by Nina Lane
Gabriel poured a glass of water from a pitcher beside the bed and brought it to her, then went to close and lock her suitcase.
Lydia closed her eyes, blocking out everything except the sensation of the cool water flowing down her throat and the rustle of the breeze in the tree outside her window.
“So, my dear.” Preston’s voice invaded the silence. “You’re free, after all.”
Lydia opened her eyes, wondering at the chilly tone to his words. His blue eyes held that same hard glint of warning, and a sudden thought struck her.
“You don’t… you don’t think I contacted him, do you?” she asked, oddly horrified by the idea that Preston might believe her capable of such betrayal. “That I told my father what I’ve done?”
Preston shook his head. “You’re not that foolish, Lydia. And if you’d intended your father to know the full truth, you could have told him when your crime was first discovered rather than seek me out to help you escape.”
He moved closer, his gaze still on her. “No. I believe your father found you through his own connections. However, should anyone learn of what goes on at La Nouvelle Vie, Lydia, I will hold you—and only you—entirely responsible. I have gone to great lengths to ensure our anonymity and safety here. I will not allow you or your bastard of a father to crack the walls we have constructed.”
“I would never tell anyone anything, Preston, you know that.”
“Do I?” His eyes hardened further. He moved closer, stopping right before her. “I hope so, Lydia. But you’d best prove your loyalty to me.”
“Preston.” Now Gabriel’s voice contained an unmistakable warning.
Preston ignored him. He reached back to grab the swath of Lydia’s hair, yanking her head back. Lydia gasped, her heart jumping as Preston began to work the zipper of his trousers.
She heard Gabriel speaking again, but couldn’t make out his words past the sudden buzzing in her head and the flame of anticipation lighting in her core.
She was opening her mouth, fully prepared to obey without thought, to receive the thrust of Preston’s cock, when he jerked away from her with a grunt. Lydia watched in shock as Gabriel pulled Preston halfway across the room, his body tight with anger. He shoved Preston toward the door.
“This is not the time,” Gabriel snapped. “Go wait downstairs.”
“You fuck.” Preston’s eyes flared with anger. He lunged toward Gabriel. “I told you she’s mine! She’ll always be mine. I’ll do what I want with her.”
Gabriel got between Preston and Lydia, blocking Preston’s tackle and pushing him back toward the door.
“You’ll do nothing with her,” Gabriel retorted. “It’s over. Her goddamned father is here. Get out.”
He forced Preston out the door, then slammed and locked it. Preston’s voice rose in anger from the corridor, and the door rattled on the hinges as he gave it a hard kick. Gabriel turned back to Lydia with a mutter of disgust.
“You’d better hurry,” he said. “Your father is waiting.”
Lydia stood on shaky legs, her body still quivering from thwarted anticipation. In all her weeks at the plantation, she’d become so attuned to the promise of arousal, to obeying, that one command left her breathless. Even if she wasn’t allowed to achieve orgasm, she had learned to find a distinct pleasure in the knowledge that all three men relished both her submission, fraught with rebellion though it was, and the use of her body.
She started to walk past Gabriel, the scent of him—fresh air and clean sweat—filling her nose. A moan escaped her. She turned, sinking to her knees in front of him, her hands grasping the waistband of his jeans.
“Please,” she whispered, looking up at him beseechingly.
Gabriel settled his hand on the top of her head, as if he were granting her benediction. But then he shook his head.
Dismay filled Lydia’s throat. She tightened her grip on him, desperate to shed the constriction of her horrible clothes, to feel the breeze brushing her naked skin, to forget just for a few minutes that she was being forced to leave this place that had become her home. To leave the three men who had become her world.
“Don’t make me go without this,” she gasped, her fear sparking to life again. “Please, Gabriel. Not you.”
Gabriel looked down at her, reaching a finger to brush a strand of hair off her forehead. A ripple of tension coursed through him. He jerked his chin toward her dress.
“Remove that,” he said, his voice edged with that husky note of command that never failed to quicken Lydia’s blood.
With a sigh of gratitude, she eased back to unfasten the square buttons of her dress, pulling the horrid thing from her shoulders. She tossed it aside and took off her slip and undergarments, then almost cried anew with relief when she was fully naked again. Her whole body yielded to the caress of the humid air, the sensation of the soft carpet beneath her knees, the brush of her hair against her bare shoulders. Her nipples tightened, a rush of heat spilling to the center of her womb.
Gabriel’s fingers snapped softly. With a start, Lydia got back to her knees and began working the buttons of his jeans. Her heart pulsed as she felt the unmistakable bulge pressing against the fly, and heat licked her veins when she closed her hand around the smooth, hard shaft of his erection.
Gabriel tucked his fingers into her hair, a noise of satisfaction rumbling in his chest. He pushed his hips toward her. His half-hard cock nudged the fullness of Lydia’s lower lip, and her pink tongue darted out to lick the tip. Gabriel’s hand tightened against her scalp, and with a breath of surrender Lydia parted her lips as he thrust forward to fill her eager mouth.
The familiar, salty taste of his emissions sparked excitement in her belly as she stroked her tongue over him. Above her, his breathing grew faster, arousal lacing the muscles of his thighs. A thrill raced through her at the reminder that she was responsible for his lust, that he would find exquisite release with her.
Lydia let her eyes drift closed, savoring the push-and-pull motion of his slick phallus in and out of her mouth. Her throat muscles slackened, her whole body swaying forward as she placed her hands on his thighs and accepted every thrust. And though her own desire began to mount, pressure coiling through her, she did not want to surrender to it. She wanted only to focus on him, to deny the urges of her own body.
She licked, sucked, kissed. And when she felt his body begin to tighten, she wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft and squeezed, taking a decided pleasure in the knowledge that she knew exactly how Gabriel like to be touched.
He groaned, his hips jerking forward. Erupting inside her mouth, a copious flood of seed made Lydia gasp and pull back. She let the creamy liquid flow down her chin and throat. She heaved in a breath, and pressed her legs together to ease the sustained ache as the final pulses surged through him and onto her body.
Gabriel swept his hand down the side of her face, his expression gentling. He helped her to her feet and nodded toward the bathroom.
Lydia gathered her discarded clothing, went into the bathroom, and turned on the faucet. She paused to stare at herself in the mirror. Her skin was flushed and damp, her hair messy and falling over her face. She wiped the semen from her chin, then rubbed it into her breasts, pale and glossy under the artificial lights.
She looked at her eyes, heavy and sated, even though her body still hurt with the need for release. A pulse throbbed visibly beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She wondered if she would ever look this way again—disheveled, replete, hungry, and aching all at the same time.
Gabriel’s knock startled her out of her reverie. “Lydia.”
Lydia didn’t bother washing. She struggled back into the dreadful, rigid slip and dress, turning away from the mirror. She rolled on the stockings and pulled her hair back. When she emerged to where Gabriel waited, she knew she was still flushed, but presentable again.
She started toward the door. He grabbed her arm to stop her. Lydia turned to him, his name on her lips before he presse
d her back against the wall. A gasp caught in her throat. A smile, edged with a hint of wickedness, flashed across Gabriel’s face.
He took the folds of her skirt in his fist and pulled it up, his fingers trailing against her inner thigh. Even through the thick nylon of her stockings, Lydia felt the warmth of his touch, and a sob escaped her when she realized what he was about to grant her.
She lifted her head, her heart filling as his lips met hers and his fingers eased beneath the waistband of her nylons and her panties. A chuckle of pleasure rumbled from his chest into her when he encountered the slick folds of her sex. She parted her legs wider to allow him access.
Gabriel knew how to manipulate her with the artistry of a master. He squeezed her sensitive lips, circled his thumb around the swollen knot of her pleasure, slipped his forefinger into her taut channel to stroke her inner flesh.
When Lydia came, explosions of bliss firing through her, she cried out against his mouth and clutched the front of his shirt as she rode the blissful wave. With a gasp, she sagged against the wall. He used his adept fingers to milk all the sensations from her twitching body.
He lowered his head, his thick hair brushing her neck. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “Always.”
The cryptic warning stirred a tendril of fear in Lydia’s heart, but she had no time to question him about it. He moved away from her to pick up her suitcase while she straightened her clothing. Then he guided her back downstairs to where her father waited.
Preston and Kruin were nowhere to be seen. Edward Worthington slid a cold gaze over Gabriel before taking the suitcase and jerking his head toward the door.
Lydia followed her father outside, each step causing her heart to thump against her ribs. A sleek black limousine sat at the end of the drive, and Lydia paused once to turn back to the house.
Gabriel stood in the doorway, watching her leave. A sudden urge to run back to him seized Lydia with such force that her chest ached.
“Jane,” her father snapped.
Lydia slid into the cool, dark confines of the limo. The heavy smell of leather filled her head, driving out the humid, musty scents of the plantation grounds. Her father sat across from her, his presence seeming to fill the space. Lydia wrapped her arms around her middle, hunching close to the door, fighting the sensation of being trapped against her will.
As her father settled back against the butter-soft leather seat, she felt his sharp gaze, heard the sound of his breathing, smelled his cologne. Her stomach churned.
Edward Worthington issued a command to the driver, and the limo glided down the driveway away from the plantation. Lydia was unable to resist the urge to turn and peer out the back window at the house, sitting like an ancient king upon his sun-drenched throne.
Gabriel still stood framed in the doorway. The scent of him clung to her skin. And Lydia realized that for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to have a broken heart.
Preston watched from his bedroom window as the sleek car sped silently away from La Nouvelle Vie. Rage bubbled inside his chest, but he resolutely smothered the feeling, knowing he could not afford the blinding heat of anger. He needed cold, sharp calculation.
With one phone call, Edward Worthington had invaded his world, taken Lydia from him, and broken through the high walls of his sanctuary. And while Preston was not so foolish as to think he could ever take down the powerful senate candidate—nor did he particularly want to, for politicians bored him and hadn’t yet proven useful for his needs—this incident would make it much harder to ensure Lydia’s complete servility to him and him alone.
His fists clenched. He’d made a tactical error last week when he’d lost his temper and yelled at Kruin and Gabriel. But he’d kept his jealousy contained for so long that seeing Lydia look toward Gabriel in desperate need and longing…
Preston’s fury had exploded through his blood like a hundred fireworks. And since then, the other two men had been on guard with him, no doubt watching warily for whatever he planned next.
Preston inhaled deeply and forced his fists to relax. He needed to think. Perhaps he could use this turn of events to his advantage. After all, if Lydia was no longer at the plantation, that meant neither Kruin nor Gabriel had access to her either. And those two bastards didn’t have the resources that Preston did.
He smiled suddenly. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, a silver lining within the cloud. Perhaps now Preston could finally have Lydia all to himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
THOUGH LYDIA EXPECTED her father to interrogate her on their return to the city, he spoke not a word during the entire drive. Instead, he pulled out his laptop and worked. By the time the limo pulled through the wrought-iron gates, over the drive winding around the manicured gardens, and up to the elegant, historic family home, the silence seemed as loud as thunder.
Grateful to escape the confines of the limousine, Lydia hurried up the stone steps and into the marble-floored foyer. The interior of the house was made artificially cool by air-conditioning, and it smelled of lemon. As always¸ the place was like a museum, with meticulously restored antiques, shining surfaces, the tick of the glossy grandfather clock.
A sudden longing for the dilapidated, worn furnishings of the plantation, the warping floorboards and humid air, struck Lydia with the force of a blow.
She turned to go up the stairs, hoping to escape to her former bedroom, when her father’s voice sounded from behind her.
“Your mother is in the parlor,” he said, the tone of his voice enough to indicate his expectations of her.
“I… I’d like to clean up first—”
“You may do so later.”
With an inner groan of despair, Lydia turned to the high polished doors of the parlor. She knocked once before pushing the door open, her hand shaking.
Her mother stood by the window. She turned when Lydia entered. Carol Worthington was a cool, patrician blonde woman clad in a linen sheath dress. A gold chain encircled her neck, and her sleek hair fell in a shiny pageboy to her shoulders.
She stared at Lydia for a moment, then arched one thin eyebrow. “Where in the love of God have you been?”
Lydia had no idea how to answer that question.
Her mother approached, sliding her cool gaze appraisingly over Lydia’s figure.
“You’ve gained weight,” Carol remarked. “Good heavens, Jane. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”
Still Lydia couldn’t respond. She didn’t need a mirror to know exactly how she looked. She was ten pounds heavier, her hair was longer, unstyled, and without color treatments, it had returned to its natural shade of light brown. Her eyebrows hadn’t been plucked in months, she wore very little makeup, and her fingernails were short and ragged from all the time she’d spent gardening and digging in the dirt.
Not to mention that her lipstick was smudged from sucking Gabriel to orgasm, and she still smelled like his semen. At least her mother wouldn’t be able to divine the reasons for those last two offenses.
“Well,” Carol continued, her mouth compressing with distaste. “I suppose this was your idea of a disguise, yes? You needn’t worry about that anymore, as your father has gone to great lengths to fix the situation. And you will now do exactly as you are told.”
Lydia nodded.
Carol stepped closer, holding up a red-nailed finger in front of Lydia’s face.
“Your father will win the election,” she said. “Our family is now a united front, a close-knit clan with strong ties to this community. Your father and I are a happily married, supportive couple with successful, respectable children. And if you dare do a thing to mess this up, you stupid, stupid girl, I will have your head on a platter. Do I make myself clear?”
Lydia nodded again.
“Good.” Carol’s gaze raked over her again. “Now go upstairs and get out of that hideous dress. You look like you’re in some sort of cult. You’ll need new clothes, gi
ven your weight gain. I’ll call my stylist to come over and make you look civilized again.”
Lydia obeyed. She returned to the bedroom where she had spent her childhood, and discovered that her mother had arranged it so she could live there again. Floral curtains draped the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the canopied bed. Everything from the polished walnut desk to the framed, watercolor paintings and plush rug had her mother’s signature written all over it. The closet was filled with designer suits and several evening gowns in Lydia’s former size, and expensive lotions and cosmetics lined the bathroom counter.
Lydia stripped out of her dress and underclothes, and avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she went into the bathroom to shower. She closed her eyes against the hot spray of water, forcing away the sting of tears. Fear of the future loomed before her. She soaped her body quickly, disliking the sensation of her curves and skin beneath her hands.
But when her fingers brushed against the faint beginnings of stubble on her mons, she grabbed the razor and scraped the offending hairs away so her skin was smooth once again.
After folding herself into a fluffy bathrobe, she stepped back into the bedroom where her mother’s stylist, Anna, was waiting. The sleek and lovely Anna took one look at Lydia and shook her head with palpable displeasure. Behind her, two assistants brought in an array of styling equipment and supplies.
For the next few hours, Lydia submitted to being waxed, massaged, and plucked. Her hair was cut, colored, and styled. Her skin was exfoliated, peeled, and hydrated. Her nails were clipped, filed, and painted.
After both Anna and Carol deemed Lydia somewhat more suitable for public viewing, they all went to a clothing store so she could try on suits and dresses that were more flattering to her fuller figure. Lydia didn’t protest, didn’t even voice an opinion as Carol and Anna studied and critiqued her appearance in outfit after outfit, with Carol deciding upon the final purchases.
