The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans Book 4)

by Nikki Sloane

  It felt like everything was coming apart. Emotion swirled inside me like a hurricane, powerful and destructive. This was it. If I didn’t say it, I’d never get a chance to. “I have to tell you a secret.”

  Did he sense what was coming? He stopped breathing. “What is it?”

  “I think I might be in love with you.”

  He blinked once, staring at me with a pained expression hung on his face.

  Then he blinked a second time, coming back to life.

  “No,” he said finally, like it was just that simple.

  What the fuck did he mean, no? “Macalister—”

  “No,” he repeated. At least he didn’t run, nor did he get angry. He crouched down, meeting me at eye-level, and his face was—of all things—practical. “I won’t allow it.”

  I was so stunned, it sucked all the power from my voice. “Are you serious?” When he didn’t answer, a cruel laugh erupted from me. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”

  “Don’t I?” He set a hand on my cheek, not to dominate, but to soothe. “I own you.”

  The balls on this guy. I shot him a dirty look. “I gave you control over my body, not my heart.”

  He seemed amused. “Last time I checked, the heart is located inside the body.”

  I pushed his hand away as my frustration boiled over. “Don’t be an asshole. You know what I meant.”

  He hardened. “I understand you’re upset, but you’re not in love with me, Sophia. This is an infatuation, and it will pass.”

  “An infatuation,” I seethed.

  He ignored the volcano of anger threatening in my voice and stood, looming over me. “And even if I were capable, I care enough about you not to fall in love.”

  “Because you’re cursed,” I spat out.

  “Yes.” He was so somber, it broke my heart. “And because I destroy everything I love.”

  My heart stumbled at his quiet admission. When he hesitantly offered his hand, I took it and let him haul me up to my feet and into his warm arms.

  His eyes had a gravity I couldn’t escape. “I enjoy our time together.” He visibly struggled to get his words out. “You . . . make me happy, and I haven’t been happy in a very long time.”

  You make me happy. It reverberated through me, heating the marrow of my bones.

  Reluctance deepened his expression. “But I don’t want to be the selfish man I was before, so I will be honest. I can give you many things, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to offer you what you truly want or need.” He swallowed an uncertain breath. “I need you to tell me that I am enough. That what we have right now is enough . . . for you.”

  I studied him critically, the way I would watch targets launch and how the wind would impact their trajectory, determining their likely arc. Macalister was convinced he wasn’t capable of loving, but I could see our path, and I could prove him wrong. When I put my mind to it, I usually got my way, and I was determined to have him.

  “It’s enough,” I agreed, “for now.”

  I’d had to sit quietly with the information bubbling under my skin during Macalister’s marathon meeting with the IT department. It was the third one this month to discuss the software upgrade rollout, and it usually put him in a foul mood.

  He walked past my desk without a word, not realizing I was following him into his office until he nearly shut the door on me. I could tell he was trying to sound polite, but his patience was thin. “What is it?”

  “Natasha,” I said then realized I had to clarify. “My friend who works for DuBois’s agent, sent me a text. His publisher just announced preorders for the book.”

  He ushered me into his office and closed the door while I tapped my screen to forward the image to his phone. The cover was sharp and slick, with the title in a strong, bold font that stretched from one side to the other, and the subtitle beneath it smaller and italicized.

  ABOVE REPROACH: How the Powerful Families of Cape Hill Reign

  He stared at the screen for a long moment, his expression cryptic.

  “This is good, right?” I asked. “It says ‘families,’ so it’s definitely not all about the Hales.”

  He nodded and looked pleased, but not as happy as I expected. He was still concerned about how much mention his family was going to get.

  “When will it publish?” he asked.

  “October twenty-sixth.” I smiled. It’d be tight, but that should be enough time for word to get out to voters how much of a ‘family man’ Damon Lynch really was.

  “That’s soon.” His eyebrows pulled together, creating a crease between them. “I’d expected it to take him a while to write it.”

  “I think it did. He started doing research back in February, right after you got—” He never talked about prison and actively avoided the word, so I did the same. “Right after you came back.”

  “Yes,” he said, sounding distant.

  He was worried he hadn’t had enough time to transform into the redeemed Macalister Hale, and I understood that. But we’d done everything we could in the time we’d had, and the rest was out of his hands.

  “Are you nervous about what it’s going to say?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered quickly. “Whatever it is, I’m confident I can handle it. I don’t have any other choice.” He set his phone down on his desk and gave me an evaluating look. “You’ll join me at the marina on Saturday for lunch.”

  His abrupt shift in gears made it hard to keep up. “I can’t. I have tickets with some friends to the Harvard football game.”

  “Cancel,” he said.

  I was dubious. “So I can have lunch with you?”

  “Yes.” His expression softened into one I rarely saw. He was anxious for me to agree to this. “Please. It’s important.”

  Please was a word I heard less often from him than profanity, and it was unnerving. I felt off-balance.

  “Okay,” I said.

  If he wanted to dine with me out in the open where all of Cape Hill could see, that certainly was important.

  Seagulls called to each other and swooped overhead, darting between the boats tied to the docks, and I stared at the end of the pier with anxiety building a stone in my stomach, weighing me down. It made it impossible for me to move.

  Macalister stood at the edge of the dock, discussing something with a man onboard one of the boats, but he must have sensed my eyes, because he turned toward me, and the bright sunlight glinted off his sunglasses. He wore khaki pants and a navy sweater, with the collar of a red check patterned shirt peeking out at his neck, and he looked effortlessly New Englander as he strolled down the pier.

  He hadn’t finished his approach before he spoke. “Is something wrong?”

  “I thought we were dining in the clubhouse.”

  “No, I’ve arranged for us to have a private lunch onboard.” His head tilted as he studied me. “Is this a problem?”

  I pressed my lips together. “It might be.” I watched the wind ruffle his hair. “I don’t do so well on boats.”

  He straightened, and although I couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, it was clear this was unexpected. “Do you usually get seasick?”

  Two years ago, Marist had invited me to join her, along with her husband, brother-in-law, and Tate, on Vance’s boat. I’d spent much of the afternoon queasy and eager for it to be over. I hadn’t set foot on a boat since.

  “Not . . . every time,” I answered.

  He relaxed and gestured for me to come along with him. “You’ll be fine. It’s a beautiful day and supposed to be calm.”

  Macalister didn’t wait for me to argue, and I trudged across the boarded walkway behind him, listening to the water crash against the pilings. It didn’t sound calm, and we were in the Cape. It’d be worse out in open water.

  At least this boat was bigger than Vance’s.

  Macalister stepped out of his shoes and pulled off his socks, tossing them one by one into the basket beside the gangway that led to a large, white
sailboat. It had a teak deck and a sleek design that made it look fast, even when it was tied down. It bobbed in the water, and the gangway creaked with the rise and fall, making my stomach churn.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” I said.

  He set a hand on the railing and leaned closer to me, just past the edge of what was a professional amount of space between employer and employee. “I’m sure you’re tired of spending all of our time together at my house. I thought it’d be nice to get away for an afternoon on the water.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “Like a date?”

  A faint smile teased his lips, and my knees softened.

  The door to the main cabin was open, and I could see the woman inside, moving around in the sophisticated galley as she prepared her station. She was the chef who’d serve us lunch, and I had a vision of Macalister and me sitting on the luxurious couch inside the privacy of his sailing yacht, me sipping wine while he talked.

  It was terribly romantic.

  Macalister wasn’t the wealthiest man in the world, but he was filthy rich. His money made him royalty, and his scandal ensured he was recognized nearly everywhere. It meant this was as close to a real date as we could get right now.

  I had no choice but to take it. Plus, he’d said this lunch was important, and my heart skipped with the possibilities of what that could mean. Maybe he was going to admit he’d been wrong when he’d said this was just an infatuation.

  It wasn’t for me.

  He knew my decision before I’d made it and eyed my sandals. “No shoes on deck.”

  Once I’d slipped them off, dropped them in the basket, and shuffled across the gangway, my feet were cold against the wood. It was October now, and although it was pleasant in the sun, summer was long gone, and sweater weather had officially begun.

  I was introduced to Captain Ridley, who wasn’t much older than I was, but the guy looked like he’d been born at sea with a steering wheel in hand. His white uniform was crisp and his expression stoic, but his handshake was friendly enough.

  Was it strange for Macalister when he was aboard? Everyone here was an employee, and he owned the ship, but he wasn’t the one in charge. We stood dutifully as the captain briefed us on safety procedures before Macalister pocketed his sunglasses, led me below deck, and gave me the tour.

  The cabin was surprisingly full of light. Windows lined the walls, and several skylights overhead helped to brighten the space and keep it from feeling small. The navigation desk was immediately to my left, and beyond that were the tan leather couches with a table raised and folded out between them.

  The galley spanned the entire length of the right side. Was that starboard? I’d never had much interest in sailing. The kitchen was well designed to maximize space and storage. I didn’t realize there was a full gas stovetop until the woman lifted the counter and tucked it back out of her way.

  I got the impression Macalister had gone over the menu with Hilde already because as soon as she was done greeting us and finished her setup, the short, compact woman went up to the cockpit to assist Captain Ridley with the castoff.

  The engine beneath us rumbled quietly to life.

  Macalister showed me the main cabin head and the crew quarters at the back of the ship, and then we moved forward to the master’s quarters. It wasn’t much more than a queen-sized bed. It had a charcoal gray stitched headboard, was surrounded by white oak cabinets, and the windows hugged both sides of the room, which meant we could watch as the nose of the ship headed out for sea.

  The room was fucking sexy, and my pulse kicked. “How many women have you seduced in here?”

  Desire lurked in his expression. “None. I purchased this vessel the week before I gave Royce his seat on the board.”

  It explained why the boat looked so new.

  Macalister moved in and grabbed the handhold beside me, trapping me against the wall. His voice was low and hypnotic, matching the purr of his yacht’s engine. “Do you want to be seduced?” His mouth brushed over mine, teasing a kiss. “Would you like me to fuck you in this bed?”

  Heat rushed to the center of my legs, and his mouth continued to ghost over my lips, stealing my breath.

  “I wonder if you can be quiet,” he mused. “Or if I’ll need to put my hand over your mouth to keep my crew from hearing all the times I make you come.”

  “Oh, my God. Let’s find out,” I said eagerly, sliding my hand across the front of his pants.

  But he abruptly stepped back from my touch and smiled like the bastard he could be. “Yes, but we’ve barely left port.” He straightened his shoulder and gestured toward the cabin. “We will take lunch first.”

  We’d been together long enough for me to know he did it on purpose. He lived to turn me on and then leave me hanging in a state of arousal, convinced it made my orgasms come quicker.

  This time, it backfired on him. Once the engine was off and the sails were up, my stomach began to churn. I tried to push through. I hadn’t had much for breakfast and that had been hours ago, so maybe all I needed was some food in my belly. As Hilde prepared our salads, I silently pleaded for her to hurry, and when he poured me a glass of wine, I eagerly took it.

  But the longer we sailed, the worse the pitch and roll of the boat seemed to become and it made sure sex was the last thing on my mind. Once we were served, I scarfed down my salad, not even tasting it.

  “Evangeline and I,” he said, “have decided to end our relationship, but we will remain friends.”

  It was hard to focus what he was saying, because it was taking all my strength to hold it together. “Oh, yeah?”

  “We’ve,” he said it like he was contractually obligated, “dated for five months. That seemed like an acceptable amount of time to the both of us.”

  “Mm, hm.” I pressed my lips together.

  “You look displeased.” He peered at me with confusion. “You don’t agree?”

  “No, I do.” I forced out a tight smile, not wanting him to know I wasn’t feeling well. “Will you really stay friends, or is that just the official line?”

  He set his fork down and wiped his lips with his napkin. “I’d like to think we will. Does that bother you?”

  He’d confessed to me a few weeks ago he hadn’t kissed her on the lips the night of their first ‘date.’ There was no spark or chemistry between them, and he’d implied I was the cause of it. The fire between us was too powerful and consuming for him to be interested in anyone else.

  “No,” I said, “it doesn’t bother me at all. I’m glad you’ve made a friend.”

  He gave a pleased smile.

  As soon as it faded, I was anxious again. The food and wine did nothing to settle my stomach. If anything, they made it worse, and I tried not to watch Hilde over his shoulder as she worked to prepare our lobster risotto. She always had one hand steadying herself to the counter or a cabinet as she swayed with the sea, making it look natural.

  But it was very unnatural to my inner ear, and I couldn’t disguise it any longer.

  “Hilde,” Macalister’s voice barely hid his alarm, “do we have ginger ale aboard?”

  “No, sir, but we have some ginger candies. Should I—”

  “Yes,” he ordered.

  She set down her spoon, retrieved a box from a cabinet, and brought it to the table. When she glanced at me, her attention moved on to Macalister. “Oh, she doesn’t look well.”

  “No,” he said, irritated, although it seemed to be with himself.

  “We have Dramamine,” she said to me. “Would you like some?”

  “Yes, please.” When she went to fetch it, I sighed and put my weary gaze on him. “Usually, the way that works is it knocks me out, and I sleep through my motion sickness.”

  He said nothing as she reappeared and handed me a packet.

  “I think we have ginger tea too,” she added. “I’ll boil some water.”

  I tore the foil open and downed the tablets. Best case scenario, the drug would start workin
g in thirty minutes.

  He opened the box of candies, unwrapped the green wrapper, and as he passed it to me, the boat pitched dramatically, making our plates slide across the table. I stared at him with a pained expression. There wasn’t enough ginger in the world to overcome thirty minutes of this, let alone an afternoon.

  “Move over,” he ordered, rising from his seat and moving to sit beside me. “Give me your hands.”

  I popped the white candy into my mouth, grimacing at the taste, and did as he asked. He grabbed my forearms, his hands a fist’s length away from my wrists, and pressed his thumbs into the soft undersides. It was sort of uncomfortable, but I knew what he was doing. Acupressure.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Annoyance tinged his words. “The forecast said the wind wasn’t arriving until tomorrow.”

  “To be early is to be on time,” I said dimly, throwing his platitude from my first day back at him, but he wasn’t amused. The nausea made me weak and destroyed whatever filter I had. “The great Macalister Hale can control a lot of things, but apparently not the weather.”

  The boat pitched again, and water sloshed violently against the hull.

  He pressed harder into my pressure points. “Better?”

  I wished, but I was miserable. He searched my face like he would determine my answer himself, regardless of whatever I said.

  “I really don’t want to throw up on your yacht.”

  He frowned. “I don’t want that either.” He stood and used his hold on me to pull me up with him. “You might benefit from fresh air and the horizon.”

  “I’d benefit more if I wasn’t on this boat,” I grumbled.

  He helped me up the stairs, which was no easy feat with how the ocean rocked us side to side, and once we were above deck, I clung to him, not caring if this was appropriate or what his staff would think. The sea was the most dominating thing right now, and I’d become a slave to it.

  Macalister sat us down on one of the sun pads mid-deck, and when my head dropped onto his shoulder, he wrapped his arm reassuringly behind my back. His tone was quiet. He was trying to help, not boss me around. “Stare at the horizon.”