The Bastard

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Only it’s too late to matter.”

  “Exactly,” Blake confirms. “I have everything downloaded as planned for comparison. I’ll send you a secure data file that homes in on exactly what was deleted. It’ll take a few hours once they finish what they’re doing to finish the analysis on our side, but it’ll allow you to see what matters, which is what’s now missing.”

  “That’s going to be an interesting study.”

  “Even more interesting, we’ve hacked all cellphones, emails, and external communications. Isaac somehow called his tech team and your father without me knowing when he did it, which tells me that he has a phone line or device that we don’t know about.”

  In other words, he was operating off the grid before I walked in the door. “There’s a person I wanted you to focus on,” I say, redirecting the conversation to where I want it: Harper.

  “You wanted to know where Harper fits into the family hierarchy. She doesn’t. She’s not close to any of them. She isn’t even close to her mother anymore. Word on that is there’s tension between them, perhaps over the trust, though Harper still sees her twice a week. Outside of that, she doesn’t socialize with your brother or father.”

  “Not now,” I say. “What about in the past?”

  “We’ve gone back two years. She’s been removed from the family for at least that long.”

  “And yet she’s still here,” I comment, half to myself. “What about Gigi?”

  “She has more contact with her than the others, but I’d still call it limited.”

  “Then there has to be someone else. Who?”

  “If you mean love interests, we’re already working that angle, but on first glance, there are only two men she’s dated over the years. They’re both rich, powerful and involved with your father and brother. However, that doesn’t raise a red flag to me necessarily. They were in and out of her life and inside her normal social circle. That’s who she’d be exposed to, and gravitated to, naturally.”

  Rich, powerful, men. The kind I wasn’t when she met me. The kind I am now. I could let my head go all kinds of places, but I don’t. My mind jumps from there to my father’s comment about Harper’s trust fund.

  “I’m texting you a question when we hang up,” I say, focused on discretion. “I’m also about to grab my computer and set up here in the office. I’ll be waiting on that data.”

  “Don’t do that,” he says. “The cameras are too wide-sweeping. Take your ass out of that place. I’ll find you a sweet spot in the building by tomorrow.”

  “Find it right here in this room.”

  “They’ll know you had it swept.”

  “Works for me.”

  We disconnect after a few more words that amount to not much and I send the promised text: There could be more to the trust fund than meets the eyes. Look deeper.

  Once Blake confirms receipt of the message, I reach in my pocket and start turning the mini Rubik’s cube inside, processing all that I’ve just learned, playing with the numbers in my head. I abandon the cube and stand up, ready to ask questions around the facility. Ready to see Harper. I’m almost to the doors when they open and she enters. We now stand a few steps apart, the charge between us combustible. The two of us in the same room is like a match to a flame.

  We stand there, staring at each other, the air thick, that charge all but lighting us up and I, for one, say fuck it to the family drama. I’m thinking about her naked on this conference table, and if we wouldn’t become Isaac’s nightly porn viewing, that’s exactly what I’d make happen.

  Her lips part as if she knows where my head is and she cuts her gaze. “Do you need something from me, Harper?” I prod.

  She swallows hard, that long, elegant, regal throat of hers that needs my mouth, bobbing before she looks at me, her stare unwavering. “Need? Yes. I need. To talk. And to give you this.” She holds up a file in her hand. “This is—”

  I shake my head to silence her. Her brows knit and she tilts her head, realization seeping into her intelligent stare. She knows we’re being watched and I close the space between us. “I’ll take that,” I say, that sweet scent of her teasing my nostrils again, my cock twitching, blood heating.

  She offers me the file. “You wanted my schedule,” she improvises. “I didn’t have your email, so I brought you a hard copy.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because you’re all mine now until I leave.”

  “And when exactly will that be?” she asks.

  “When I get what I came for,” I say.

  “And what’s that?”

  I lean in close and lower my voice. “More. I came here for more.”

  Her eyes jerk to mine and her reply is rapid fire. “Define more, because, under the present circumstances, I’m not sure how I feel about that word.”

  “I plan to and in great detail,” I assure her. “I’ll look at your schedule. We’ll discuss where that leads us.”

  Her lips press together, and I can tell she’s biting back words before she settles on, “I have questions.”

  “As do I, but now isn’t the time for the answers we both want, and in fact, demand.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight,” I say.

  “I’m not sure that works for me,” she says.

  “I’m certain you can make it work. If you can’t, I promise you, I will. I think I’ve proven that.”

  “No, you haven’t,” she says, anger radiating in her voice. She grabs my arm and leans in close, her voice low, a whisper for my ears only. “I didn’t get naked with you to get you to come here, and I won’t do it again to keep you here. I didn’t pay for your services, nor is any version of the word ‘more’ a given.” She leans back and looks at me. “That you think it is, is arrogant, and frankly, a bastard-like assumption that I don’t like.”

  That comment smacks like a palm. “It’s what you expect, right? Why would I disappoint?”

  “It’s not actually what I expect. Not from you. Not at all.” With that, she turns and leaves me standing there, staring after her, hot and hard, and ready for more, however we define that word.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Harper

  I don’t know what just happened, is all I can think as I enter my office and shut the door, letting my mind chase answers now that I’m alone. The first thing that comes to my mind is: That man. My God, that man. Eric is making me crazy. I want him. I’m angry with him. And we’re really being watched? Am I being watched now? That idea jolts me and I push off the door and walk calmly to my desk. If Isaac had turned into a peeping tom, I’m not giving him an emotional show for him to use against me or Eric for that matter, despite the way he just treated me.

  Yes, Eric just acted like that bastard label he too readily owns, but considering the power play at hand, I can’t say I blame him. I don’t have his trust. He doesn’t quite have mine, but after talking to Gigi, I don’t know if it matters. She’s right. We’re better off in Eric’s hands than Isaac’s. Even if I lose my trust, which at this point feels pretty gone anyway, at least I leave this place without liability, and so does my mother.

  I hope.

  I don’t know.

  Eric could burn us, but I just don’t feel like he will. Not unless he feels that we’re trying to burn him. I think that’s exactly what he thinks. He thinks I fucked him to fuck him. I want to scream with this idea. I want to go right back down those stairs and shake him and quite possibly get naked with him. How can I want to be naked with a man who basically accused me of being a whore? Okay, that’s extreme. He didn’t exactly say that. I’m exaggerating and I don’t usually exaggerate, but he’s making me crazy. And confused. I’ve always been confused about that man, or at least, emotionally. My body feels no confusion. It just wants to feel him close.

  The intercom on my desk buzzes and the receptionist announces, “Jim Sims from the union is on the line for Isaac, but he told me to give the call to you.”

&
nbsp; Jim Sims, who would do about anything for me if I got naked with him, which is exactly why I don’t deal with him. Isaac knows this. He doesn’t care, and this isn’t even about Eric, considering this was my assignment before he knew Eric was here. It’s about me asking too many questions and making too many demands for answers. Which wouldn’t be a problem if Isaac wasn’t hiding something.

  I pick up the line. “Jim.”

  “I hear you’re lead on the upcoming labor relations topics.”

  “I hear that as well. I was just about to catch up on the file before tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Yes, well, we both know bathroom preferences are below your pay grade. I suspect your brother hoped you’d distract me and calm me the fuck down on some of the bigger financial issues.”

  “What issues?”

  “A topic better discussed in person. Let’s meet.”

  Of course he wants to meet, and to be all touchy-feely while he’s at it. I glance at my clock. It’s eleven. “How about three o’clock at your office? That gives me time to get up to speed.”

  “How about happy hour, at the wine bar up your direction in Cherry Creek? You still live in Cherry Creek, right?”

  How does this man know where I live? “Yes,” I say. “I’m still up that direction.”

  “Good. These matters are easier stomached when diluted by wine and you won’t have far to travel after we indulge.”

  “I’m not good with wine,” I say. “I need a clear head today and tomorrow. Let’s stick with the coffee.”

  He’s silent a few beats and then says, “Then we’ll do coffee at five. I have meetings this afternoon.”

  We disconnect and I pull up my email to find an email from Isaac titled “Union” that I skip right on past when I see one from EricB@kingstonmotors.com. I hit the email and read: My new email. Just to make my presence official.

  My brows furrow at the “B” that most certainly stands for “Bastard” and I type: Did you choose that email address? And then hit send.

  His reply is instant: I never let anyone else make my decisions. You shouldn’t either.

  I ignore his obvious reference to my reasons for staying with Kingston for six years and type: Did you really make it Eric B, for bastard?

  He replies with: There’s another Eric in accounting. I didn’t want anyone to get confused. Here’s my phone number. Use it. Often. 212-415-2333.

  I grab my phone and check the number to the one I got from his business card, and it matches. I send him a text: Now you have my number.

  He replies with: I already had it, princess.

  I stare at that message, not sure if we’re talking about phone numbers or that conversation downstairs about me fucking him to get him here. I suddenly don’t know if I should be angry or not thus I have no idea how to reply. Yes, I do. I type: And I already had your number as well, BASTARD. I stare at the message and erase the BASTARD. I replace it with ERIC. He doesn’t get to hide behind the bastard persona with me. He gets to own every asshole moment.

  I pull up my email and click on the entry from Isaac to read: Make the union happy. The last thing we need in the press right now is a union scandal.

  He says nothing more. He doesn’t even sign the damn thing. I grimace and download the union files. The list of issues they want to negotiate stretches well beyond a bathroom and I have a gut feeling this is about keeping me busy. That was his plan before Eric got here. Get me so entrenched in union hell that I didn’t have time to look at him and his handling of the company. He played that card too late. Eric’s here and one thing I’m certain of, he’s not leaving until “this” whatever this is, is over.

  I move to my conference table and set up my MacBook, and settle into reading the union data. Two hours later, I have pages of notes on a legal pad, with nothing in here that our labor relations manager couldn’t handle. There is nothing that would become a problem for the company and yet me blowing it would certainly be a reason to dispose of me from the company. Is that what this is? A set-up to get me out? It’s such a paranoid, insane idea that I toss my pen down and stand up. I need food and out of this office.

  I head to the break room for a cup of coffee. That and a power bar will have to be my lunch. I’ve just finished doctoring my cup to perfection when Isaac appears in the doorway, hitching a shoulder on the doorframe. “He’s not family.”

  “He’s more family than I am. He’s blood, whether you like it or not.” I march toward him, trying to force him to move. He doesn’t. “I need to get back to work.”

  “You brought him here to take what you want. He’s going to take what he wants. Those two things won’t connect.”

  “You assume you know what I want,” I say. “Because you assume everyone wants in the same ways you do.”

  “You assume you know what Eric wants.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say. “I asked him.” I leave out the part where what he wants is to destroy this place.

  “And he said what?”

  “I’m not going to pretend to have any right to speak for Eric. Ask him yourself. Now. I have a meeting with Jim to prepare for, and for the record, I know you know that man is all hands and this is torture for me. Now you have the satisfaction of confirmation, but if you think I’m going to screw this up because Jim is pawing at me and give you a chance to push me out, you’re wrong.”

  He studies me for several beats. “Perhaps you should treat me the way you treat our bastard brother, and ask me what I want, rather than assuming.”

  “What do you want, Isaac?”

  “Just what’s mine and now you’ve made me have to fight for it, and if it gets bloody, that’s on you. It didn’t have to be that way. It wasn’t that way.”

  The words cut and accuse and I don’t know what to do with them or what to feel. He steps out of the break room and pauses a moment, glaring to his right before he turns and disappears left. I know even before I enter the hallway that Eric’s standing there.

  I suck in a breath, preparing for the impact of his presence, and then he’s replaced Isaac in the doorway, big and broad, with all that ink and muscle everywhere but next to me. I want him next to me again, and it doesn’t seem to matter what he might think of me if that happens. His eyes, those crystal perfect eyes, meet mine—no they crash into mine, and seem to grab hold of me, deep inside and hold on.

  “This isn’t on you,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his head near mine. “He’s responsible for every decision that drove you to me.” He pulls back to look at me. “And later tonight, ask me what I want again.” With that, he turns away and exits the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Harper

  At four-thirty, I pack up my briefcase and contemplate calling Eric, or at least texting him, to tell him I’m leaving. He declared himself my new boss and on that, there is no argument to be had. The silence since that claim, however, is disconcerting, and I’m feeling generally confused about what he and I are doing. I head for the lobby, let the receptionist know that I’m leaving, and exit the building into the chill of a November day. Quick stepping as I dig my keys from my purse, and click the lock on my Kingston vehicle and wonder what it would be like to have the freedom to drive something else. I try to remember my early years here when I was all about the brand.

  I’m about to cut between cars to my door when a car pulls up next to me, and I hear, “Get in.”

  At the sound of Eric’s voice, I turn to find the passenger window down on a black F-TYPE Jaguar and him inside it, causing my heart to flutter. When has any man but this one ever made me react in such a way? I force a tiny breath, which is remarkably hard to draw in, and walk to the open window where I lean in and find those blue, blue eyes of his fixed on me.

  “Get in,” he repeats.

  “I have a meeting,” I say. “That union thing I was talking to Isaac about. I’m on my way there now.”

  “I know. I’m going with you.”


  He’s going with me? Do I want him to go with me? Yes. No. “The thing is,” I say, “you can’t go with me. The union contact wants a one on one with me.”

  “To grope you and make you miserable. I get that, which is why I’m going with you. Now, get in.”

  He wants to protect me from being groped? I want to be protected from being groped. “If you come, he’ll be difficult.”

  “I’m good with difficult people,” he assures me. “I had a year of practice with this family which for all their faults, have served me well.”

  “You’re in a Jaguar.”

  “Quite the statement car, don’t you think?”

  “Like your ink?”

  “Like sending the princess to bring the bastard home.”

  “That’s not how that played out,” I say.

  “No?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Get in the car and tell me.”

  “We make Kingstons,” I counter. “Let’s take my car.”

  “For the love of God, woman. Would you just get in?”

  “Fine,” I breathe out. “I give up. I’ll get in.” I open the door and he grabs my briefcase and sets it in what little backseat there is in this version of Jag. “A hundred-thousand-dollar F-TYPE,” I say, claiming the seat next to him, the earthy, clean scent of him teasing my nostrils. “Impressive ride considering you just got into town.” I reach for my seatbelt which doesn’t want to move. “Well, except for the seatbelt.” I yank hard and Eric catches the belt halfway across my body and the two of us end up holding it, a warm blanket of intimacy surrounding us.

  “The dealer warned me that the belt can snap back,” he explains softly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  But I will, I think, and not by a belt or this family. By him. He will steal my breath and own my body, and then leave. I can’t stop it. I don’t think I even want to try. He slides the clip into place, his hand intimately brushing my hip as the belt snaps together, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes sharpen. “You have to be careful with shiny, new things. They look pretty but sometimes they bite.”