by Various
Jake’s stance does not surprise me. He’s an honorable man. But what does surprise me is his lack of trust in me. “I assure you, such is not my intention.”
He dismounts the kitchen stool. “You know what they say about good intentions, Storm. The road to hell is paved with them.”
I grit my teeth to keep from knocking his down his throat. “I know what I’m doing.”
His mouth tightens. “I won’t be a party to your games.”
I slam my hand on the counter. “Elizabeth’s not a game.”
“What is she then?”
I rake fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Well, you better figure it out real soon before you lose the woman you love.”
What? How the fuck did he reach that conclusion? Our gazes collide. “I’m not in love with her.”
He chuckles. “Sure about that? Because you couldn’t take your eyes off her, or your hands, for that matter. Hell, for a moment I thought you were going to throw her on the floor and claim her. Right there, in front of your sister and me.”
A growl rises from deep in my chest. “Stay the fuck out of my life, Jake.”
He throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I’ll stay out. But—”
Always a ‘but’ with him.
“Look, maybe you love her, maybe you don’t. But, clearly, she’s someone special to you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have invited her here. I know your proclivities, your go-to pain killers. And I can tell you from personal experience. If you lose her, there won’t be enough liquor in the world for you to drown in.”
I reel back to him, ready to argue the point, but Bri walks into the kitchen, and our hostilities by necessity cease. Gone is the orphan-in-a-storm look, replaced by a vibrant vision dressed in a sleeveless lavender sheath, matching heels, and immaculate makeup and hair. Never count Brianna down and out.
Jake’s body goes rigid. His nostrils flare. Does he know how much he reveals whenever she’s near him? But even though she pushes every one of his hot buttons, he maintains the same businesslike attitude toward her. “Ready to go, Lady Brianna?”
“Please stop calling me that. I hate it,” she says.
“What would you have me call you then?”
“My name. Brianna.”
“Sorry. No can do. You will always be a lady to me.”
She slants him a look that would kill a lesser man. Good. If she focuses her hate on Jake, she’ll recover that much faster from her disastrous engagement. “Tosser.”
“Tsk, tsk, such language, Lady Brianna.” He crosses his arms against his chest, flexes his hips. Talk about body language.
Ignoring his caveman behavior, she turns to me. “Before I left for Paris, I arranged for father’s doctor to examine him and certify his mental acuity. I asked for two additional physicians, just in case. It’ll be taken care of when he attends his physical therapy session this week.”
“Good to know.” Our father needs to be mentally competent to perform the task I will ask of him.
She buzzes both cheeks. “Bye darling. Give my best to Elizabeth when you see her tonight.”
“How do you know I’ll see her?” I haven’t whispered a word to Bri about my intentions toward Elizabeth.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Why else would you lodge at the same hotel she’s staying unless it’s to spend as much time as possible with her?” She turns to Jake. “Get my suitcase, will you, ducks? It’s in the bedroom at the far end.”
He squints at her but leaves, presumably to do as she asks.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, she says, “I like Elizabeth. What do you intend to do with her?”
I smile while rocking back on my heels. “None of your business, baby sister.”
She arches a delicate brow while smoothing on a pair of lavender gloves. “Just so you know, if you hurt her, I will cut off your bollocks with a rusty knife.”
Ouch. I don’t take Brianna’s threat lightly. She’s damn handy with a knife.
Jake chuckles as he reenters the kitchen. The bastard must have heard that.
“Toodles, love.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Off to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” Jake and I both ask.
“My freedom. I’ll make enough noise to make sure that wanker learns about it from the gossip rags.”
Jake heaves a deep breath.
“The wanker meaning Anton,” I say.
“Of course. What other wanker is there?”
I release my own heavy sigh. God only knows how much trouble she means to get into. “Watch her, will you, Jake?”
“Do I get a choice?”
“Do you want one?”
“No. Not really.” Following her to the lift, he manages to fit himself and the luggage into the tiny space, which naturally requires him to stand close to her. Really close.
As the door closes, she shoots him a sidelong glance, a wicked one.
I’m still chuckling over the resigned look on Jake’s face when my mobile rings. When I catch the identity of the caller, my great mood heads south.
“Ainsley?” The Countess.
“Yes.”
“I’ve invited the Duke and Duchess of Marchstone and Lady Melissande for dinner. Seven o’clock sharp. Hope you can attend?””
“Do I have a choice?” I ask Jake’s identical question.
“You always have a choice,” she says in her ice queen tone.
She’s right. I can accept her invitation and maintain the status quo, or rebel and she will ruin Storm Industries. Not much of a choice, but a choice nonetheless. “I’ll be there.”
“Excellent.” She clicks off.
My head throbs with pain, and I reach for my meds. The frequency of my migraines no longer surprises me. They tend to strike during high stress periods in my life. But the speed of the current attacks and the intensity of the pain do worry me. I’ll need to check in with my doctor when the negotiations conclude in two weeks.
With a few hours to kill, I call my Vice President of Acquisitions, Miranda Stone, to go over our pricing strategy on the SouthWind transaction. Smith Cannon’s ready acceptance of our buying price tells me they haven’t caught on to the true value of the patents included in the deal. And I aim to keep it that way.
When she mentions a particular detail, I retrieve the binder from my briefcase and search for the document in question, a chart which lays out the cost of developing the patents. I find it under “Research.” Strange. It should be under “Feasibility of Future Projects.” Elizabeth must have filed it under the wrong tab.
As intelligent as she is, would she have realized the importance of this document? Doubt it. The language’s written in technical gobbledygook, and she was an economics major. It would take someone with an engineering background to decipher the meaning. Tossing the thought to the back of my mind, I resume my discussion with Miranda until it’s time to dress for dinner.
Chapter 23
Elizabeth
ON THE WALK OF SHAME inside the hotel, disaster strikes. I run into Brian, a member of the Smith Cannon team. He’s standing in the lobby talking to the concierge. Money changes hands and he slips something into his pants pocket. Maybe tickets to some show?
I try to sneak by him, but lady luck’s not on my side. She can be a pure bitch at times.
“Liz.” For a couple of seconds, he takes me in from head to toes.
On the cab ride, I brushed my hair and made sure I looked halfway decent. But the black laced-sleeve dress isn’t exactly daytime wear. It’ll take him no time to realize I’m just rolling in from an evening out.
A shadow moves across his face. “Late night?”
Damn. I hate it when I’m right. Mortified, I struggle for an answer, but nothing comes to mind. I rejected him each time he asked me out. And yet, the second I land in London, I’m out catting around. That’s the way he has to be seeing this. Where’s a hole to crawl into when you need one?
“Hey, girl.” CeCe, walking toward us. “What you doing dressed like that? We’re going sightseeing not to a club.”
I snatch the lifeline she’s offering and swim to safety. “Sorry. Guess I misunderstood.”
“Yeah, better go upstairs and change. Oh, and wear comfy shoes. We’re going to the Tower of London.”
“Can I tag along?” Brian asks, smiling now.
“Sure, the more the merrier,” CeCe says, flashing some pearly whites of her own.
I dash up to the Park Suite, grab my luggage and the key card to my room and take the elevator to the tenth floor. After a quick change of clothes, I join them downstairs and we head off. Surprisingly, I enjoy the sightseeing. For once I don’t have to worry about being seen with Storm.
After the fun tour, we decide to get a bite to eat at a pub near the hotel. Brian orders steak and chips and dark ale, and I go for a meat and potato pie and a glass of Chardonnay.
CeCe’s always on a diet so she requests a grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side, and a Diet Coke. When the drink arrives, she frowns at it. “They ration the ice around here?” Her glass contains one sad little cube of ice.
“I’m sure you can ask for more if you like,” I suggest.
She raises her hand to do just that when her phone rings. Going by her conversation, I gather it’s one of her daughters with boy trouble. The noisy pub’s not conducive to heart-to-heart conversations, and soon CeCe’s signing off and asking a waitress to box up her dinner. “You’d think my husband could handle a teenager’s broken heart, but no. She has to call her momma.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a much better job of dealing with it,” I say.
“Yeah, that and about a thousand other things.” She stands and points a finger at Brian. “If you ever get married and have kids, learn to deal with them. They’re your damn kids too.”
He throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am.” Brian’s smart enough not to argue with an angry woman.
“Men.” She grabs her dinner and huffs out, practically mowing down a couple of guys in her path.
“Whew. Her husband’s going to have some ‘splainin to do.” He says in his best Ricky Ricardo voice.
I burst out laughing. Who knew he had a sense of humor?
Brian’s funny stories about growing up in the military have me rolling with laughter, a welcome change after the last few days. When we walk out, I spot a club across the street, music blaring. “Oh, let’s go.” Not giving him a chance to say no, I take his hand and drag him to the spot.
I dance my heart out and down tequila shots in between songs. Brian’s the perfect escort. Bopping with me when I drag him to the dance floor, but standing back and allowing other men to whirl me around. Can’t see Storm acting that way. Not with that possessive bent of his. But then I wouldn’t like it much if he busted some moves with a chippie. I’d probably scratch her eyes out. A couple of hours later, when I start to tip over, Brian suggests it’s time to go. We head out to the sidewalk, me dancing and bobbing, him slightly behind.
When we come to an intersection, I glance to the left, and step into the road. A second later, he hauls me back.
“What?” I stare at him, confused as hell, until a car rushes from the right, honking its horn.
I gasp. “Oh, my God. I looked the wrong way.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you did.” Without asking permission, he grabs my hand. “Don’t worry. I got you.”
I nod. Hand in hand, we continue our stroll to the hotel. I think nothing of the picture we make, until I spot Storm emerging from a silver Mercedes Benz.
As his gaze lasers in on our linked hands, a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Good evening. Out for a stroll?” His voice is all polite inquiry, but I know better.
“We ate dinner at The Horse and Hound,” Brian answers with a smile.
I pray Brian doesn’t say anything else.
“And then we stopped at a club. Liz wanted to dance.” He cheerfully volunteers.
“Did you enjoy it?” Storm’s impeccable manner belies the rage in his eyes.
“Excellent food.”
“Yes. That’s what we Brits are known for. Our food.”
Oh, shit.
“The band at the club was pretty good.” He turns to me. “Liz seemed to enjoy it.”
“Did she now?”
I’m screwed, totally and completely screwed. I glance around searching for something, anything to direct the flow of conversation away from this train wreck, and I find it in Samuel who’s seated behind the wheel of the Benz shaking his head.
Yeah, I know I’m fucked, thank you very much.
Even though I’m suffering from an alcohol-induced fog, I manage to telegraph an S.O.S. to him.
Soon, he’s emerging from the car to fetch Gabriel’s luggage and handing it off to him. “Your overnight, sir.”
The maneuver provides me the cover I need to untangle my hand from Brian’s.
“Thank you, Samuel,” Storm says.
“You’re staying at the hotel?” Brian asks.
God, the man is truly clueless.
“Yes. I’ve found it best to lodge at the hotel where negotiations take place.”
“Makes sense.”
One at a time, we go through the revolving door and head for the elevators.
Brian pushes “3,” I push “10,” Storm pushes “Suites.”
When we arrive at Brian’s floor, he turns to me and smiles. “Goodnight. We’ll have to do it again soon.”
“Yes.” It’s all I dare say.
The elevator dings on “10,” and I start to step out.
“We need to talk.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but then he doesn’t have to. I know a command when I hear one.
I swivel back to him. “Talk?”
His arm shoots out to keep the elevator door from closing. “Yes. Your room or my suite?”
I don’t want him in my room. That’s my private space. “Yours,” I say, stepping back into the lift.
During the rest of the elevator ride and the walk down the carpeted corridor, he doesn’t say a word. When we enter the Park Suite, Storm heads for the mini-bar, pops a couple of cubes from the fridge into a crystal tumbler into which he pours the contents of a mini Scotch bottle. “You want something to drink?” he asks with his back to me.
“No, thank you.” Last thing I need is more booze.
He strolls to the cream couch and eases unto it where, all elegant lines, he crosses his legs. He’s so striking, he could grace the cover of a magazine; so beautiful, he makes my heart ache.
“So, you had dinner and went dancing with Mr. Sullivan?” He brushes a hand down his trousers leg. His casual gesture implies only a minimal interest in my answer. But I know better.
“Yes.” Sweaty and hot and itchy, I stand by the door, miserable in my rumpled clothes, while he sits on the elegant sofa in a gorgeous black two-piece suit, snowy white shirt, gold cufflinks. He peels off the light blue tie which probably cost more than one week’s worth of my salary and loosens the top two shirt buttons. Great! As if he wasn’t smoking hot enough.
He swirls the liquid in the glass, and the ice tinkles. “I thought you were returning to the hotel to work on something.”
“That was my intention.”
“So what happened?” He downs the alcohol in one gulp and stands to pour another.
“I don’t owe you an explanation for my actions.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” He turns and peers at me over the edge of the glass. “Tell me, anyway.”
I’m my own woman. I chart my own course. But if I don’t explain, things will be difficult between him and Brian. And that I can’t have. I disclose my running into Brian in the hotel lobby, CeCe rescuing me, our jaunt to the Tower of London and finally dinner. I skip over the bit at the club.
“CeCe wasn’t with you when you returned to the hotel.” He kicks back his head and knocks down the scotch.
Okay, that’s his
second. And from the way he’s dressed he probably attended some event where alcohol may have been served. “One of her children phoned with a crisis, and she returned to the hotel to take the call.”
“Convenient.” He pops open another mini bottle.
“Shouldn’t you slow down?”
He ignores me and asks another question. “Why were you holding hands?”
“I-I almost walked into traffic. Brian pulled me back and held on to me the rest of the way so I wouldn’t ... ” With his gaze pinned on me, I suddenly run out of steam.
“Get run over?”
“Yes.”
“How very chivalrous of him.”
Jaw clenched, he prowls in my direction.
Allrighty. Way past time to go. I turn and fiddle with the door knob, but it’s a tricky old-fashioned thing, and I can’t get it to work.
I finally get the door open, but he slaps his hand on the wood and slams it shut. In his hard breathing, I smell the booze, his cologne, him. And because, I’ve had a little too much alcohol myself, I’m both turned on and a little afraid of what he will do next.
“Turn around, Elizabeth.”
For a moment, I debate defying him. But then I realize how childish it would be. So I put on my big girl panties and face him.
His intense blue gaze drifts over my face, my shoulders, down the middle of my chest and back again. With our eyes only millimeters apart, I catch a myriad of gold rays in the depth of the aquamarine. No wonder they shine so.
“You’re sweating.”
“Yes.” Even though the temperature in the suite’s a cool temperature, I’m burning up, an outcome of the dancing, the alcohol, his I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive glower.
He rolls the cold glass across my cheek, and I swallow a moan. The chill against my body heat is erotic as hell.
“Did you give yourself to him, Elizabeth?”
What? My eyes snap open. More than anything I want to lash out at him, tell him it’s my business whom I have sex with. But that’s sure to tick him off, so I hurl some logic at him instead. “How could I? I’ve either been with you or out in public since we arrived.”
