by Naima Simone
Didn’t stop him from trying though.
Hence, their presence at Barron Farrell’s funeral. Her father hadn’t been able to pass up an opportunity to rub elbows in this affluent circle of businessmen, socialites and celebrities. But to be fair, he wasn’t the only one treating the billionaire’s death like a tea party.
Heaving another sigh, she picked up her glass and rose from the bench. She’d better head back inside before her father came looking for her with his constantly disappointed and disapproving scowl. Her fingers tightened around the stem, and she briefly closed her eyes, weathering the momentary vise on her heart. God, she remembered a time when only affection, love and pride had brightened his dark eyes. That had been when he’d been a husband and father, content with a couple of stores. That’d been before death had cleaved their lives in two.
Staring at the pointed toes of her black Louis Vuittons, she stepped back on the paved garden path, dragging.
“Damn you.”
The low, rumbling growl reached her seconds before a tall, powerful figure stalked around the row of hedges, pausing inches away from her. The corner of the shrubbery offered her flimsy cover, and she clung to it, gaping at the man pacing back and forth. From the bench she’d just vacated to the wall across the slim path and back again.
Not just a man.
Cain Farrell.
Anger seemed to vibrate off his large frame in humid waves. No, not anger. Fury. With his black hair, black suit and dangerous stride, he resembled a predator. Sleek, dark and lethal. Waiting for the right prey to cross his path so he could pounce...devour.
Did it make her foolish that she couldn’t ascertain if she wanted to avoid becoming said prey, or...or surrender to the insane need to soothe him? To pet his hair, stroke those broad shoulders? Yes, it did make her a fool. Because one did not try and comfort a beast on the hunt.
Even if he was an incredibly sexy beast...
Cain jerked to a halt, pinning her with a narrowed but brilliant stare and jamming her breath in her lungs.
Damn.
“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was constructed of midnight, the most expensive Scotch...and dark chocolate. Yummy.
“Me?” she rasped. Oh God. She mentally shook her head, but then made the mistake of looking into the absolute beauty of his eyes. Wow. Given the distance between them, she hadn’t determined the color at the cemetery. But now... “I’d wondered,” she breathed.
Dark, arrogant brows slanted down over his startling, blue-gray eyes. A wolf’s eyes. The sense of being in the presence of a predator grew, but instead of fear, excitement tinged with nerves hummed under her skin.
Don’t be silly.
“You wondered what?” Cain asked, impatience a tight snap in his voice.
“Your eyes,” she blurted out, inwardly wincing and cursing her decision to pick up that third glass of wine. Shrugging a shoulder, she added, “I couldn’t tell the color at the graveside service. But now, I, uh, know,” she finished. Lamely. Scrounging for a smile, she moved forward, erasing the scant distance separating them. “Devon.”
She stretched her hand toward him—the hand not clutching the wineglass for dear life. For several taut seconds, he glared down at it, then slowly lifted his arm.
His long, elegant fingers engulfed hers. Branding her. Fire licked at her palm, blazed up her arm and swirled in her chest like a star seconds from imploding. His gaze rose from their clasped hands and traveled the path the flames had taken. Only his gaze dipped lower, taking in the rest of her petite frame before finally landing on her face again.
Extricating her hand from his, she fought the need to rub her tingling palm against her thigh. She hiked up her chin to meet his wolf’s gaze. She knew what he saw. What everyone saw. Short. Nondescript features. She’d overheard one “gentleman” call her forgettable. Breasts and hips too heavy and rounded to be fashionable. Her best feature was the thick, caramel curls that were wrapped in a knot at the back of her head now, but when loose, reached the middle of her back. Her mother’s hair.
No, she wasn’t a great beauty, and no doubt he dated women whose faces belonged on big screens and whose bodies graced swimwear magazines, but screw it. One of her first lessons after moving to Boston had been never, ever let anyone know they could intimidate her. The first whiff of weakness and they circled like vultures over a carcass. Being on the receiving end of that attack one too many times, her motto was now, Fake it until you get home and barricade yourself in your bedroom with chips, ranch dip and Netflix.
It worked for her.
Cain stared at her, silent and brooding. And even though she shook inside, she didn’t waver. But, damn, those eyes. Eerie in their beauty. Like he could see past flesh and bone, down to her soul...
“Yes, now you know,” he drawled, and the flames that had died down to a simmer burst to life...in her face. Oh God. He probably thought that was her pathetic attempt at flirting. “What are you doing out here, Devon?” he asked. “The party,” his lips curled into a faint sneer, “is in the house. Specifically, the great and dining rooms. This part of the property is off-limits to guests.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve missed the signs,” she apologized. As soon as the words echoed between them, it hit her how flippant they sounded. “I mean, of course there weren’t signs. But in a house this size, maybe there should be. Or at least little discreet nameplates like on bathroom doors—oh dammit.”
“Excuse me?” Cain growled, his frown deepening.
She shook her head, holding up a finger in the universal sign of “Wait a minute.” And she took that minute to take a deep gulp of wine. And another. “Honest to God, I’m more of a sipper and two glasses is my limit. I don’t know what made me think I could handle three. Here.” She thrust the goblet at him, and he accepted it. Either that or wear it. “Besides, given you were just damning someone minutes ago, you probably could use it more than me.”
Again, more staring on his part. And could she really blame him? She was acting like a lunatic. A tipsy, blathering, garden-invading lunatic.
Slowly, without breaking his visual connection to her, he lifted the glass to his beautiful, cruel mouth. And sipped.
Her knees might not have weakened, but by God, they wobbled. Why that sip was so hot, she couldn’t begin to explain. But the heat gathering low in her belly and flowing to all points north and south assured her, it most definitely was.
“You’re right,” he said. “I need it. Thank you.”
The wine. He needed the wine. Not her, as her body wanted to interpret his words.
“You’re welcome.” Unable to maintain peering into his unusual gaze, she brushed invisible lint from the skirt of her dark gray sheath dress. And as she recovered the space she’d placed between them, all embarrassment and disconcerting desire fled. “God, I was so focused on heading back to hell, I forgot.” She reached out to him, placing a hand on his forearm. Taut muscle flexed beneath her fingers and his jacket. But she didn’t allow it to distract her. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your father. Unfortunately, I know the pain you’re feeling, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
His scrutiny dropped to his arm, where her fingers still lingered. He didn’t move out from under her touch, and though it would’ve been the smarter option, she didn’t remove her hand.
“Heading back to hell?” he repeated, not acknowledging her condolences. She got it; after her mother died, she’d wanted to talk about anything other than her death. “Other than the obvious, where is that?”
She winced, her shoulders lifting to her ears. “Promise not to be offended?” He arched a dark eyebrow but nodded. “That reception. Large social events are my definition of cruel and unusual punishment, but that in there...” She shook her head. “I’m from a big, loud Italian family, so I’m not a stranger to repasts that turn into noisy gatherings with food and laughter
. But not like that. There’s no one talking about your father, remembering him. There’s no sense of sadness that comes with losing someone you love. There aren’t any tears with the laughter. There’s no comfort from family and friends. What I escaped in there is...ghoulish.”
She lowered her hand from his arm and braced herself for his rebuke. Prepared herself for the same chiding smirk she’d received from her father when she’d voiced the same thoughts before seeking a place where she could get a break from the avarice and phoniness of it all.
But the ridicule didn’t come.
Instead, Cain studied her with an impenetrable stare that revealed nothing. That must be a handy skill.
She fought not to fidget under his regard, but just as she parted her lips to apologize for her insensitive words, he murmured, “Thank you, Devon.”
“For?” Being inappropriately blunt? Trespassing? Handing him secondhand wine? He had to be more specific.
“For having the courage to be honest when the truth isn’t pretty.” A small, half smile that struck her as a shade grim briefly curved a corner of his sensual mouth. “And for giving me a few minutes’ reprieve from my own hell.” He stretched the glass of wine back toward her, and as she accepted it, he lifted his other hand and shocked her by stroking the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I appreciate that more than you know.”
He stepped away, leaving her skin burning from his caress. She didn’t move—couldn’t move—as he sharply pivoted on his heel and strode away, disappearing as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared.
Only then did she graze her trembling fingers over the spot he’d touched so tenderly. With gratitude. Because surely, she’d imagined the flash of heat in his eyes. It’d been only a wishful reflection of the unwise and wistful desire that had coursed through her.
Yes, that’s all.
Still, what was the harm in believing in that fantasy?
It wasn’t like she would see Cain Farrell again.
Nope. No harm at all.
Three
A year.
That was the length of time required of him, and he could endure it. Hell, he’d endured his father for thirty-two years. Twelve more months was child’s play.
He could damn well do this.
The mantra marched through Cain’s head like a regiment of soldiers on a deadly campaign, and he clenched his jaw so tightly it throbbed. Either that or let loose the string of curses flaying his throat. And he would never give his father that satisfaction. Dead or alive.
“Mr. Farrell, you had several messages while you were in your meeting. I placed them on your desk and emailed them to you as well,” Charlene Gregg, his executive assistant, informed him as he stalked past her desk. The polished brunette had been with him for the last five years, and she was a godsend. Her protective, six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound bruiser of a husband and adorable two children thought so as well.
“Thanks, Charlene,” he ground out. Another perk of having an assistant who’d been with him so long. She ignored his bad moods. “Hold all calls for the next twenty minutes.”
“Of course.”
He entered his office, barely managing not to slam the door behind him. Control. He’d spent the formative years of his childhood developing it. Growing up in a chaotic household where the slightest offense—real or imagined—could earn him a verbal, soul-stripping assault or a punch to the chest, he’d been a quick study on reining in his emotions and reactions.
But coming out of a meeting with his... Hell, he still couldn’t call them his brothers. Achilles Farrell, the brooding giant who shared his last name, and Kenan Rhodes, the charmer with the wide smile and steely eyes, were strangers. Strangers who, only a week after their initial meeting during the funeral reception, were carving a piece out of his company for their own.
He hated the intrusion.
Guilt thrummed inside his chest, but the simmering anger that had become his constant companion prevented it from sinking a foothold. Logically, he got that his rage was directed toward a dead man who’d screwed him over, but Barron wasn’t here. His illegitimate offspring were.
Thrusting a hand through his hair, Cain circled his desk and dropped into his chair. His gaze lit on the thick file he’d been studying for the past week. Immediately after the will reading, Cain had contacted Farrell International’s private detective and had him open investigations on Achilles and Kenan.
Achilles Farrell. Born in Boston, but raised by a single mother near Seattle, Washington. Software developer and something of a genius. And an ex-con who’d spent two years in jail for assault. Seemed like a chip off the old block.
Kenan Rhodes. Born and raised in Boston by the wealthy family who’d adopted him. VP of Marketing in his family’s business and brilliant at it. And a consummate ladies’ man, according to the number of times he appeared in society gossip pages. Again, chip off the old block.
And once both men had agreed to Barron’s terms, they’d informed Cain they didn’t plan on sitting back as figureheads while the year crawled by. Each intended to make their mark on the company. Achilles with the IT department and Kenan in Marketing. Everything in Cain howled at handing over the reins of any part of his business to strangers. But, because of Barron’s will, Cain couldn’t object. Couldn’t do anything but sit there, fuming. And powerless. That grated the most. As soon as he left his father’s house, he’d vowed never to be weak, vulnerable again. And yet...
He raised his arm, his fingers curled into a fist, and aimed it toward his desktop. But at the last moment, he halted the swift downward motion before his hand could slam onto the wood.
Control. He couldn’t lose it.
Heaving a sigh, he leaned back, squeezing his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose. Unbidden and inexplicable, an image of Devon—he never did ask her last name—wavered then solidified across the screen of his mind.
It wasn’t the first time the woman who’d appeared in his mother’s garden like a pinup version of a fairy featured in his thoughts. Petite, with breasts he suspected would spill into his palms. A cinched-in waist that those same hands could easily span. A delicious flare of hips that completed a wicked hourglass figure. The stilettos she’d worn should’ve added height to her small frame, but they hadn’t. Yet, damn had they done amazing things for her toned, thick thighs.
Yes, Devon possessed a body that made a man jerk awake in the middle of the night, sweating, his dick strangled in his fist. But her body couldn’t compare to the beautiful emerald eyes that seemed so innocent yet contained age-old secrets in their depths. Or to the gentle slope of her elegant cheekbones that he hadn’t been able to resist touching. Or the lush, damn near indecent curve of her mouth that even now had a dull ache throbbing in his hardening flesh. That top lip–heavy mouth had combatted the impression of purity that stubbornly clung to her.
What man could look at her and not lust to be the one who thoroughly corrupted her?
He wasn’t that man.
Objectively, he acknowledged that some men might call her features plain or unremarkable.
And those men would be fucking blind.
Yet... Out of all that, it was the humor, the self-deprecation, the sympathy and selfless comfort she offered in her guileless words and wine that calmed him. A week ago, she’d unknowingly given him the strength to return to that library and face his father’s mess.
Cain, who lauded himself on needing no one, clung to the memory of a woman he’d met once and would most likely not see again. The irony was not lost on him.
“Mr. Farrell.” Charlene’s voice through his phone’s intercom ripped him from his thoughts and he jerked forward with a grimace. “I know you instructed me not to interrupt you, but there is a Gregory Cole here requesting to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he claims it has something personal to do with your father.”
&nbs
p; Tension streaked through him, and for a moment a terse “no” burned his tongue. Who just showed up uninvited at the executive offices of a billion-dollar company asking for an unscheduled meeting with the CEO? It could be one of the many journalists he’d turned away with a barely polite “No comment.” Hell, it could be another brother.
He jabbed the reply button, irritation swirling in his gut. No, whoever it was could turn around and walk out the way they came in. And if it was that important, he could set an appointment before he left.
“Send him in, Charlene.” Releasing the button, he rose behind his desk, growling, “Dammit.”
His father. And personal. He wanted to resist the lure of that bait, but couldn’t.
Moments later, Charlene entered his office, an older man following close behind her. Tall and distinguished with neatly cut salt-and-pepper hair and clothed in a perfectly tailored suit Cain knew cost at least three thousand dollars, he strode forward, hand outstretched.
“Mr. Farrell, Gregory Cole,” he greeted. “I’m glad to meet you, although I wish it were under different circumstances. I was very sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
The words were appropriate but his gaze, green and somehow familiar, didn’t hold the solemnity that matched. Disquiet crawled beneath Cain’s skin as he quickly shook the man’s hand and dropped it.
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.” He nodded at Charlene who quietly closed the office door behind her. “My assistant said this had to do with my father,” he said, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his pants.
No, he didn’t invite Gregory Cole to sit down in one of the visitors chairs or on the dark brown leather couch in his sitting area. Call it intuition or plain old superstition, something about the man unnerved him.
“Please, call me Gregory. May I?” He didn’t wait for Cain’s agreement, but settled into the wingback chair in front of the desk. Crossing one leg over the other, the older man smiled. And superstitious or not, Cain couldn’t suppress the shudder that rippled down his spine. “I have a matter regarding my...relationship with your father but decided to wait in deference to your mourning before approaching you.”
