by Naima Simone
A whole week. Yes, he was a saint. But given most journalists had been camped out on Cain’s doorstep the night of Barron’s death, maybe Gregory had been magnanimous.
“Did you have a business relationship with him, Mr. Cole?” Cain questioned, deliberately using the man’s surname.
If the slight irritated Gregory, he didn’t reveal it. If anything, his smile deepened slightly, and a gleam brightened his gaze.
“I would call it more of an understanding,” he drawled, brushing an imaginary speck of lint off his immaculate suit. The gesture was contrived. Deliberate. And annoying. Impatience hummed inside Cain even as Gregory continued, “Mr. Farrell, or Cain. Can I call you Cain?”
“No.”
This time the other man couldn’t control the brief tightening around his mouth or the flash of anger in his eyes. The telltale signs were there and gone in seconds, but Cain caught them. From the way this man had strolled into his offices with a sense of entitlement, he obviously didn’t like hearing the word no. Too fucking bad.
“As I was saying... I am a self-made man. I grew a chain of successful electronics stores on my own before selling them and investing the profit in even more lucrative projects. Now I own an exclusive financial and investment firm that has earned my clients and myself millions for the last few years,” he bragged.
“Your hard work and determination are very admirable. But I fail to see what that has to do with me or my father. Mr. Cole, I don’t want to appear rude and rush you, but I have meetings, so if we could conclude this one...?”
Actually, he didn’t give a damn about appearing rude or rushing him.
Again, he caught a glimmer of irritation before something else replaced it. Satisfaction.
Cain’s stomach tightened, and though it defied explanation, he braced himself. Because something was coming. And whatever put that gloating shine in Gregory Cole’s eyes couldn’t mean anything good for Cain.
“By all means,” Gregory purred, linking his fingers across his torso. “Before your father died, he entered into a contractual agreement with me. Now that he’s gone, it’s your responsibility to honor it.”
Cain frowned. “That’s what we have a legal department for,” he said. “If you want to leave the contract with my assistant, she’ll make sure it’s forwarded to the correct channels—”
“I can do that, Cain,” he continued, emphasizing the usage of Cain’s first name with no small amount of delight. “I thought you might want to keep this particular piece of business private. But if you don’t mind your company’s attorneys reviewing a wedding contract, I don’t either.”
Cain blinked. Stared at the man wearing the mocking grin. Shock buffeted him, momentarily rendering him deaf except for two blaring words—wedding contract.
What the fuck?
That sense of unease exploded into panic and a strangling sensation of claustrophobia. His fingers curled inside his pocket. But ingrained, brutally taught lessons kept him still. Maintained his stoic composure. Betrayed nothing of the fear ricocheting against his rib cage.
Revealed nothing of the weakness.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, voice calm.
“I’m talking about you, Cain Farrell, marrying my daughter. Your father promised you to me. Signed you over to me, actually.”
Gregory chuckled as if the thought of a father selling his son like medieval chattel amused him. Hell, since the bastard was doing the same to his own daughter, he probably did find it funny. He opened his jacket and reached inside, withdrawing folded up sheets of paper. Rising, he extended them toward Cain. “I took the precaution of bringing a copy of the contract with me. Please take your time and review it. I assure you it’s all binding.”
Numb, Cain retrieved the papers and circled his desk. Unfolding the contract, he laid it out and studied it. Silence ticked by in thunderous pulses, echoing the pounding in his veins. And the longer he read, the more consuming his fury became. As he flipped to the last page of the three-page agreement and spied his father’s bold scrawl next to Gregory’s more elegant signature, Cain’s body ached with the force he wielded to restrain himself. To not roar his outrage to the ceiling. To not flip his fucking desk. To not lunge across the space separating him from the smirking bastard across from him and wrap his hands around his scheming neck.
“You call yourself a businessman,” Cain ground out, his voice the consistency of gravel. “You forgot to add a couple more names. Extortionist. Blackmailer.”
Gregory didn’t even possess the decency to appear ashamed of his actions. Lifting a shoulder in a Gallic shrug, he arched an eyebrow. “No need to get insulting, Cain. One thing I learned during my climb up in this world, no one is going to offer handouts to a poor man with a high school education. I made my own success. Forged my own paths when people of your world closed them. And I did that by any means necessary. So if you expect me to apologize or feel ashamed for how I got here, then you’re in for a long wait that will only end in disappointment.”
“Save me that self-serving drivel,” Cain snapped, uncaring if Gregory glared at him in return. “There are plenty of people who start from the bottom, who put in the work, the sacrifice to claw their way to the top without resorting to criminal behavior. So you weren’t born with a trust fund. Over ninety percent of people aren’t. But you denigrate their efforts and shame them by justifying this—” he jabbed a finger at the offensive contract “—with where you started from.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never gone a day without in his life,” Gregory sneered, a ruddy color flooding his sharp cheekbones. A cold rage glinted in his green eyes, and Cain correctly deciphered the disgust there. For him.
“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me, Cole,” Cain growled, planting his fists on the desktop and leaning forward. “Because if you did, you would’ve never walked into my office this morning. Take this.” He flicked the three sheets of paper, and they slid across the furniture, teetering on the edge before fluttering to the floor. “And get the hell out.”
Gregory didn’t bend to pick up the contract or remove his stare from Cain’s.
“Oh see, that’s where you’re wrong. I know all I need to when it comes to you, Cain,” he murmured, a corner of his mouth kicking up in a smirk Cain hungered to knock off his face. “While your father entered into this arrangement because of his conceit and ego, he assured me you would comply because of one thing. Your loyalty to your mother. A love for one’s mother—it’s a powerful thing,” he continued in a silky tone. “And I don’t doubt that you would do anything rather than see Emelia Farrell’s name splashed across tabloid rags and dragged through the gutter by unscrupulous reporters. They would be relentless if they discovered that she had an affair while still married to your father. And they would be absolutely rabid if they received evidence of that affair—pictures, emails, texts...video.”
Bile rushed from his stomach in an acidic torrent. It burned, searing him. For an instant, he caved to the pain and briefly closed his eyes. But immediately, images of his mother’s face if this news became public swam across the backs of his lids. Devastated. Humiliated. Broken.
His mother, beautiful, proud, kind and so damn strong. In order to be married to Barron Farrell she’d had to be. She’d been the one stable, loving constant in Cain’s life—gentle where his father had been harsh. Affectionate where he’d been cold. Protective when he’d been the aggressor. She’d suffered during her marriage. Once upon a time she’d probably loved his father, but his belittling, verbal assaults and constant infidelities had whittled that devotion to scraps. And his insistence on “making a man” of Cain with his fists had eradicated even those remnants.
His mother had endured for Cain, and the knowledge, the guilt, ate at him. She could’ve left Barron at any time, but he would’ve fought her for custody, and with his power, money and influence, Barron would’ve won.
And she’d refused to leave Cain to Barron’s “tender mercies.” So she’d stayed until Cain had been old enough to fend for himself both financially and physically.
Emelia Farrell had paid her dues.
So no, he didn’t blame her for stepping outside her travesty of a marriage and finding comfort where she could. Just... Christ. She’d made a mistake choosing this man.
“Another crime you’re confessing to, Cole,” Cain snarled, loathing scalding him from the inside out. “It’s against the law to release that kind of material without the other party’s consent.”
“Sue me.”
Cain straightened. Better to insert as much distance between them as possible. “And your daughter? She doesn’t care that the man she’s willing to chain herself to is only marrying her because of blackmail? That he doesn’t want her, doesn’t love her? Or is she like you, and all she cares about is digging her hooks into a wealthy man so she can bleed him dry?”
“My daughter does what needs to be done for her family,” he replied, smoothly. “And I don’t need your money, Cain. I have more than enough of that. But if my daughter is married to a Farrell, doors that money can’t buy will be opened to her.”
“To you, you mean,” Cain spat.
Another shrug. “Boston society is clannish, disdainful to those who weren’t born in your rarefied circles. You know as well as I do that wealth will only propel a person so far. Will only grant them entrance to the building, but not a seat at the table. If you’re born with a setting and a name card at that table, then you can’t talk to me about how to gain a place there.”
Bitterness tinged the other man’s words, and though Cain hated Gregory for his methods, for threatening his mother, Cain had to agree with him on that point.
He understood the cliquish, snobby and classist world he moved in. Understood that more often than not it was the name Farrell and everything it meant—history, heritage, power, affluence—that paved his way, granted him access, afforded him allowances others didn’t have.
But nothing, nothing, excused Gregory Cole.
He’d threatened the only person Cain cared about. That was unforgivable. Of him and his daughter.
“So when it comes down to it, you and your bitch of a daughter are willing to sell other people’s souls for business,” Cain said, voice as cold as the sheet of ice spreading through his veins.
“Business. Connections. Power. Influence. Your father understood that better than most,” he corrected. The smile curving his mouth disappeared and the humor fled Gregory’s eyes. “Enough chitchat. As you mentioned, you have meetings and I have appointments as well. So what is your answer, Cain? Are you going to marry my daughter or am I going to release my information about your mother’s dalliance to the media?”
For an instant, Cain transformed into that ten-year-old boy cowering in front of his father in that damn library. Cowering and crying because he wanted to fight back, to break free and be strong enough to face his father down. But he couldn’t then. And he couldn’t now. Once more he was as powerless and helpless as that boy.
Gregory Cole had made him go back on his vow never to be that weak, that vulnerable again.
And Cole would pay for that.
He and his daughter.
“I agree to marry her,” Cain said, meeting the triumph in those green eyes. “But that’s all I’m agreeing to. You’ve consigned your daughter to a union from hell. I’ll make sure of it. She’ll get my name and nothing more. You might have forged this farce of a marriage, but she’s going to be the one to suffer for it. I promise you that.”
Four
“Devon, is that you?”
Devon closed the front door behind her, momentarily holding on to the doorknob. Lord, give me strength, she silently prayed. And then grimaced, guilt for the disloyal thought scurrying though her. No matter how...demanding her father could be, he was still her father. And even if he’d changed so drastically from the protective, affectionate and laughing man he used to be when her mother was alive, he’d still never abandoned her. He’d provided for her, given her everything any daughter could wish for...everything money could buy.
“Yes, Dad, it’s me,” she called out, setting her purse on a chair then striding through the spacious foyer of the stately brick town house located in the heart of Back Bay.
Her father had shelled out seven million for the home—and he had zero problems bragging about it to anyone. It was gorgeous; she couldn’t deny it. With large, airy rooms and cathedral ceilings, oversized bay windows that offered views of the quiet tree-lined street and the private patio, cavernous fireplaces, beautiful bedrooms and luxurious bathrooms, it was a place Devon couldn’t have ever imagined calling home as a little girl. The one-bedroom apartment on the garden level even provided an elegantly appointed home office for her father. Add in the expensive art pieces, opulent furniture and state-of-the-art amenities, it was a showpiece.
And yet, for Gregory Cole, it still didn’t seem to be enough. Her father had this yawning, insatiable hole inside him that he tried to fill with money and things. A hole that family used to fill.
Smothering a sigh, she entered the casual living room. Her father stood in front of the dormant fireplace big enough to fit two grown men. Well, maybe one and a half if the men were the size of Cain Farrell—okay, she had to stop thinking about him.
It’d been a little over a week since that impromptu meeting in his garden, and she couldn’t eradicate him from her mind. More than was probably healthy, she turned those stolen moments over and over, analyzing them. Trying to convince herself that his gentle stroke to her cheek hadn’t meant anything beyond gratitude. That she hadn’t spied heat in his eyes. Because to believe the alternative...
“Hey, Dad,” she greeted. “Is everything okay? Your message sounded urgent.”
“Yes, everything is okay. Better than okay,” he said, flicking a hand. A frown creased his forehead as he scanned her from top to bottom. “Good Lord, Devon. What are you wearing? I can’t believe you went out looking like that. What if one of my business associates or someone important had seen you?” He shook his head, uttering a low sound of disappointment.
Someone important had seen her. Several someones actually. The hundred-plus children she worked with as a youth coordinator at a community center located in East Boston.
“Since most schools are out for Columbus Day, we hosted a play day. Jeans and a shirt are far more appropriate for balloon tosses, three-legged races and kickball than a suit.” Very aware of her father’s low opinion of her job—a job he viewed as beneath her—she shoved aside the pang of hurt his condescending words elicited and switched the subject. “So what’s going on? Why did I need to rush home?”
Before replying, he crossed the room to the full bar built into the wall. Only after he fixed himself a drink and sipped from it did he turn back to her. “I have wonderful news, Devon,” he said, lightly swirling the alcohol in his glass. “We’re having a very special guest over for dinner. Which means you need to go upstairs, get out of those rags and dress in your best.”
“That’s the emergency?” She left off the seriously. But it echoed in the room. “You have people over for dinner at least three times a week. Why is this so important?”
“Because,” he paused, sipping from the glass and studying her over the rim, “the guest is your future husband.”
Devon rocked back on the heels of her sneakers in shock. The words boomed in her head, but they didn’t make sense. Husband? What the hell was he talking about? She wasn’t even seeing someone much less thinking about marriage.
Swallowing hard past a suddenly constricted throat, she forced out, “What?”
“I’ve arranged for you to be married to one of the most sought-after bachelors in this city. Maybe the country. He comes from one of Boston’s best families, is rich, successful—you can’t do better.
”
“I—” She shook her head, dread mixing with astonishment. Because he wasn’t kidding.
Oh my God, he wasn’t kidding.
“Dad, you can’t just arrange marriages like this is feudal England. I’m a grown woman fully capable of choosing men to date and one to eventually marry. And when I do, his credentials will include more than the number of zeros in his bank account or how far back he can trace his roots,” she argued. Wondering why in the world she was actually having this discussion.
“As your father, I have a vested interest in who you marry and who enters our family. This isn’t just about you,” he persisted. The steely note in his voice had horror coiling around her rib cage.
“Since it will be me pledging my future to someone, living with them, sleeping with them and having kids by them, I would say it’s most definitely about me,” she snapped, unable to contain her irritation...and growing panic.
His gaze narrowed on her, and he stalked across the room back to the fireplace, where he deliberately set his drink down on the stone mantel. “I have cared for you, provided for you, worked hard and sacrificed for you. There is no better judge of who you should call a husband than me. And that includes you.”
You did it all for you. For your pride, your ego, your never satisfied need for more.
The scream filled her head. Only sheer will and a deeply rooted respect for his role as her father prevented the words from tumbling past her lips.
“Now,” he continued, “after all the trouble I went through to secure this arrangement, you will be at your best. You will impress him tonight. He has connections that far surpass business. Thanks to me, you will be welcomed into Boston society and have all kinds of doors opened to you. To both of us. I won’t allow you to mess that up.”
