And yet, she wasn’t certain she had a choice because everything felt tangled now, complicated beyond fixing.
She couldn’t feel nothing for this man who made love to her with such explosive, sweet passion. She couldn’t shut off what she felt for her first lover, the man she had fallen for at sixteen. As clichéd as it was, she felt connected to him now. As though he were a part of her.
If she were really honest with herself, the connection wasn’t new. Having their bodies joined was just a physical manifestation of what had been from the beginning. He’d been in her from the start.
It was why she had always kept an eye on his career when he’d started getting media attention. Why she’d silently cheered for his success even while she hurt inside over not sharing it with him.
It was why part of her wanted to cheer for his success now in this, his quest for vengeance and justice.
And part of her wanted to scream at him and ask him why he’d dragged her into everything. Or more to the point, why he’d made her care. Why he looked at her as though he wanted to devour her. Why he kissed her as though he were sampling some rare, exquisite wine. How he could make her feel this way when she knew he had to hate her.
Why couldn’t he just be a jerk? Why couldn’t she simply see him as he was: a man set on using her for his own ends?
But it wasn’t so simple that it could be reduced to anything that easy to understand. There was nothing simple about it.
There was nothing simple about the massive knot of emotion that was filling her chest, making it hard to breathe. There was nothing easy about the thick tension that hung in the air. Sexual. Emotional.
“Come back to bed,” Lazaro said, pulling back the covers.
“I should maybe go—”
“You’re coming to bed. With me. You need to sleep, we’re going to be flying out tomorrow.”
And because she was exhausted, and because she ached to be in his arms, she climbed back into the bed.
He drew her close to his body, his hands moving over her curves, soothing her, making her brain fuzzy and her body sleepy.
Her last thought before drifting off was, how did a man with so much anger in him, a man who was only using her, make her feel more wanted, more desired, than anyone else in her life ever had?
Reality set in quickly back in Boston. Lazaro was busy, and Vanessa had a mountain of paperwork on her desk, thanks to the remaining fossils Pickett Industries had accounts with who had never heard of sending documents via email.
Her office was her home away from home again, and her personal life was back to being nonexistent. She doubted it had ever really existed. Lazaro was some unholy mash-up of her personal and professional life, not to mention her newfound sex life, which she was missing after a few nights alone in her big, cold bed.
She would see him tonight though. After work he was taking her to a big gala that was historically reserved for a very select group. The Pickett name was always on the list and, since word of their engagement had spread and Lazaro was now becoming a part of that legacy, he had secured an invitation too.
She was serving her purpose at least—bringing Lazaro into the hallowed institutions of the American aristocracy. Into a cornerstone of which she was about to put a big crack.
Her phone buzzed and she hit the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Ms. Pickett, your father is here to see you.”
Vanessa swallowed hard. “Send him in.”
Her father strode into the room, his expression dark. Dangerous. His gray eyebrows were locked together in a show of disapproval. “You’ve been on vacation?”
“I took some time off with my new fiancé,” she said, striving to keep her tone light.
“Can you afford time off?”
“I have to do my part to ensure my marriage is successful.”
“That isn’t what you called me here to say though, is it, Va ness a?”
“No,” she said slowly, standing from her chair, planting both palms firmly on her desk. She hoped the gesture conveyed confidence, because what she was really doing was trying to keep her knees from buckling. “I know what you did to Lazaro.”
Her father didn’t flinch. “I thought you might.”
“You’re a cold-blooded bastard,” she said, through clenched teeth.
“I did it for you, Vanessa, so we could avoid a situation like this—you marrying so patently beneath your station.”
“My station? Because Lazaro wasn’t born into money he’s somehow beneath me? Beneath you? Lazaro is a better man than you will ever be, and you have to keep men like him shut out because he has something you don’t. He’s brilliant, he solves problems. He even knows how to fix this disaster you and I are standing in.”
Michael Pickett looked at her, his eyes—eyes she’d always imagined looking like her own—stared back at her, cold and dead. “Did you call me in here for the sole purpose of hearing your impassioned little speech or did you have a point?”
“I had a point,” she said. “You will make sure Lazaro is welcomed into high society with your blessing. Because if you don’t, I will let this place crumble. Hell, I’ll tear it apart myself. Brick by brick.”
“Insolent, ungrateful …”
“I don’t think you understand the reality here. Lazaro and myself combined own the majority of this company. You don’t have the power here. Not even close. Lazaro and some of our board members have close professional relationships and his influence carries a lot of weight.”
“You would dismantle your family legacy? The one meant for your brother? The one he would have seen flourish?”
“For the man I love? In a heartbeat.”
They were the truest words she’d ever spoken. She didn’t realize it until she spoke them. She loved Lazaro. She would move heaven and earth for him. She would stand up to Michael Pickett for him. She had stood up to Michael Pickett. She would do it again, ten times over.
“Lazaro isn’t a boy that you can have beaten and left for dead in an alley, not anymore.” She took a breath. “And I’m not a little girl. I won’t simply do as I’m told without looking into what’s really going on. Lazaro isn’t just going away,” she said, watching her father’s face for a hint of what he was thinking, whether he was going to explode.
Silence hung between them, the only sound Vanessa’s thundering heart in her ears.
Her father’s face remained set in stone. “Of course he will be welcomed,” he said, his tone cold. “He’s my future son-in-law.”
“Yes,” she said, over the blood roaring in her ears. “He is.”
She watched her father leave and felt a pleasant numbness spread from the pain in her fingertips to the pain in her chest, blocking it out. She’d done what she had to do. She wouldn’t allow her father to have any kind of victory, not in Lazaro’s life, not in hers. Not now that she knew who he really was. Who she had been protecting, helping for so many years.
Her secretary buzzed her again. “Yes?” Her voice was shaking now, the adrenaline seeping from her system and leaving her weak, drained.
“Mr. Marino has sent a limo.”
“And is Mr. Marino in said limo?”
“Not that I saw.”
A spike of disappointment pierced the blessed numbness. A limo, but not the man himself. Well, that was life with rich, important men, she was well aware. As long as she served her purpose, things went smoothly. But she wouldn’t be getting any excess attention.
“I’ll be right down.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LAZARO’S heart squeezed tight when Vanessa walked into the main living area of his Beacon Hill penthouse.
She was dressed in her business clothes, wide-legged slacks and spiky heels combined with a dark fitted jacket and a brightly colored top underneath. Her dark hair was swept back into a low ponytail and the gloss on her lips was a sedate rose, perfect for board meetings. And, apparently, for making his blood pump hot and fast.
But then, there was nev
er a time when his desire for Vanessa seemed to cool, no matter what she was wearing—or not wearing.
He had missed her over the past few days. He had hoped the separation might help him regain some of his control. But now that she was here, he was on fire with lust. A response that was as instant as it was beyond his control.
“I didn’t bring my dress with me,” she said, shifting her weight, her eyes scanning the room, careful not to land on him for too long. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to meet you here.”
“I bought you a dress.”
Then she did look at him. “You bought me a dress? For tonight? I have one. I had what I was going to wear planned out.”
“You won’t need it,” he said.
He’d seen the dress at a shop in Buenos Aires when they’d been there, and he’d instantly envisioned Vanessa wearing it. He’d contacted the designer and ordered the dress in a color and size he thought would suit Vanessa and had had it shipped back to Boston just for the gala.
It was the kind of thing she should have. Something made just for her. Something nice and expensive. She deserved everything he could give.
“But you didn’t ask me.”
“It was a surprise.”
That earned him stony silence and a censorious look from her dark brown eyes. “Show me,” she said, after a pause.
He led her through the main living area of the house and up the open staircase to the loft floor that overlooked the open kitchen, living- and dining-room portions of the penthouse. He opened the door to his bedroom and ushered her inside.
He noticed, for the first time, how Spartan everything was. How masculine. Vanessa looked so pale and delicate in these surroundings, out of place. The black-and-gray design scheme, the stark angled lines, didn’t suit her at all.
That his room was a wholly masculine domain had never mattered before. He didn’t bring women into his home. It was much too personal. Vanessa was the first woman he’d brought into his bedroom. And the first person he’d brought into the house for a very long time. Entertaining at home wasn’t high on his agenda.
Vanessa walked over to the bed where the dress was draped across the black comforter, the red silk shocking against the dark background. There were gold shoes beside it, high heels with delicate ankle straps that he knew would draw attention to her slender legs.
She frowned as she examined the offering and his gut tightened.
“I don’t know that it’s a red sort of event,” she said crisply.
He locked his teeth together, then loosened them, the stupid thing she’d said about TMJ ringing in his ears. “That’s why you should wear it.”
“So I’ll stand out?”
“So everyone will look at us.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
Frustration boiled inside him. “Yes. I want everyone to see us there. To know I’m with you.”
She frowned again. “I see.”
“There’s a wrap to wear over it. It will be cold tonight.” As if that fixed his intent somehow.
“Okay.”
Vanessa watched Lazaro stalk from the room, his annoyance with her a palpable presence that lingered long after he left.
She examined the dress spread out on his bed and the black cashmere wrap that was folded next to it. It was such an intimate thing, and yet he had presented it in a way that was anything but. The gesture spoke clearly of what she was to him, the part he expected her to play tonight. She was his accessory for the evening and he hadn’t trusted her to dress accordingly. He had to go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that she was exactly as she should be. So that people would look at them.
So that he could use her as a status symbol.
Her stomach lurched.
Was he any different than her father?
Yes.
Yes, he was different. He would never have anyone harmed, would never do anything so reprehensible. But as far as his feelings for her? She was a thing. A possession.
You are mine.
His. His status symbol in red.
She picked the dress up by the spaghetti straps and held it in front of her, the delicate fabric swishing as she lifted it. This was what she’d signed on for. Trophy wife, agreeable accessory who did as she was told in public, who put on a good front so that Lazaro could move freely in the upper levels of society.
It was what she’d signed on for, and now it seemed unbearable.
She didn’t know if she had the strength to walk away, even if she wanted to. But she didn’t know if she had the strength to stay, either. To stay and fulfill, in her husband’s mind, the same thing that Beacon Hill property did. Nothing more than status.
She slowly took her clothes off, hands shaking as she folded her top and slacks and set them on the bed. She picked up the red dress and held it in front of her naked body, looking at herself in the mirror.
She picked the dress up and pulled it on, contorting her arm so that she could pull the zipper into place. It was daring, sexy in an overt way.
She picked the wrap up and draped it around her shoulders. It went a long way toward making the dress more respectable. She flung it back on the bed. If he wanted a show, she’d give the people a show. And if he didn’t like it, that was too bad.
The gala was crowded with glittering men and women, the majority of them in black. Vanessa knew she stood out like a very vulgar sore thumb. For the first time in her life she wasn’t dressed appropriately for the gathering. It wasn’t a very good feeling.
But when she’d come out of the bedroom, Lazaro’s eyes had lit with hungry flames, his expression telling her just how much he approved—until she’d told him she was going without the handy cover he’d given her. Since they’d arrived at the party he’d had his hand on her, on her back, her waist, his manner possessive.
She sighed and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. If his goal was to have them be the center of attention, his mission was well and truly accomplished. She was maybe being a little more obvious than he’d intended, but she hadn’t been about to just cater to his wishes. If she’d had another dress at her disposal at his penthouse, she would have simply gone with that.
She tried to let the stares slide off her, tried not to worry about them.
Of course, it might not have been her the other guests were staring at. The women could just as easily be staring at Lazaro and not at her at all. In his custom-made black suit he looked a cut above every other man present. His olive skin was complemented perfectly by his red tie, and the suit showed the shape of his fabulous physique. It certainly made her want to undo every button and see the man beneath. She was sure she wasn’t the only one with that thought.
Lazaro worked the room, his natural charisma on display tonight, charisma she had been pulled in by at the age of sixteen when he’d flashed her that killer smile of his for the first time.
She was so proud of him. Of all he had become. And she was merely his invitation to the event. She gripped the stem of her glass more tightly.
“Lazaro.” A man Vanessa recognized from some gatherings at the Pickett estate stepped forward to shake Lazaro’s hand. “I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you about some of the things going on at Garrison Limited.”
“Have you?” Lazaro asked.
“Yes, I … Well, times being what they are, I thought you might want to come and give me a consultation on what I can do to keep up with the changing market.”
“You can call my secretary and arrange an appointment.”
“I will, I will. But … would you like to come and meet my business partner?”
Vanessa could sense Lazaro tensing beside her, could feel the annoyance radiating from him like a physical force.
“Of course,” he said, ever the diplomat. “Hold this, please, Vanessa.” He placed his champagne flute in her hand and walked away with the other man.
Vanessa’s stomach sank into her toes as a similar scene flashed through her mind. The night at the art mu
seum. Lazaro had been with a woman then. Vanessa had dubbed her a human cup-holder at the time.
She looked at her hand, at the full glass of champagne, the condensation running down the sides as the bubbles floated up to the surface. She set it down on the nearest table and leaned against the wall, dizzy with anger and hurt.
She wasn’t different. She was the same as every other woman he’d ever been with.
No, even worse, she was different. He was stuck with her if he wanted to make it to the top, because of her name, her connections, things that were beyond her control. Things that couldn’t be bought or negotiated for. If he could have done it any other way, he would have.
She was sure of that now.
It struck her now, just how foolish she was. That she’d imagined he could care for her when he carried so much anger toward her family, anger she couldn’t even blame him for.
But, as sorry as she was for the sins of her father, they weren’t her sins. They never had been. Her only crime had been loving him, wanting more from him than he could give. And she had committed it again twelve years on.
Because she loved him. And all she would ever be to him was status. A symbol of thoroughly meted-out vengeance. A trophy. He had never pretended otherwise. She was a fool.
He would never love her for who she was. Only for what she could do for him. And if she couldn’t do anything for him anymore he would discard her without a backward glance. There was no doubt in her mind.
Could she handle another lifetime of that? Her father had only ever used her. He had held Thomas’s memory, her love for her late brother, over her head to get her to do what she was told. He had played her like a master all of her life.
And Lazaro would have even more power. Because he had her heart.
“No,” she whispered the word.
She had always defined herself by her last name. By the family legacy. But she had found more to herself in Buenos Aires. In Lazaro’s arms. There was more to her than the preservation of a business. More to her than becoming a status symbol for her husband.
And she knew for a fact that she couldn’t stay with him and take the crumbs of his affection. She deserved more. She deserved what everyone else had. Freedom. Choices.
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