by Naima Simone
Her fingers fluttered across her bare neck, and he couldn’t help remembering when his hand had been the only necklace she’d needed. Shit. He really needed to get himself under control.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “You do, too.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Beautiful?”
She met his gaze even though a tinge of red painted her cheekbones. “Yes.”
They stared at one another, the air between them charged, vibrating with tension, riddled with unspoken words.
Never one who gave a damn about his appearance, for once, he’d listened to Kenan’s browbeating and worn the slim-fitting black three-piece suit and ice-blue shirt and tie. He’d bound his hair back in a bun and, though he’d refused to cut his beard, he had allowed Kenan’s barber to trim it. Spying the glow of appreciation and—a fist clenched in his gut—desire in Mycah’s gaze, he was glad he’d put forth the effort.
“This must be our guest of honor.”
The intrusion of the deep, cultured baritone dropped between them like the blast of an arctic wind after a balmy summer. Dragging his attention from Mycah, Achilles met the piercing hazel stare of a distinguished, tall, older Black man. Again, no introduction was necessary, although it would undoubtedly be forthcoming. Laurence Hill, president of Hill-Harper Inc. Mycah’s father.
And just like his wife, he sent a frisson of disquiet skipping down Achilles’s spine. Something in the eyes. In the too-wide smile. In the too-welcoming tone.
Lies.
He glanced at Mycah, saw her shuttered gaze. This family was built on lies.
“Laurence Hill.” Mycah’s father extended his hand toward Achilles. “Welcome to our home. We’re delighted you could attend our little party.”
“Achilles Farrell. Thank you for inviting me,” he said, accepting the hand, and as he’d done with Laurence’s wife, he shook and released it as quickly as possible.
“Of course, of course. When my daughter told us she landed a job at Farrell International, we couldn’t have been prouder. It’s a company with a long history based on tradition and family. And family is everything, isn’t it?” Laurence said.
The words were innocuous enough, but the voracious gleam in his gaze...
So this was what Achilles had to expect tonight. God, the rich. Rage and bile churned in his gut. But damn if he would reveal how this asshole angered him. That’s what the man wanted. A reaction. Strip away the money, the lineage, the connections and nothing separated people like him from criminals in jail.
If they got a rise out of you—if they pinpointed your weakness—then they had you.
Well, fuck them back in County then. And fuck Laurence Hill now.
“Yes, family is important,” he said, conjuring up an image of his mother and his grandmother to keep his voice even.
Without his conscious permission, another picture wavered in his mind. Of Kenan and him standing in the library of that Beacon Hill monstrosity Cain called a home, supporting their older brother as he purged an old wound about their abusive bastard of a father.
Family was everything.
“There you are, darling.” Cherise Hill sailed up to their trio, beautiful in a gold cocktail dress. She threaded her arm through her husband’s and smiled at Achilles. “Mr. Farrell, it’s wonderful to see you again. Do you mind if we call you Achilles? After all, there are so many of you Farrells now. It could get confusing.” She chuckled.
God, these people.
“Achilles is fine.”
“Mom, Dad, if you don’t mind, I’m going to give Achilles a tour of the house and introduce him to the other guests.” Mycah mimicked her mother’s hold and weaved her arm through Achilles’s. “Excuse us.”
Not waiting for their reply, she led him past her parents and down the corridor. They passed a curving staircase, a wide fireplace with a sitting area and several doorways that opened to luxuriously appointed, empty rooms. Tension emanated from her, and just as they paused in front of the entrance to a room filled with milling, formally dressed guests, she turned to him, tilting her head back and pinning him with a dark, unfathomable stare.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tone low, almost vehement. “Why would you come here tonight?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her questions.
“Because she didn’t want me to.”
Mycah blinked. Exhaled a breath that ended on a short, humorless chuckle.
“It amazes me how certain people continue to underestimate you,” she said to herself, shaking her head. Then, pasting a replica of her mother’s hostess smile on her mouth, she waved a hand toward the room. “Ready?”
No. Not in the least.
“Lead the way.”
Stepping into what Mycah had called a great room, he couldn’t rid himself of the sense of being on display. He’d once accused Mycah of staring at him like he was an animal in a zoo. He’d been wrong. As he circled this room with Mycah guiding him from person to person, group to group, he sympathized with those caged beasts. Felt the weight of curious, assessing eyes. Heard the murmurs and whispers. The three months in society with his brothers had taught him how to hold his own with polite small talk, but that didn’t make it any less suffocating.
And Mycah had remained by his side through it all.
That had surprised him. He’d expected her to make a few introductions then leave him to mingle as she knew far more people in attendance than he did. But she didn’t. She’d stayed glued to his side, refusing to abandon him.
The last person who’d done that had been his mother, when he’d been in jail.
He jerked his thoughts from going down that road.
He might be thankful to Mycah in this moment, but she had nothing in common with his mother. Nothing in common with him. They were from two different worlds. Wanted different things. All he had to do was look around this house to see what was important to her, to her family.
All of which he wanted nothing to do with.
“Does that happen often?” Mycah asked, passing him the whiskey he’d requested from the bartender.
“What?” He accepted the drink, sipping the amber alcohol and welcoming the burn it left in his throat and stomach.
“That.” She dipped her head toward the small group of men they’d just left. “When you meet people, they use the opportunity to engineer a meeting with Cain or extract information about him.”
He considered her over the rim of the tumbler, taking another sip. “Often enough.” All the time.
“It pissed me off. As if your whole identity is comprised of being Cain Farrell’s brother.” Her full, sensual mouth thinned. “As if you’re not a brilliant software developer and designer in your own right who was courted by one of the most popular and successful computer systems design companies directly out of college. You’ve won numerous industry awards and cash prizes that total more than five million dollars. Hell, you were a millionaire before you even arrived in Boston. But they don’t bother to learn that about you. All they care about is your last name and who your brother and father are,” she fumed, fingers fisting her wineglass.
Achilles stared at her, shock ricocheting through him.
“You’ve done your research.”
She glanced away from him, shrugging a slim shoulder. “My sister, Angelique, is a computer science whiz. When she discovered I worked with you, she might’ve raved about you. Fair warning. My parents didn’t allow her to attend this party, but I can’t promise she might not crash it anyway just to meet you. I’m not saying she’s a stalker, just very enthusia—”
“Mycah.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and finger, turning her head back to him. Her lips parted, trembled, and heat flashed in her dark eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For wanting to defend me.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “With
information received from your stalker little sister.”
Mycah laughed, and he chuckled with her.
“Achilles, Mycah. Dinner is ready to be served.” Cherise appeared next to them, her gaze zeroing in on his hand still gripping her daughter’s face. He slowly released Mycah, turning to meet her mother’s narrowed eyes. “As our special guest, we’ve reserved a place of honor at our table for you.”
Achilles didn’t trust that smile or the cold gleam in her eyes. And forty-five minutes later, he knew he’d been right to trust his instincts.
The “place of honor” was a seat at the far end of the table stuck between the gallery owner with several failing shows on his left and the aging society maven on his right... Or the maven would’ve been on his right if Mycah hadn’t insisted on switching with her much to the barely contained fury of her parents. Achilles hadn’t been privy to the brief but furiously hushed conversation, but from the glares they’d shot his way, Laurence and Cherise had placed the blame of their daughter’s etiquette rebellion squarely on his shoulders.
“So, Achilles, tell us,” Cherise said, her voice clear and loud in the sudden silence of the dining room. Over twenty-five pairs of eyes focused on him, and though frigid skeletal fingers crept over his skin, he calmly met her gaze. “How are you enjoying Boston? It must be so different from...Seattle, is it? That is where you’re from, right?”
Achilles set his spoon down next to the chocolate cherry mousse that had been set in front of him moments earlier and centered his attention on Cherise. Because only a fool didn’t direct all his focus on a snake when he came face-to-face with one.
“I was born and raised in Seattle, yes, but I’ve lived in Tacoma for the past few years. As far as Boston, it’s a beautiful city. Same as Seattle. They have their similarities. Some differences, too.”
“Similarities?” Laurence chuckled, surveying his guests as if polling them. “How so?”
“Both cities have a lot to offer as far as culture, arts and business. Their histories are different but proud and they’re rich in ethnically diverse neighborhoods. Classism exists, but for the most part, at least from my experience, the people are the heart of each city.”
Only a lone uncomfortable cough from somewhere to Achilles’s left broke the thick silence. Even from the length of the long dining table, he caught the tightening of Laurence’s mouth and the flash of anger in his hazel eyes. But then he laughed again, leaning back in his chair.
Beside Achilles, Mycah stiffened, the cadence of her breath shifting. Almost as if she were warning him. But he didn’t need her to caution him.
Italian suit or orange jumpsuit. Glenlivet or Wild Irish Rose. Socioeconomic differences didn’t matter. Predators were predators. He’d been educated long ago on how to handle them.
And he’d graduated with honors.
“Still, this must be all so new to you. This world. Our world.” Laurence waved a hand, gesturing toward the crystal chandeliers suspended above the table, his bejeweled guests. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your mother a...waitress?”
Rage poured through him. When Laurence had said “waitress,” the connotation had been synonymous with prostitute. The bastard had said it that way on purpose, seeking a reaction from Achilles. No doubt attempting to get the Feral Farrell to make an appearance for his guests. And from the low murmuring around the table—not to mention the smug smile Laurence didn’t even try to hide—they were eating it up.
“Dad, this isn’t—”
Achilles closed his hand over Mycah’s.
“Yes, my mother was a waitress,” Achilles said, none of the fury that roared inside him evident in his tone. “Just as your great-grandmother was a domestic. And your grandmother—” he glanced at Cherise “—was a server in a speakeasy.” He ignored the gasps that echoed in the room and deliberately picked up his spoon and slid a serving of mousse into his mouth. He paused and savored it as if the dessert was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten, but in reality, it tasted like a mouthful of ashes. “They were admirable professions that all three of us should be proud of because of the women who worked hard to provide for their families and made sure they didn’t go without.”
“Damn,” Mycah whispered next to him.
Yeah, Achilles silently snorted. Damn. Computers were his life, and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do with them—or find on them.
“There’s a big difference between your waitress mother and our ancestors, isn’t there?” Cherise sniped, anger threading through her voice. “What happened with Barron Farrell? She must’ve thought she hit the jackpot when she met him. And yet she ended up stuck in some truck stop. Abandoned.”
“Mother,” Mycah snapped from beside him. “What the hell?”
Cherise gasped. “Mycah, excuse me?”
“No, I won’t. Achilles is a guest in our home.”
A sneer curled her mother’s mouth, curdling her beauty into something spoiled, ugly. “Oh, please—”
“My mother was a single parent who worked her fingers to the bone to provide for her son. Because she loved me. She died still working and doing what I’d witnessed her do all my life—sacrifice so I could go further, do more, be better. She was the best person I’ve ever known. Did she believe she’d hit the jackpot with Barron? I don’t know, since she never told me who he was and to my knowledge never received a check from him. Would she have liked to live like this?” He mimicked Laurence’s earlier gesture and waved a hand toward the lavish room.
Meeting Cherise’s and then Laurence’s gazes, he compared them to parasites. Insects feeding on the labor, the sweat, the dignity of those they considered beneath them. Getting bloated until there was nothing left, and then preening as if they hadn’t left destruction and carcasses in their wake.
“Possibly. Probably,” Achilles continued. “But there’s another difference between you and my mother. She didn’t understand generational wealth or privilege. She didn’t comprehend reaping the benefits of someone else’s hard work simply because of the coincidence of birth and DNA. She believed in the efforts of her own hands and the satisfaction that comes from a hard day’s work. So yes, maybe she might have enjoyed your beautiful home and your seven-course dinner—because she always loved great food—but I don’t know if she would’ve stayed long in your world. She wouldn’t have been content with being kept.”
A silence so deafening rang in the room, it assaulted his ears. No one moved. Not even the servers, who stood behind the guests, their carafes of coffee frozen aloft in their hands. The stone of the mountains around his home possessed softer facades than Laurence’s and Cherise’s faces. That same flint hardened their eyes and Achilles didn’t flinch from it. No, they’d sought to humiliate him, to tear down his mother in front of their guests. Undoubtedly, he’d made enemies of the Hills tonight, but he couldn’t find a single fuck to give.
“We’re ready for coffee, please.” Cherise nodded to her staff, dismissing Achilles.
Or pretending to. The angry, stiff set of her shoulders contradicted her attempt to resume normal dinner conversation.
Everything in him demanded that he abandon this house and this farce of a party. He wasn’t wanted, had never been anything but the planned entertainment, like a tragic circus clown. But pride kept his ass in the chair. Damn if they would run him from the table. He would stuff down the rest of this tasteless mousse and pretend just like them. Pretend that he belonged. Pretend that his skin didn’t itch with the need to tear this suit off like the costume it was.
Pretend that all eyes weren’t on him, watching, waiting...judging.
“Achilles.” Mycah laid a hand on his thigh under the table, and the muscle bunched so tight, it ached. “I’m sorry.”
She was part of this world. Belonged here. And yet, dark heat radiated from under her palm. He hated his body in this moment. Detested that it responded even
when his heart, his head wanted nothing to do with this place—with her.
“Let it go,” he ordered, shifting away, dislodging her touch.
He didn’t need her apology. Or her pity.
After another excruciating twenty minutes, he finally stood from the dinner table and escaped into the drawing room with everyone else. But he didn’t stay. He’d done his penance for the evening.
Past caring what the Hills or other members of Boston society thought about him, he slipped into his coat in the foyer, not bothering to wish his hosts good-night. They could forgive him or not. Most likely not.
Again. Didn’t give a damn.
And as he strode out into the January night, preferring to wait out on the curb in the frigid winter cold for Dave rather than spend another second inside that mausoleum of a house, he swore that would be the last time.
The last time he returned to this house.
And the last time he gave a damn.
Nine
Anger was a wonderful motivator. Shame a close second.
Enough of a motivator to walk out on the rest of her parents’ dinner party, bear the brunt of their outrage, brave the freezing January night and the judgy eyes of this security guard.
Wasn’t the security for multimillion-dollar buildings supposed to be of the see-nothing, hear-nothing variety? After hesitating too long, he picked up the phone and punched in numbers on the keypad.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night, Mr. Farrell, but this is John Ward at the security desk. There is a young lady here asking to see you. A Mycah Hill.” He paused, suspiciously eyeing Mycah as he nodded, listening to whatever Achilles said on the other end. “Right. I’ll send her up, then. Thank you, sir.” The guard hung up. “If you’ll just enter your information here and sign in.”
Mr. Ward slid a black registration book toward her and flipped it open to a clean sheet, setting a pen on top. Moments later, she followed him to a bank of elevators. He slid in a key card to a private car off to the side and a pair of doors opened. Stepping forward, he pressed a button, and shifted aside, motioning for her to go inside.
