by Josie Litton
I was no good at lying, I never had been. I tended to keep my thoughts to myself in part because the only other choice was to expose them too clearly.
But in that moment, the urge to tell him the truth was overwhelming. I had no idea why it should be. I didn’t know him, we’d barely spent any time at all together. But there was something about him that made me…not trust him, that would be going too far. But want to.
I was so tired, so stressed, and his strength was so undeniably tempting.
But if there was ever a classic case of ‘out of the frying pan, into the fire’, Adam Falzon had to be it. I had enough problems with my family without taking on even more.
Softly, I said, “This isn’t a time in my life for me to be in any sort of relationship.”
His eyebrows arched. For one who could be so direct himself, my candor clearly surprised him.
“Why not?” he asked.
I’d gone as far as I could or would. With a pointed look at his hand still on my arm, I said, “It just isn’t. You’ll have to take my word for that. Now if you don’t mind…”
He let go of me and took a step back. Suddenly free, I didn’t move. At least not fast enough.
Even as I was reminding myself that I had to go, he said, “I’ll take you home.”
“What? Oh, no, there’s no need for that. The ferry is fine.”
That was true so far as it went. But so was the fact that it was almost dark, the ferry terminal was ten blocks away, and a brisk, damp wind had sprung up out of the west. A shiver ran through me. I tried to conceal it but failed.
“Don’t be absurd,” Adam snapped. Clearly, that arctic gaze missed nothing. At least not where I was concerned. That by itself was unsettling.
“This neighborhood isn’t safe,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”
He really was as arrogant and entitled as I’d suspected. I was about to tell him so when the door to Haven House opened.
“Is there a problem, Grace?” Sam asked.
The security guard was as tall as Adam, maybe even a little taller, with the big, beefy build of the linebacker he’d been in college. The fading light shone off his ebony skin and the gleaming dome of his shaven skull.
From the sharp appraisal he threw Adam, I had to guess that Sam had seen us from a window. As much as I appreciated his protective instinct, I wasn’t about to let the situation escalate.
“No,” I said quickly. “Everything’s fine, Sam, but thank you.”
He studied us a moment longer before nodding and returning inside.
When we were alone again, Adam shook his head ruefully. “You don’t lack for protectors.”
I shrugged that off. “Sam is just doing his job. He’s very good at it.”
“I’m sure. What about the other one, at the gala?”
“Will? He’s a friend of my brother Todd.”
“The brother who is running for Congress?”
I nodded slowly. “You’re well informed about my family.” Of course, he was. His supposed interest in me no doubt had far more to do with my family than myself.
That stung more than I wanted to admit. Ridiculously so given that I had no wish to be the object of his attention.
Adam crossed the narrow street again and opened the passenger side door of the car. “Get in.”
I didn’t move. Instead, I just stared back at him from what I hoped was a safe distance.
A slow flush crept over his high-boned cheeks as the source of my failure to instantly obey dawned on him. With an effort, he said, “Please.”
“Excuse me, what was that?” I wasn’t usually so daring but with him, I just couldn’t resist.
He took a breath, let it out slowly, and said, “You’re very stubborn.”
“I can be,” I agreed.
He nodded, as though absorbing a piece of information that was somehow important. With a sigh, he said, “Please get in the car.”
As though to add emphasis to his words, a blast of cold wind struck me just then, penetrating right through my fashionably thin but otherwise impractical coat.
I debated for another moment--ten blocks to the ferry versus accepting a lift from a man who, as reluctant as I was to admit it, fascinated me.
Perhaps I could hold my own with him after all.
With that thought uppermost in my mind, I got into the car.
Chapter Six
I’d never ridden in a car quite like the Rolls Royce Wraith, but that might have had more to do with the driver than the vehicle itself. Powerful, sleek, instantly responsive, he maneuvered it through the gathering night like smoke, unhindered and unstoppable.
Settled back in the sumptuously soft leather seat, listening to the sensual rhythm of a bolero playing quietly on the sound system, I dared a glance at Adam. His hands, resting so capably on the highly polished walnut steering wheel, were large and muscular, the fingers long and unadorned by any rings, the nails well cared for. Only an abrasion across the knuckles of his right hand seemed out of place. Surely, I would have noticed that the night before. He couldn’t possibly have been in a fight since then, could he?
After a few minutes, I mustered the courage to raise my gaze. At once, my breath caught. He was simply more good-looking than any man had a right to be. Seeing him in profile, I was struck by the subtle but undeniable resemblance to the predator whose name he carried.
I couldn’t help wondering how the Falzons come to be called that. Did the name originate on Malta or was their nature evident even before then? For that matter, just how old was his family? Grandmother had said only that they were one of the oldest aristocratic families in Europe. That had to mean that they went back several centuries.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him but I thought better of it. The last thing I wanted to do was suggest that I had any interest in him. Even if, against my better judgment, that was all too true.
We were half-way over the Verrazano Bridge heading toward Manhattan when Adam broke the silence between us.
“Tell me about Haven House.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his preemptory manner. Instead, I answered with exaggerated sweetness.
“What would you like to know?”
He speared me a glance, as though suspecting yet not quite believing that my tone was yet another implied reprimand.
“To begin with,” he said, “what do you do there?”
“Simple things. Peel potatoes, mop floors, cook.”
His look of bewilderment made me laugh. “I admit that I had to learn how to do all three but now I’m actually not bad at them. However, most of the time I’m there, I just talk with people.”
“Like a therapist would?”
“No, I’m not remotely qualified for that. We do have therapists who volunteer but sometimes all a person wants is a little human contact.”
He frowned as though the idea was new to him. “What do you talk about?”
I hesitated. “Some of what people tell me is personal. I hope you’ll understand that I’m not comfortable discussing it.”
“Of course.”
I nodded, hoping that was an end to the matter but I should have known better. Without warning, he asked, “Is your commitment to Haven House the reason why you don’t think this is the time in your life for a relationship?”
Of course, he wouldn’t simply accept my rebuff. Had he ever encountered any sort of rejection? For certain, he hadn’t heard the word ‘no’ very often.
Not for the first time, I wished that I had the Delaney talent for being able to talk at great length, eloquently, and with apparent sincerity without saying anything at all. The best I could do was try to deflect one question with another.
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“Because I’m aware of what happened to your cousin Patrick.”
I stiffened in my seat, my hands knotting into fists. A man with his resources could be assumed to have a formidable network of information sources. But he s
till couldn’t possibly know a truth that all the weight and power of my family had worked to conceal. Dear God, could he?
“What do you mean?” I asked. My voice sounded high and thin. My nails were digging into my palms. The small, sharp pain anchored me at least a little.
“He was mentally disturbed,” Adam said. “He took his own life. I gather that you were affected by that.”
I hated the wave of relief that went through me when I realized that he didn’t know the truth after all but I accepted it even so. If he had known, the temptation to confide in him, perhaps even to ask for his help would have been overwhelming.
Quietly, I said, “Patrick was a wonderful person, intelligent, creative and truly caring. He wanted to make the world a better place.”
“A laudable goal,” Adam said.
I doubted that he really thought so. Far from being an idealist, his approach to the life was undoubtedly pragmatic, focused on clearly defined goals without the hindrance of emotion or doubt.
Yet I couldn’t manage to think of him as cold. The heat I had felt in him when he touched me made that impossible.
“What does your family think of your involvement with Haven House?” he asked.
I needed a safe answer but as I tried to craft one, a leaden sense of weariness settled over me. I felt weighed down, my limbs heavy and my mind lethargic. I was so tired of…everything really. Living with what I’d discovered, trying to decide what to do as a result, and more recently the encounter with Grandmother, the terrifying glitter of madness that I glimpsed in her eyes. I just wanted it all to stop.
Yet now I had to deal with Adam Falzon. I’d endured a largely sleepless night thanks to him. In the aftermath of it, I was in no mood for what was rapidly coming to feel like an interrogation.
Quietly, I murmured, “They don’t approve.” Leaning my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes, hoping that he would take the hint.
The car sped on. Cocooned in it, I struggled to stay alert. My instincts told me that I should never let down my guard around him. But my desires pulled me in an entirely different direction. As much as I wanted to deny them, they proved too strong. My eyelids grew heavier and my body more yielding. With a sigh, I put my fears aside and surrendered to the strange but undeniable sense of safety that he wove around me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Was she…asleep? I glanced over at Grace Delaney, thinking that I had to be mistaken. Surely, such a sensible young woman wouldn’t allow herself to be so vulnerable in my presence. Yet the soft rise and fall of her breath said otherwise.
I slowed the car and allowed myself a longer look. Her lush, moist lips were slightly parted. Faint shadows were evident under eyes hidden behind lids that appeared almost translucent. She had the most remarkable skin--pale, achingly soft, perfect. The urge to touch her was all but irresistible.
Instead, I tightened my hands on the steering wheel and accelerated again, not slowing until we were off the bridge and into the warren of streets beyond. All the while, I puzzled over the source of her apparent exhaustion.
It couldn’t be the work she did at the shelter. As surprising as that was, she gave every appearance of being fit and healthy enough to do it and more. That was important. I needed for her to be strong, just not too much.
But then what was responsible for her weariness? The thought that she might not have slept any better the previous night than I did wrung a smile from me.
I’d lain awake for hours, unable to escape the memory of my brief encounter with her. Too easily, I imagined pressing her back against the wall of the foyer, raising the glimmering silk of her gown, baring her legs, and sliding my hand between them.
Would I have found her wet? I suspected that I would have but in any case, I could easily make her so. Would she have moaned when I rubbed the pad of my thumb over her clit? How tight would she have been around a finger I slipped into her? How readily could she have taken my cock?
I gave up finally and headed for the shower. If I’d wanted more--a willing mouth, a hot cunt, whatever--to provide relief, it was no more than the push of a button away. Along with virtually any other worldly diversion that I could desire. But the very ease of such transient pleasures dimmed their appeal to a degree that I couldn’t have imagined back when I first started indulging in them.
I’d been fifteen then, exploding with rage and hormones, bloodied with the deaths of my parents’ killers. Authorities at the Swiss boarding school where I was officially still enrolled had sensibly looked the other way where I was concerned. When I disappeared for days at a time to, as I told them, go hunting, they offered no objections. It was enough that the money kept flowing and that I did nothing to publicly embarrass them.
I liked to think that in the time since, I had grown both older and wiser but my reaction to Grace Delaney cast doubt on the latter. With a start, I realized that sparring with her was more enjoyable than being with any of the willing, eager-to-please women who were at my beck and call. That was not acceptable. I needed to steel myself for what was coming and do it quickly.
Drawing up in front of her building, I got out of the car and went around to the passenger side door. The sooner she was safely inside her apartment, the better.
Staring down at her, I frowned. She was still asleep. Did she really have no more sense than to lower her guard to such an extent in my presence? She was as far from stupid as I could imagine. Why didn’t she recognize on at least some level how dangerous I was?
A sudden, uncharacteristic urge seized me to lift her into my arms, carry her inside, and watch over her while she slept. I repressed it ruthlessly. If she really was unaware of the threat I posed, so much the better. The less prepared she was when I struck, the easier everything that followed would be.
A quick, light touch on her shoulder was enough. She started awake, her eyes darting around in confusion.
“I fell asleep?” Her voice was soft and a little husky.
My response was instantaneous. I wanted to hear her like that but for different reasons, when she was dazed by pleasure and whispering my name.
“You did,” I said, more harshly than I intended. “But now it’s time to wake up. We’re here.”
I held out my hand. She hesitated a moment before taking it and allowing me to help her from the car.
Her bones felt very light in my grip. Despite the cool evening, her skin was warm. I inhaled her subtle scent--jasmine and rose with a hint of delicate orange blossom--and was struck by the sudden need to know what she tasted like everywhere.
As soon as she was standing, I let go of her. I simply couldn’t trust myself to hold onto her any longer without doing something irrevocable. As it was, the shape and feel of her lingered against my skin, a sense memory that sank deep within me.
Only just holding onto a fragment of self-restraint, I asked, “Would you like me to see you to your door?”
“No!” she said hastily.
Despite the aching hardness of my body, I fought a smile. So she did have some instinct for self-preservation after all. Good girl.
“Thank you for the lift, Mister Falzon.” She raised her chin until her gaze met mine. Softly, she added, “I hope you’ll remember what I said.”
That business about this not being a time in her life for her to be in a relationship? Of course, I’d remember but it was of no consequence. Nothing mattered except what I intended.
Even so, I said, “I have an excellent memory, Miss Delaney.” Too good. Forgetting how trusting she had looked when she was asleep would be damn difficult. I’d manage it though, just as I would everything else concerning her, no matter how dark or painful it had to be.
She nodded but her brow remained furrowed. On some level, she must have realized that I had conceded nothing. For a moment, I thought she would try to insist that I respect her wishes.
But perhaps she sensed the futility of doing that because, after another quick glance at me, she walked quickly toward the building entranc
e. The doorman hurried to admit her.
I was pleased to see that there was at least some measure of security in place. The irony of that didn’t escape me but I didn’t linger over it. The building itself was nondescript, just another of the residential boxes that crowded lower Manhattan. Her family owned far more comfortable properties around the city; I wondered why she wasn’t living in one of them. Some notion of wanting to be independent, perhaps?
Watching her as she disappeared inside, I couldn’t help hoping that she enjoyed the illusion of her freedom while it lasted. She wouldn’t have it for much longer.
Chapter Seven
“We haven’t seen you in weeks, darling,” my mother said. “You must come to dinner this evening.”
It hadn’t been weeks, more like ten days at the most. As withdrawn as I’d become, I had managed to show up at a few family gatherings on behalf of my brother Todd, if only to allay suspicion.
But more importantly, my mother never called me ‘darling’. I was ‘Grace’ when I pleased her. Otherwise I was ‘Grace, dear’ followed by a pained expression of disappointment over whatever transgression I had committed in her eyes.
I sat up straighter in the bed and tried to clear my head. I’d been too exhausted the previous night not to sleep but my dreams… Thinking of them and of the man who had commanded a starring role in each vividly erotic fantasy, I couldn’t help but blush. All over.
Definitely not the state that I wanted to be in while having a conversation with my mother. Charlotte Victoria Abbott Delaney was beautiful, always gracious in public, an excellent hostess, and a dedicated upholder of the family image. She was not, however, remotely spontaneous.
I suspected that her rigid, intensely self-protective nature had evolved after she married my father and discovered what being a Delaney really meant. However it had come to be, the sudden, last-minute invitation rang warning bells in my head. What did she really want?
“Dinner?” I said cautiously.
“Yes,” she replied with exaggerated patience, “dinner. Do I have to dangle a carrot to convince you to come?” She laughed at her little joke.
