch between her nipples and my suit. She doesn’t budge from where she is, and I overrule the voice in my head warning me that I need to cool it, or I’m going to make this worse. I can’t have her telling Warren I’m a psycho. Because that’s how I’m acting right now. But good sense is in the trunk of this car at this point, bound and gagged. The need to see her squirm is at the wheel.
“Is that what floats your boat, princess? A big strong man handling your ass on his shoulder while your tits grind into his back? Because I can arrange that.”
She’s so prissy, the princess just slips out. I’m beyond regretting it. I’m fully prepared for a slap on my face or a blow to my chest. Hell, I’m so sexed up I want her touch any way I can have it. Seeing her lose control will just be the icing on the cake. But I’m shit out of luck. Because the goddamn tease colors instead, the peaks of her cheeks rosy red, like she’s been caught with her hand in the candy jar. Like I’ve discovered her dirty little secret. Holy Jesus, she’s actually had this fantasy, hasn’t she? With me or some boy? I know for certain that there’s no special one in her life. But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been boys. What is she like? Bossy? Submissive? How many know the answer when I don’t? I picture her, thighs splayed out on my bed, throwing her head back and moaning for more, while I rut into her mercilessly, my tongue and teeth on her nipple, and blood surges south of me. She’s turning me into a damn creep, and she’s not even trying that hard.
Her breasts heave, her lips purse, before she hisses back, out of breath. “Get lost before I call the cops.”
She moves till her back dusts the wall. The movement drifts something deep in my nose. Not just citrus. Lavender and something else. It’s fucking incredible. I ignore it, just barely, and drop my voice, giving her a heated look. Because suddenly, I’m sure of at least one thing about her.
“Yeah? I call bull.” If she wanted to, she would have called for he
lp by now. But she hasn’t. Question is...why?
She swallows slowly, and I watch transfixed, as her brazen facade drops. Her face is still hard, uncompromising, but the fire’s low as her eyes bounce between mine. “I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. Go tell him that.”
The blunt rawness in her voice gnaws at me. I can’t blame her for feeling this way about the man who knocked up her mother while he was married, and then abandoned them like trailer trash. Warren gave me his reasons and now I doubt if they’re going to matter to her. But given what we’ve dug up on her, how is she not seizing this possibility at a better life?
“You really think you can afford that pride of yours, princess?”
She raises an eyebrow with a pointed look. “Do you get paid on commission or something? Is that why you’re trying so hard?”
Alright, enough with the pussyfooting. “Jenna--” I correct myself. “...Mrs Walton died last week.” I pause, but still zip from her. I don’t let that stop me. “You’re his only family left.” The word burns my tongue. Family. Which she is. And I’m not.
Her nostrils flare. “You’re confusing me with someone who gives a rat’s ass.”
I resist the urge to shake her. Does she get what’s at stake? “You’re his sole biological child--do you understand what that means?”
Her gaze turns thoughtful, and for a second I think I’ve finally got through to her. But her tone is calculating. “Do you?”
She’s being deliberately cryptic again. “Do I what?”
“Do you get what that means? If he decides to leave everything to me because it’s on his bucket list, that’s years of your life wasted. Has that kept you awake at night, Mr King? That he hasn’t given you his kingdom yet?” A vein tics at the base of her neck.
She does know who I am. Maybe too well. And she sees too much. Right inside of me. All through the scandal and later, I’ve never felt more exposed than I am than at this moment. In front of this girl who is nothing. A stranger, and yet she’s hit bullseye in her first go at inferring my reality. I’m suddenly racked with doubt and fear. I straighten and retreat, putting distance between us. Her eyes take in that action, and something crosses her face, disappearing before I can pin it down. It makes me remember she’s not without her own baggage. Fuck this girl trying to psycho-analyze me.
