The Redemption

by Nikki Sloane

  His blue eyes started at my lips, and his gaze slowly worked its way down, sliding over me like a hot knife through butter. I wanted to melt at how sexual it was, especially out here in the open in front of my date, but instead I focused on the full glass of champagne he carried.

  When he was done feasting on me, his attention shifted to Ian, and his expression went cold. He said it politely, but I imagined it was the same tone he’d use if he told someone to fuck off. “Excuse us.”

  Ian shot me a look that announced I was on my own. “I’ll catch up with you at the table.”

  I narrowed my eyes at his quick exit then turned my attention back to the man I both loved and hated. I jabbed a finger at his glass of champagne. “What are you doing with that?”

  “Someone once told me I look better with it.”

  And, oh, how he did. It completed his look as a powerful, sexy billionaire.

  “What are you doing with that boy?” His mouth twisted into a slight smile. “He’s so extra.”

  I pressed my lips together to stop the smile. He didn’t deserve one. “He’s my date.”

  “Hm,” he dismissed. “I like that dress.” His eyes were inescapable gravity. “Did you wear it for me?”

  My pulse tumbled, speeding up. “No,” I lied.

  He didn’t believe me.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  “Since you’ve refused communication, first I’d like to know how you’re feeling.”

  I darted my gaze away, not wanting to see the concern in his eyes. “I’m getting better.”

  Although there were people talking and laughing around us, and music playing in the background, when his voice went low, it was all I heard. “Does it still hurt?”

  When I think of you, it does. It hurts everywhere.

  “Only when I move a certain way or take really deep breaths.” I’d gone through a strange spike in pain last week, but my doctor said that was common. Peak pain, he’d called it. I tried to look bored as I peered up at him. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. I’d like to make a wager with you.”

  My stupid heart stumbled a second time, but my mind was smarter. “No.”

  His eyebrow went up and his jaw clenched, and all the moisture in my body rushed to the center of my legs. He both loved and hated hearing that word from me, and his expression went stern. “You quit without warning, which was incredibly unprofessional, so you will at least listen to my offer. You owe me that.”

  I swallowed hard. “Fine. What is it?”

  “If I get him to announce to this crowd, by the end of the night, that he’s your father, you’ll leave with me.”

  The sound in the room dropped out, and it became just Macalister and me.

  “You don’t want that,” I whispered. “And it’s impossible. He’ll never do it.”

  “Accept my wager and find out,” he challenged.

  I shifted my weight and took a sip of my martini, considering his angle. “What would I get if I win?”

  He tilted his head. “Anything you want.”

  Anything? It stole my breath. But he didn’t mean anything; he only meant things that were tangible. I scoured my mind for something he wouldn’t like. “I want a job.”

  “That’s it?” He looked disappointed with my lack of creativity. “I’ve already spoken to the media director about bringing you onboard.”

  That was surprising, but I downplayed it and gave a wicked smile. “No, you misunderstand. I want a job somewhere else—anyplace other than HBHC. You’ll reach out to that vast network you have and recommend me, telling them you wished you could keep me but you’re too difficult to work with, and that’s why I left.”

  Fire burned in his eyes so hot, they turned black, and I was giddy with excitement. I had to pinch my knees together to hold in my pleasure. His fingers on the champagne flute were white from how hard he clenched it, and I wondered if it might break under his force.

  But layer by layer, he calmed and composed himself. His chin lifted, and then he squeezed out a tight smile. “All right. Do we have a deal?”

  He played to win, so I knew he had this rigged somehow, but I also played to win. It’d be hard for him to get Damon to confess if I marched over to him right now and declared it for everyone to hear, rendering the whole thing moot.

  My tone was overly bright. “Deal.”

  Macalister extended his hand, and my confidence flagged a little when I realized I was going to have to touch him. I put my hand in his, and the moment we made contact, sparks burst all over my body. My lips parted to draw in a deep breath, and the dull ache banded across my ribs.

  His eyes turned to liquid, pouring over my face. “By the way, you’re the most beautiful woman here tonight. No one can take their eyes off you.” He held my hand even as I tried to let go. “You look . . . priceless.”

  Goddamn him. I tore my gaze away so he wouldn’t see the tears he caused to flood my eyes. He released me, and by the time I’d recovered enough to look at him, he had turned his back and was moving swiftly away from me.

  He was heading toward Damon.

  Oh, no, you don’t.

  I started off, rounding tables and going as quickly as I could without sloshing my martini everywhere, but then Ian stepped into my path, blocking me. I couldn’t stop my frustrated sigh, but he was oblivious.

  “Hey, our table’s that way.” He pointed the opposite direction. “We should probably sit down. They’re starting to serve the salads.”

  I glanced at the table nearest us and saw he was right. And when I looked back at the other end of the room, I watched with disappointment as Damon and two of his staffers disappeared out the side door. They’d probably left to put the final touches on his speech.

  I wouldn’t be able to get to him now. I’d have to do it right after he was done.

  Or maybe you don’t, a voice whispered in my head. It wouldn’t be the end of the world to lose and have to go home with Macalister.

  Yes, it would be. He’d kept a secret from me when I’d shared everything with him, including my heart.

  “Where’s our table?” I asked Ian. “Is it close to the stage?”

  Thankfully, it was.

  I sat beside him, drank my martini, and picked nervously at my salad while I visualized how I would approach Damon. There were stairs on both sides of the stage, and if he came down the set on the left, it’d spit him out close to my table. I could hop up and ambush him. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d get the job done.

  As they served the main course, the music suddenly swelled, drawing everyone’s attention. Vance appeared on stage from behind the curtain and walked confidently to the podium, flashing a winning smile as he turned the microphone on and adjusted its position. He waited for the music to die down before speaking, and it was undeniable how good he looked up there.

  He oozed trust and assurance, and I imagined he was just as comfortable here in front of three hundred people, or arguing a case before a jury, as he was anywhere else.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His speaking voice was crisp and clear. “First off, on behalf of the entire campaign staff, I’d like to welcome—”

  A rustling came through the speaker system, interrupting him, but it was gone as soon it had started.

  “I’d like to welcome,” he started again, “the volunteers who put in countless hours of work—”

  This time, the rustling was louder and longer, and it was followed by a disembodied voice.

  “Not now,” the male voice said.

  Vance maintained his smile and tried to push through. “And to all those who are here tonight to support—”

  A different voice interrupted. It was also male, but it was quieter, as if farther away. “You owe me the truth.”

  People seated at the tables exchanged looks, confused. Was this feedback from a different event going on at the hotel?

  On stage, Vance cleared his
throat, as if requesting the audience’s attention. “We seem to be—”

  “Damon, is she your daughter?” the quieter voice asked.

  My heart stopped at the question. I recognized that distant voice, just as I was sure Vance did. Oh, my God.

  I was about to lose my bet.

  But in this moment, it didn’t matter. Everything hinged on Damon’s next words.

  “So she says,” his voice answered. “I fucked Colette Alby once, so maybe it’s possible, but Sophia can’t be mine.”

  People gasped. Some at the language and some at the content, but I couldn’t breathe. I balled my hand into a fist and pressed it to my stomach like it could stop the hole spreading there. There were plenty of people here who didn’t know me, but it felt like a million pairs of eyes were suddenly staring down.

  Across the room, someone leapt up from a table and dashed to the side door, probably a staff person desperate to switch off the hot microphone Damon had no idea was on. Vance stared at the podium like he wondered if there was a way to switch it off from there.

  “Why not?” Macalister’s voice demanded. “She’s an incredible woman.”

  “Because it’d ruin me. Kristin knows about some of the affairs, but a kid? She’d cut off my balls.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ian said, dumbfounded.

  The rest of the audience was restless and churning with discomfort. The people at my table looked either miserable or outraged by what they were hearing. Vance backed away from the podium like it was radioactive.

  Meanwhile, Macalister’s voice was louder, as if he’d gotten much closer to Damon, perhaps right in his face. “You’re a bastard.”

  “Jesus, Macalister, like you should talk. And I don’t have time for this.”

  It was so quiet in the ballroom, not a soul was breathing.

  I felt . . . strangely nothing. The hole in my stomach grew and consumed me. There was disappointment but not surprise.

  But on top of it was also closure. It was out now. Done. Time marched brutally along.

  Finally, a new voice punched through the speakers, the person sounding out of breath. “Your mic’s on! Turn it off. Oh, my God, Damon. It’s—”

  “What?”

  “—been on this whole time.”

  Loud, violent thumps played as a hand scrambled over the microphone, muffling any more words, and then it went abruptly silent.

  The room sat in tense agony, unsure of what to do, and it only grew when Kristin Lynch rose awkwardly from her chair near the front of the stage. There was no way for her to sneak out unseen, so she tried to hold her head high as she calmly put her purse on her shoulder and walked to the exit. She moved as if each step were painful, and while I wasn’t sure she deserved quite so much humiliation, I didn’t feel that sorry for her. She wasn’t much better than her husband.

  She’d had her own infidelities, and although there were tens of millions of dollars in her bank account, she was so cheap, it was criminal. She was the type of person to plant a dead bug in her five-star hotel room to try to get it comped. Kristin was so entitled, she refused to pay full price on anything.

  Vance had frozen halfway off the stage, but it was rapidly becoming clear Damon wouldn’t be coming out, and so the responsibility to dismiss the audience was going to need to be handled.

  Before he could do it, a hero emerged from behind the curtain, and my blood roared loudly in my ears. His master plan executed, he looked effortlessly composed and powerful in victory.

  After a quick exchange with his son, Macalister strolled up to the podium like a king readying to speak to his kingdom. He raised the microphone to his level and surveyed the crowd, and his demeanor reassured the room they were in capable hands. He’d tell them what to do now.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in light of what has happened, Damon has decided he will not be speaking this evening. He’ll be using this time to reflect on his actions and discuss them privately with his family. He thanks you for your understanding.”

  It seemed like a dismissal, and I expected him to walk off proudly, come find me, and gloat about his win. I could begrudgingly admit his plan was good. He’d forced the confession from Damon as if by accident and had come off looking like a friend when it was over. But instead of exiting the stage, Macalister braced his hands on the sides of the podium and leaned closer to the microphone.

  “I imagine many of you are upset and disappointed, but there’s someone in the audience who has lived silently with that for quite a while, and if you will indulge me, I’d like to address her now.”

  His gaze moved swiftly and directly to me, and I clenched my hands instinctively. What was he doing?

  “Sophia Alby,” he announced, “I wore this suit for you. I came to this event tonight for you.” His chest moved quickly, and his eyes were shockingly intense as he stared at me. “I get up every morning and I keep breathing . . . for you.”

  Holy.

  Fuck.

  I whispered it to him under my breath so quietly it might not have made a sound. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you what you needed and that I let you down. Despite my efforts, I am not a perfect man. I’m far from it. But you have pushed me to want to be a better man. To be a good man.”

  He drew in a deep, preparing breath, and as he straightened, he looked at me with so much power, it obliterated me. I went boneless.

  “I don’t care who knows or what they may think, or that I’m making a complete fool out of myself, right here, right now in front of all these people. It doesn’t matter. It hurts everywhere with you gone,” his voice was solid and sure, “because I am very much in love with you.”

  Maybe people gasped, or Ian balked at my side, but I couldn’t tell. I was trapped under Macalister’s gaze, unable to experience anything else. If I moved, I’d die, but perhaps that would be all right. He’d brought me back to life once before.

  He could probably do it again.

  Tingles raced across my limbs with the electricity of our connection. It was hard to heave air in and out of my lungs, and it had to hurt my fractured rib, but I couldn’t feel it. We’d spent months restoring his name and reputation, and he was willing to risk it all—just for the chance to win me back.

  Because he was in love with me, and because it was win at all costs.

  “You once told me you usually get what you want,” he said. “So, if you want me, I’m yours.” He held my gaze for a final moment, before turning his attention back to the audience. “Thank you.”

  He turned the microphone off and strode toward the stairs at the end of the stage.

  Murmurs at the tables built quickly to shocked conversations that filled the ballroom. Some people stood and prepared to leave in protest, but I was rooted to my chair. The man who was mine was making his approach, and the determination etching his face screamed what he’d told me in my bedroom.

  I want you in every way . . . and I will have you.

  A tremble worked along my body as emotional overwhelm set it, and then he was there, standing over me with eyes full of love and concern.

  “May I touch you?” he asked in an uneven voice.

  My bottom lip was quivering, but I was able to get the word out. “Yes.”

  He reached for me, his fingertips grazing my face to wipe away a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed, but as he’d done it, I’d caught the subtle shake of his hand. I wasn’t the only one trembling, and the idea that I could make this legend of a man nervous was absolutely stunning.

  “Do you still hate me?” His fingers were cold, but his palm was warm as he cupped my cheek and angled me up to look at him.

  “A little,” I whispered. “But only because I hate losing.”

  His smile was breathtaking, and when he began to lean down, I was sure his intent was to kiss me, and I was too impatient. I burst up from my chair, meeting him halfway, and pressed my lips to his.

  Our kis
s was full of passion, but it was tame and restrained.

  Like the first time we’d been together in the costume room, this was a taste. A fraction of what we were capable of and just enough to tide us over until we were away from everyone else. Macalister was not one for making a show of affection or a spectacle of himself, and now that he’d done both, I sensed he was nearing his limit.

  But I reveled in the connection of our mouths and the possession of his hands on my body, every nerve ending in me singing at his return.

  On the table, my phone buzzed with a notification, and since I was pressed against him, I could feel his phone vibrating in his coat pocket. Word was out about what had happened, and the digital world was spreading it.

  “We’re leaving,” he announced to both me and the table, but it was mostly for Ian’s benefit.

  I snatched up my phone and my clutch and flashed an apologetic smile to my date, but he simply sat in his chair, staring up at Macalister with disbelief.

  Like he’d done in his hedge maze, the man I loved walked so quickly, it was a struggle to keep up at first, but when he realized, he slowed and took my hand. I ignored the scowls from people who stared at us like I was some trollop who should be ashamed to run around with a man twice my age.

  I’d faced far worse and survived. This was a small price to pay to get what I wanted.

  Down the long hallway we went, Macalister towing me toward the entrance to the parking garage, and as soon as we stepped out into the frigid November air, a black Range Rover pulled up. He grabbed the backseat door handle and pulled it open for me.

  This car had been waiting for us.

  Once I’d climbed in, he shut the door and rounded the back of the SUV to get in on the other side, and I was dying to know how much of this night he had scripted. We buckled our seatbelts, and the car eased away from the entrance.

  “How much did you pay the sound guy to turn on Damon’s microphone?”

  The interior of the car was lit by the parking garage lights overhead, and a smile teased Macalister’s sexy lips. “Nothing. Vance did it for me.” His casual fist rested on his thigh, and his thumb brushed over the knuckles. “When he cleared his throat, that was the signal he could hear us, and I needed to ask the question.”