by Naima Simone
Acid swirled in his stomach, creeping a path up his chest. He straightened from his lounge against the pillar, prepared to nip this in the bud, but she forestalled him by speaking again. And though a part of him yearned to tell her to stop, to warn her not to say another word, the other part... Yeah, that section wanted to hear how imperfect she was. Craved it. Because it made him feel less alone.
More human.
God, he was such a selfish prick.
And yet, he listened.
“I hate roses. I mean, loathe them. Which is important because my mother loves them. And every morning there are fresh bouquets of them delivered to the house for every room, including the kitchen. And every day I fight the urge to knock one down just to watch them scatter across the floor in a mess of water, petals and thorns. Because I’m petty like that. And finally...”
She inhaled, turning to look at him, those eyes, stark and utterly beautiful in their intensity, pinning him to his spot against the railing. “Once a month, I drive over to Joplin and visit the bars and restaurants to find a man to take to a hotel for a night. We have hot, filthy sex and then I leave and return home to be Royal socialite darling Reagan Sinclair again.”
Heat—blistering hot and scalding—blasted through him, punching him in the chest and searing him to the bone. Jesus, did she just...? Holy fuck. Lust ate at him. Lust...and horror. Not because she took charge of her own sexuality. It was a twisted and unfair double standard, how men like him could escort woman after woman on his arm, and screw many more, with only an elbow nudge or knowing wink from society. But a woman doing the same thing? Especially one of Reagan’s status? Hell no. So for her to take her pleasure into her own hands? He didn’t fault her for it.
But the thought of her trolling those establishments filled with drunk men? Some man who wouldn’t have an issue with not taking the utmost care with her? Of potentially hurting her? That sent fear spiking through him, slaying him.
And then underneath the horror swirled something else. Something murkier. Edgier. And better off not being unearthed or examined too closely.
“Reagan...” he whispered.
“Relax,” she scoffed, flicking a hand toward his face. “I made the last one up. But turnabout is fair play since I’m almost eighty-two percent sure you were lying to me about at least one of yours. Maybe two.”
He froze. Stared at her. Stunned...and speechless. Mirror emotions—hilarity and anger—battled it out within him. He didn’t know whether to strangle her for taking twenty years off his life... Or double over with laughter loud enough to bring people rushing through those balcony doors.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he finally muttered, his fingers in danger of snapping his prized cigar in half. “And payback is not only a bitch but a vengeful one.”
“I’m shaking in my Jimmy Choos,” she purred.
And this time, he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. Or the goodness of it. Surrendering to the need to touch her, even if in a platonic manner, he moved forward and slipped an arm around her shoulders, hugging Reagan into his side like he used to do when she’d worn braces and friendship bracelets.
There was nothing girlish about the body that aligned with his. Nothing pure about the stirrings in his chest and gut...then lower. A new strain took up residence in his body. One that had nothing to do with the whispers and gossiping awaiting him inside. This tension had everything to do with her light, teasing scent, the slender hand branding his chest, the firm, beautiful breasts that pressed against him.
Still, he squeezed her close before releasing her.
“Thank you, Reagan,” he murmured.
She studied him, nothing coy in that straightforward gaze. “You’re welcome,” she said, not pretending to misunderstand him. Another thing he’d always liked about her. Reagan Sinclair didn’t play games. At least not with him. “That’s what friends are for. And regardless how it appears right now, you have friends, Zeke,” she said softly, using his nickname.
He stared down at her. At the kindness radiating from her eyes. An admonishment to hide that gentle heart of hers from people—from him—hovered on his tongue. The need to contradict her skulked right behind it.
Instead, he set his cigar down on an ashtray some enterprising soul had left outside on a wrought iron table. He wasn’t an animal, so he didn’t stub it out like a cigarette, but left it there to burn out on its own. In a while, he’d come back to dispose of it.
Turning to Reagan, he crooked his arm and waited. Without hesitation, she slid hers through his, but as they turned, the balcony door swung open and Douglas Sinclair stepped out.
Ezekiel knew the older man, as he was a member of the TCC. Tall, lanky and usually wearing his signature giant Stetson, he could’ve been an African-American version of the Marlboro Man. He shared the same brown eyes as his daughter, and right now those eyes were trained on them—or rather on Reagan’s arm tucked into his.
A moment later, Douglas lifted his gaze and met Ezekiel’s. Her father didn’t voice his displeasure, but Ezekiel didn’t miss the slight narrowing of his eyes or the barely-there flattening of his mouth. No, Douglas Sinclair was too polite to tell Ezekiel to get his hands off his daughter. But he stated it loud and clear just the same. Ezekiel might be a TCC member as well, but that didn’t mean the traditional, reserved gentleman would want his precious daughter anywhere near him.
Not when Ezekiel’s family had been accused of falsifying inspections on the jets that WinJet, a subsidiary of Wingate Enterprises, manufactured. Not when three of their workers had been injured on the job because of a fire in one of the manufacturing plants due to a faulty sprinkler system. Not when they’d been sued for those injuries because those inspections hadn’t been up-to-date as the reports had stated.
Even as VP of marketing for Wingate Enterprises, Ezekiel had found it damn near impossible to spin this smear on their name. No one wanted to do business with a company so corrupt it would place profit above their employees’ welfare. Not that his family was guilty of this sin. But public perception was everything.
And while most of the club members had stood behind the Wingates, Douglas hadn’t been vocal in his belief in their innocence.
So it was no wonder the man didn’t look pleased to find his daughter hiding in the dark with Ezekiel.
Not that Ezekiel could blame him. Reagan shouldn’t be out here with him. But not for the reasons her father harbored.
“Reagan,” Douglas said, one hand remaining on the door and holding it open. “Your mother has been looking for you. It’s almost time for dinner, and Devon Granger is eager to escort you into the dining room since you’ll be sitting next to him.”
Ezekiel caught the soft sigh that escaped her, and felt the tension invade her slender frame. But when she spoke, her tone remained as soft and respectful as any dutiful daughter to a father she loved and revered.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be there in a moment,” she murmured.
“I’ll wait for you,” came his implacable reply.
If possible, she stiffened even more, but her lovely features didn’t reflect her irritation. Still, anger for the other man’s high-handedness kindled in Ezekiel’s chest. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, not a wayward toddler. His arm tautened, trapping hers in the crook of his elbow. Next to him, Reagan tipped her head up, glancing at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Deliberately, he relaxed his body, releasing her and stepping to the side.
“It was nice seeing you again, Reagan,” Ezekiel said. Switching his attention to Douglas, he gave the man an abrupt nod. “You, too, Douglas.”
“Ezekiel.” Then, extending his hand to his daughter, he added, “Reagan.”
She glided forward, sliding her hand into her father’s. She didn’t shoot one last look over her shoulder at him. Didn’t toss him another of her gentle, teasing smi
les or a final farewell. Instead, she disappeared through the door, leaving him in darkness once more.
And yeah, it was for the best.
No matter her father’s reasons for not wanting to leave her alone with Ezekiel, his concerns were valid. If anyone else had noticed that she stood alone with him in the shadows, the rumors would’ve burned like a brushfire.
And the longer they remained enclosed in the dark, the harder it would’ve become for him to remember that she was off-limits to him. Because of their history. Because she was too good for him. Because her parents were seeking out a suitable man for her.
And Ezekiel—a man with a slowly crumbling business empire and more emotional baggage than the airplanes WinJet manufactured—wasn’t a good bet.
Not a good bet at all.
Two
Reagan jogged up the four shallow stone steps to her family’s Pine Valley mansion. Once she reached the portico that stretched from one end of the front of the house to the other, she stopped, her chest rising and falling on deep, heavy breaths. Turning, she flattened a palm against one of the columns and, reaching for her foot, pulled it toward her butt in a stretch.
God, she detested running. Not even the beautiful scenery of the well-manicured streets and gorgeous multimillion-dollar homes of their upscale, gated community could distract her from the burn in her thighs, the hitch in her chest or the numbing boredom of it. But regardless, she exited her house every morning at 7:00 a.m. to jog past the mansions where Royal high society slept, the clubhouse larger than most people’s homes, the Olympic-size pool that called her to take a refreshing dip, and the eighteen-hole golf course. The chore wasn’t about pleasure or even staying healthy or retaining a particular dress size.
It was about discipline.
Everyone in this world had to do things they disliked. But likes and dislikes didn’t compare to loyalty, sacrifice, love... And though whether or not she jogged every morning had nothing to do with those ideals, the exercise served as a reminder of what happened when a person lost control. When they allowed their selfish wants to supersede everything else that mattered.
Her reminder.
Her penance.
Didn’t matter. She would continue to do it. Even if running never became easier. Never ceased to make her feel like she wanted to collapse and call on the Lord to end her suffering.
Moments later, as she finished her stretching, the door behind her opened. Her father stepped out, and once again that familiar and so complicated flood of emotion poured through her as it did whenever she was in Douglas Sinclair’s presence.
Awe. Reverence. Guilt. Shame. Anger. Resentment.
Love.
She was a murky, tangled hodgepodge of feelings when it came to her father.
“Good morning, Dad,” she greeted, straightening from a deep lunge.
“Reagan.” He peered down at her, his customary Stetson not hiding the frown wrinkling his brow. “Out running again, I see.” He tsked, shaking his head. “We have a perfectly good gym downstairs with top-of-the-line equipment, and yet you insist on gallivanting around the neighborhood.”
Gallivanting. If his obvious disapproval didn’t grate on her nerves like a cheese grinder, she would’ve snorted at the old-fashioned word. But that was her father. Old-fashioned. Traditional. Conservative. All nice words to say he liked things done a certain way. Including not having his daughter jog around their posh neighborhood in athletic leggings and a sports tank top. Modest women didn’t show their bodies in that fashion.
Unfortunately for him, she couldn’t run in a high-waisted gown with a starched collar.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, “I’m hardly parading around, Dad. I’m exercising.” Before he could respond to that, she pressed on. “Headed into the office?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
She could set her watch by him. Breakfast at 7:00 a.m. Leave for the law office at 7:45. To Douglas Sinclair, integrity was a religion. And that included being accountable to his time and his clients.
“Yes.” He glanced down at his watch. “I left a message with your mother, but now that I’m seeing you, please don’t forget that we have dinner plans tonight. The Grangers are coming over, and you need to be here. On time,” he emphasized. More like commanded. “I understand your committee work is important, but not more so than honoring your commitments. I expect you to be here and dressed at six sharp.”
He doesn’t mean to be condescending. Or controlling. Or patronizing. He loves you.
Silently, she ran the refrain through her head. Over and over until the words melded together. He didn’t know about her work at the girls’ home in Colonial County. It wasn’t his fault he saw her through the lens of another era—outdated traditions, unobtainable expectations...
A disappointed father.
“Devon is attending with his parents. So you need to be at your best tonight,” he continued. “You seemed to show interest in him at James Harris’s get-together last week. You two talked quite a bit at dinner. With his family, his position in his father’s real estate development company and business connections, he would make an ideal husband.”
Jesus. This again. Reagan just managed not to pinch the bridge of her nose and utter profanity that would have her father gasping.
He just didn’t stop. Didn’t give her a chance to breathe. To make a single decision for herself.
Since she’d turned twenty-six five months ago, he’d been on this relentless campaign to see her married. Just as her brother had. As her sister had only a year ago.
It was all so ridiculous. So damn antiquated. And stifling. She could find her own goddamn husband, if she wanted one.
Which she didn’t.
She loved her parents; they’d always provided a more-than-comfortable home, the best schools, a good, solid family life. But her father was definitely the head of the household, and Henrietta Sinclair, though the mediator and often the voice of reason, very rarely went against him. While the relationship might work well for them, Reagan couldn’t imagine allowing a man to have that much control over her.
Besides, she’d done that once. Let a man consume her world—be her world. And that had ended in a spectacularly disastrous display.
No, she didn’t want a husband who’d give her a home and his shadow to live in.
“Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I wish you and Mom would stop...with the matchmaking attempts. I’ve told both of you that marriage isn’t a priority for me right now.” If ever. “I’ll show up for dinner tonight, but don’t expect a love match. While Devon Granger may be nice and husband material, he’s not my husband material.”
Poor Devon. His most interesting quality had been providing a distraction from Tracy Drake, seated on her other side. And since the notorious gossip had spotted Ezekiel Holloway following Reagan and her father back into the house within moments, she’d been chock-full of questions and assumptions. The woman had missed her calling as a CIA agent.
Her father scoffed. “A love match.” He shook his head, exasperation clearly etched into his expression. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not anticipating a proposal at the end of the evening. I just want you to at least give him a chance.” He glanced at his watch again, impatience vibrating off him. “As your father, I want to see you happy, settled. With a husband who can provide for you.” He flicked the hand not holding his briefcase. “Don’t be naive, Reagan. Do you think people aren’t talking about the fact that your sister, who is three years younger than you, is already married? That maybe there’s something—”
“I’m not Christina,” she interrupted him, voice quiet and steady in spite of how hurt trembled through her like a wind-battered leaf. She knew what lay on the other side of that something. And she didn’t need to hear him state how their friends and associates whispered if she was faulty in some way. Or to hear the unspoken concern in her fa
ther’s voice that he wondered the same thing. Except swap out faulty for broken.
“I’m not Doug either,” she added, mentioning her older brother. “I have my own aspirations, and marriage isn’t even at the top of that list.”
“God, not that again—”
“And if you would just release the money Gran left me, I could further those goals. And a life of my choosing. Filled with my decisions,” she finished, tracing the faint childhood scar on her collarbone. Trying—and failing—not to let his annoyed dismissal of her wants puncture her pride and self-esteem. By now, both resembled a barroom corkboard, riddled with holes from so many well-meaning but painful darts.
“We’ve been over this, and the answer is still no,” he ground out. “Your grandmother loved you so much she left that inheritance to you, but she also added the stipulation for a reason. And we both know why, Reagan.”
We both know why... We both know why...
The words rang between them in the already warm morning air.
A warning.
An indictment.
Oh yes, how could she forget why her beloved grandmother, who had left her enough money to make her an instant millionaire, had added one provision in her will? Reagan couldn’t access the inheritance until she either married a suitable man or turned thirty years old.
In order to be fully independent, to manage her own life, she had to chain herself to a man and hand over that independence or wait four more years before she could...live.
It was her punishment, her penance. For rebelling. For not following the Sinclair script. For daring to be less than perfect.
At sixteen, she’d done what most teenage girls did—she’d fallen in love. But she’d fallen hard. Had been consumed by the blaze of first love with this nineteen-year-old boy that her parents hadn’t approved of. So when they’d forbidden her to see him, she’d sneaked around behind their backs. She’d offered everything to him—her loyalty, her heart, her virginity.
