She hadn’t thought she’d enjoy it so much herself, or that the taste of him would be so good. Thick and hot and salty. Then there had been the sense of power as she’d closed her lips around him. He’d thought he was the one in charge, but he wasn’t—she’d realized that the moment she’d taken him into her mouth. She’d seen the pleasure on his face, seen the hunger. Seen how helpless he was against it. And no matter that she was at his feet with his hand painfully tight in her hair, and that doing this to him had been a bargain he’d forced on her, she knew she wasn’t the one who was vulnerable. He was.
She felt it now too, looking up into the tense lines of his beautiful face. There was an ache between her thighs and she could taste him in her mouth, and part of her wanted to crawl up into his lap, spread her legs and lift her dress, and slide right down onto that long, thick cock of his. But she’d insisted on this and so she had to keep going. Keep pressing.
“That,” he said, after what seemed like forever, “is from a hunting knife.”
She glanced down at the thick white line crossing his wrist and frowned. “What? Was it an accident?” The scar was straight across, and even though it was ragged, it sure didn’t look like an accident. There were others too, along his forearm, and she’d also seen a couple up around his biceps, hidden by the white cotton of his shirt. Straight and regular and purposeful.
“No,” Rafe said slowly. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“You mean you cut yourself on purpose?”
He turned his head, looking down at the scars on his arm. “Yes, I cut myself on purpose.”
An electric bolt of shock went through her. She stared at him, not understanding. “Why would you do that?”
His gaze lifted to hers, and for some reason the expression in his eyes felt painful. “Because I wasn’t a well-behaved young man.”
She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. “I don’t . . . know what you mean.”
He sighed and shifted again, leaning forward until his face was very close to her, that light, mesmerizing gaze inches away. “I went to my grandfather’s to be fixed, Little Red. Because I couldn’t control myself. And to put things very simply, that’s exactly what he did.”
But no, that still didn’t make any sense to her. “How? I mean, how did he fix you?”
“He gave me consequences for bad behavior.”
Foreboding twisting in her gut. Consequences. . . . “Do I want to know what those consequences were?”
“I’m sure if you think hard enough, you can work them out. But I’ll give you a clue all the same. The first time I had a tantrum, he locked me in the root cellar. He told me he wouldn’t let me out until I’d gotten control of myself.” He paused and the foreboding inside her squeezed even harder. “It took two days.”
“Two days,” she echoed, the implications not really sinking in.
“After the first couple of hours, when I’d screamed myself hoarse, I tried to smash down the door.” Slowly he closed one hand into a fist and she could see a whole lot of little white scars marring his knuckles. “That’s where those scars came from. Needless to say the door didn’t open.”
“But. . . . but. . . .” she began uncertainly.
“He gave me a cup of water after the first twelve hours, but he wouldn’t let me out. Not even to go to the bathroom. I pleaded, I begged. I told him I wasn’t angry anymore, but he always knew. He knew I was a fucking liar.” The look on Rafe’s face had turned strangely wistful. As if these were good memories. “He didn’t feed me anything, so I was starving and filthy when he let me out, and you’d have thought I would have learned my lesson. But I hadn’t. The next time, he beat me with his belt before he locked me in the cellar, and I was bleeding, crying like a fucking baby. I don’t know how long I was in there that time. Longer than two days, that’s for sure.”
He’d been locked in a root cellar. Repeatedly. For days. After being beaten. Horror turned over inside her, big and slow like a lazy animal.
He looked down at his fist, curling his fingers and stretching them out. “I was a slow learner, but after those experiences I tried. Of course I fucked up. He gave me a couple of burns the next time, with the poker from the fire, and that really hurt, but then I’d tried to take a swing at him so I pretty much deserved it. I think he locked me up for . . . five days? I can’t remember. But it was then that I figured out how pain could be a good focus. How it could keep me in control of myself. And when the pain from the burns faded, I found this hunting knife and I . . . gave myself a little cut.” His fingers brushed over the ragged scar. “Right here. Bled like a bitch, but it worked. Saved me another day down in that fucking cellar.”
Ella couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing all the air out of her lungs and filling them with concrete. He had scars like this one all over his body. So many scars . . .
She had gone cold. Her fingers, her toes. Everywhere. And she didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he was almost smiling, as if proud of himself, or that terrible wistful look he’d had before. As if these memories were pleasant ones.
They are pleasant. You can see it in his face.
“Rafe . . .” she began.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said before she could finish. “You’re thinking my grandfather abused me. And I guess you’d be right. It’s not normal for a man to beat and cut and burn his grandson before locking him up for days on end in the cellar, right?” His voice sounded so matter-of-fact, as if none of this was a big deal. “But you’re wrong. He was doing this for my own good. He was doing this because I was unmanageable. Because my family didn’t fucking care enough to fix me. But he did.”
“Rafe,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say. She had no words to describe the combination of dread and horror and shock inside her.
He looked at her, frowning slightly, as if her reaction was puzzling to him. “It’s okay, Ella. It hurt at the time and yes, it was a hard lesson to learn. But I learned it. My grandfather fixed me.”
“He hurt you.” She could barely bring herself to say it.
“Yes, he did. But it’s fine. I don’t regret it. Especially when I got to come back to New York and show my father that he was wrong. That I wasn’t broken after all.” The smile that curved his mouth now was dark and somehow frightening. “Dad thought he could simply get rid of me. That once I was out of sight, I was out of mind. Poor bastard. He had no idea.”
She shivered. The look in Rafe’s eyes was pure silver. No blue. A glittering look that reminded her of knife blades and sharp edges. And beneath that . . . a deep, flickering rage.
A couple of weeks ago she would have run from the room, scared out of her mind. But she wasn’t that Ella anymore. She wasn’t the anxious little girl. She was Little Red, so instead she closed her hands around his scarred fist and looked up into his face. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gone husky.
The glittering expression in his eyes faded. “What are you sorry for?”
“For the way your grandfather hurt you.” She tightened her fingers around his fist. “He shouldn’t have done it, Rafe. That’s not . . . the way you help a child.”
Rafe shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. And whether he should have done that to a child or not is irrelevant. He did what he thought was right. I was broken and he fixed me and if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”
Ella couldn’t drag her gaze from his, horror and shock making her feel sick. It was clear he believed every word he said and no wonder, because the alternative was . . .
Nothing but pain and suffering for no reason at all.
Tears filled her eyes. And he noticed. His frown deepened and gently he took his fist from her grip, closing those scarred hands around her cold fingers instead. “No,” he said softly. “Don’t cry. Not for me. There’s nothing to be sad about. I’m fine now. I’m fixed. It’s all better, understand?”
But she didn’t th
ink it was. He could barely talk about himself, let alone his scars, which told her that no matter what he said, the experience had been horrific. And anyway, who was “all better” after something like that had happened to them? He was guarded and secretive and manipulative, no question, yet his confession made her question whether that was something he was, as she’d initially thought, or whether that was the man he’d become after his grandfather’s “treatment.”
It’s not.
The thought was instinctive and even though she didn’t know where it had come from, she knew it was true all the same. Because despite all his considerable flaws, there was a sweetness to him too, a caring, protective side. He’d handled the horrible situation with Aurora without a murmur of protest. He massaged her feet and her legs every night after a performance. He’d watched a whole lot of Star Wars movies with her. He’d taken her out to do a few of the things she liked to do. He’d given her so much pleasure . . .
Rafe raised Ella’s hands and kissed her knuckles lightly. Then he smiled at her as if nothing was wrong. “So, those are where I got my scars from. Do you think we can have dinner now?”
Automatically Ella nodded and rose to her feet, going back to her own chair. But she was operating on autopilot, her head too full of what he’d just told her, the implications settling down into her like a slow-moving frost.
Once she’d sat down, the waiter, who’d obviously been waiting for some signal, appeared with their starters. Rafe was talking about something, but Ella barely heard him. Somewhere along the line she’d lost her appetite, and when the soup appeared before her, she felt almost sick.
She couldn’t get it out of her head. Rafe, a fourteen-year-old boy, locked in a root cellar for two days because of a temper tantrum. Then he’d been beaten. And burned. . . .
Ella reached for her soupspoon and picked it up, forcing herself to eat, even though she wanted quite desperately to leave. But she could hardly do that, not after she’d demanded he tell her all about the scars that covered him.
Oh God, why had she done that?
Guilt shifted in her gut. She should never have asked. The story behind scars like that was never going to be a pleasant one and yet she’d insisted, made him tell her.
“Ella,” Rafe said, his voice dragging her out of her own head. “You’re zoning out on me. Am I going to have to insist on another blow job?”
How could he sit there as if none of that had happened to him? As if he hadn’t been beaten and tortured and abused. As if it was all fine, and he was better, and nothing was wrong?
Her spoon dropped to the table with a clatter.
“I’m sorry, Rafe,” she said shakily. “I can’t do this after all.”
* * *
He let her leave, saying nothing as she shoved her chair back and left the restaurant without a backward glance. He was proud of himself for that.
He didn’t follow her either, remaining at the table and finishing his starter, because he’d be damned if he let good food go to waste.
After he’d finished, he sat back in his chair and sipped his champagne, watching the lights of the city outside.
“Well, that was another successful dinner,” he said to the empty room.
He let a few minutes pass before texting one of his personal assistants to check the Hart residence. She wouldn’t go back to his apartment—he knew that much already—she’d go somewhere else. And there was only one other place she’d go. He wasn’t worried. She’d be there.
Space, he’d give her space. Wasn’t that what women needed when they were upset? Not that he knew. He’d never had a woman get upset with him. He preferred it when they liked him.
Something heavy was sitting behind his breastbone, but he didn’t want to examine it, so he waited at the dinner table as his meal was brought out. He got the waiter to box up Ella’s steak and fries—she’d probably be hungry later—and keep it heated. Swapping his champagne for red wine, he slowly ate, watching the lights, relishing the venison he’d ordered.
Afterward, he sat there, cradling his wine in one hand, the heavy sensation in his chest getting heavier and heavier.
He didn’t know what had happened. She’d wanted the story of his scars and so he’d given them to her. And then she’d gotten upset and he still didn’t know why. He’d told her it was okay. That he was okay. That sure, it had been a hard lesson his grandfather had told him, but he’d learned it and he was a better man for it. A stronger man. There was no reason for her to get upset, none at all.
So why had she left?
His phone buzzed on the table and he picked it up, glancing down at the text on the screen. Good. She was exactly where he’d thought she’d be. That was something at least.
He began to put his phone down on the table and as he did so, his attention caught on his exposed wrist. On the scar he’d cut there with that old hunting knife. The one she’d looked at, the one she’d touched.
He’d never been ashamed of those scars, not once. No, he’d always been proud of them, the way his grandfather had been. Evidence of how he’d learned to manage himself, fix himself. But now, as he stared at the white line on his wrist, he felt the heavy sensation in his chest shift.
The scar was ragged, the skin twisted at one end. There was another next to it, just as ragged. But the one after that was a bit cleaner, a bit neater. He’d learned how to cut himself without so much damage, without so much blood, and he’d always found the progression of the scars soothing.
But Ella . . . She’d gone white when he’d told her, horror written all over her lovely features. And there had been tears in her eyes.
A sick feeling turned over inside him and for some reason he found himself pushing his sleeve over the scars. Hiding them.
Rafe cleared his throat, shoving the sick feeling away and draining the rest of his wine. Not that he was ashamed of those scars, never that. It was just a pity he’d upset Ella with them. But he’d find her, he’d make it okay.
He hadn’t forgotten that she’d told him that she was scared. That she didn’t know what was happening between them. He’d thought he’d been clear with her about what that was, but apparently he hadn’t been clear enough.
His intention had always been that she would stay with him. That she wouldn’t want to ever leave. Not that he’d let her anyway, but that was beside the point. She’d stay with him because she chose to, because she needed to be with him, because she couldn’t contemplate the alternative. That was it. End of story.
He probably needed to make sure she understood.
Putting his wine back down on the table, he pushed his chair back and stood. She’d had enough space. It was time to go find her.
The bill was already handled, but he left a stack of cash on the table as a tip that would probably make the waiter’s night for the rest of the year. Then he made his way down to where Clive had parked the limo.
The Hart residence wasn’t far from the restaurant, though the traffic was a killer, and it took him a good fifteen minutes to get there. Murmuring some instructions to Clive, Rafe got out and made his way up the steps. The door was locked, but he had his father’s key so it wasn’t a problem to unlock it and step inside.
The entranceway was high ceilinged, with a thick carpet on the floor and a staircase to the left, leading both up and down.
For a second he stood in silence. There were memories here, of the occasional visit as a boy when he’d come with his father, of Ella stumbling down those stairs, a smile a mile wide on her little face, screaming “Wafe” at the top of her lungs.
But he didn’t want to think of those memories, not now. Instead, he listened. His hearing was sharp, and sure enough, the sounds of music drifted up from the staircase.
Of course. Not that he’d any doubt about where she’d be.
He took the stairs down, following the sounds of Vivaldi, moving along a short, dark corridor to a door. The dance studio Ella’s father had created for her mother.
The d
oor was closed but he didn’t hesitate, turning the knob and pulling it open, light flooding out.
It wasn’t a very big room, but the mirror lining one wall made it seem bigger than it was. The floor was hardwood and a serviceable ballet barre ran beside the mirror. Music filled the room from a couple of speakers set on the walls. Vivaldi, as he’d thought. The Four Seasons. Winter. How appropriate.
Ella stood by the mirror down one end of the room with her back to him. She wore a pink leotard and a pair of pink satin ballet shoes, her hair caught up in high ponytail. She was up on her toes, in first position, her arms raised above her head, elbows bent gracefully in an arc. Under the lights, her skin gleamed with sweat, outlining the lithe muscularity of her legs and her arms. It was clear she’d been dancing and dancing hard.
His breath caught.
Jesus. She was so beautiful. She’d had pain and she had her own scars too, and even so, she stood tall. So strong. How did she get to be that strong? For the briefest second he would have given anything to know her secret. Anything at all.
Her gaze met his in the mirror without surprise, almost as if she’d been expecting him. But she didn’t say anything, nor did she move. Her eyes were red, her mouth soft and vulnerable-looking.
Rafe moved over to a chair that stood against one wall, picking up the remote that sat on it and pressing the pause button. The music fell silent.
Ella’s arms dropped slowly to her sides. “How did you know I was here?”
“There weren’t many places you could be. I knew you wouldn’t go back to my apartment.”
She looked away from him, her attention on her own reflection in the mirror.
He walked slowly over to her, coming to stand behind her. She was so small that even when she was up on her toes, he could see over her head.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice had gotten husky. “I ruined your dinner.”
He very much wanted to touch her, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and she looked like she still needed some space. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, he looked over her head, meeting her gaze in the glass in front of them. “Don’t worry. We can always have another.”
The Big, Bad Billionaire Page 17
