by Naima Simone
She slid her arms between them, flattening her hands on his chest and shoving him away. He shifted backward, and the bitter twist of her lips telegraphed what they both knew—she’d slipped away only because he’d allowed it.
“You don’t know me,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.
On another person, the gesture would’ve struck him as self-protective. But this wasn’t another person; it was Devon Cole, and as he’d learned, she was a master at portraying herself to be something she wasn’t.
“Ten minutes in my company doesn’t make you an expert on who I am. And don’t flatter yourself. You might think you’re this wonderful catch that I have to plot and scheme to trap, but you’re not the only one sacrificing. Contrary to what you believe, this isn’t all about you.”
“Prove it,” he said. “Call your father in here and put an end to this.” When she didn’t answer, didn’t move toward the door, his lips curved into a mocking, cynical twist. “So much for your pretty speech. Righteous indignation doesn’t become you, sweetheart.”
Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Cain, listen. I—”
“No,” he interrupted. Unbidden and without his conscious permission, his gaze raked down her body again. His blood pounded in his veins, his cock. She was untrustworthy, a liar, and he detested that his body could betray him. Could make him weak for her. The fear of that weakness coated his voice in ice as he met her wide eyes. “You listen. Because I want it crystal clear what you’re in for if you and your father go ahead with blackmailing me. Like I told your father, you’ll get my name, but here’s what you won’t have from me. Peace. Happiness. Fidelity. I refuse to curb my lifestyle for you. Your father might receive the perceived benefits of me as a son-in-law, but you’ll be the one to pay the price. Day in and day out. Consider that, Devon. And decide if it’s worth it. I promise you. It isn’t.”
He pivoted and strode from the room, unable to spend another moment staring into those bottomless eyes. Eyes that had darkened with an emotion he refused to attribute to her. Remorse.
No, she wasn’t capable of that.
And he wouldn’t fall for her act again. She’d duped him once, had made him believe. Had played him.
She wouldn’t receive a second chance.
Six
Devon stepped from the elevator onto the executive floor of Farrell International. Except for soft murmurings and the muted click-clack of fingers flying over keyboards, a silence not unlike a church permeated the expansive area. Her heels sank into the plush dark blue carpet, and on either side of her, artwork that wouldn’t have been out of place in a museum graced the dark wood walls. Wide, circular desks manned by professionally dressed men and women dotted the floor, guarding closed double doors that bore gold nameplates.
Power. Wealth. Before arriving here today, she hadn’t known they possessed a smell. Lemon verbena and fresh cedar. And something more elusive, indefinable.
It was that something that clung to Cain.
She’d inhaled it when he’d pressed against her in her father’s living room. When he’d surrounded her. Touched her. Let her feel the imprint of his thumb on her mouth. After he’d left, she’d swept her tongue over her lip, his caress a phantom weight on her flesh. And even though his hand had long left her, she tasted him. That same scent. Dark. Sensual.
Exciting.
Lord. She barely stopped herself from spreading her fingers over her stomach. What did it say about her that when he’d crowded her, glared at her with those wolf eyes—hell, threatened her—she hadn’t felt fear? No, it hadn’t been that emotion pumping through her blood, tingling her nipples into taut tips, swirling low in her belly...wetting the flesh between her legs.
It’d been lust.
Pure and simple.
Well, if anything that greedy and clawing could be pure.
She’d experienced desire before; she was a twenty-six-year-old woman, and she’d been with a few men. Even enjoyed sex. The connection, the intimacy, the physical bonding—she wasn’t ashamed to admit she took pleasure in the act. Especially when love was involved. But it was love that had her steeped in the middle of a year-long sexual drought.
Donald Harrison had been an associate quickly moving up the ranks of her father’s firm. When he’d approached her at a business event, she’d been flattered and attracted to him. Why not? With his dark blond hair, deep brown eyes and athletic build, he’d drawn many appreciative glances from women and men alike. But his interest had been solely focused on her. He’d showered her in compliments, gifts and affection. Her father hadn’t been thrilled about her relationship with a “mere associate,” but Devon hadn’t cared. She’d loved Donald. Could see them sharing a future together.
Which had made her discovery so shattering. He’d been using her only to climb the corporate ladder in her father’s company.
It’d been a year since her father had slid that file across the dining room table. He’d chosen breakfast to break the news to her. One task to get out of the way over coffee before his day started. He’d nonchalantly eaten a perfectly cooked omelet while she’d read about Donald’s fiancée, the house they’d just bought in Charlestown, even a picture of the engagement ring. And while her heart had been crushed, her father had lectured her about not being astute enough to recognize a “chaser” when she encountered one. About being too naive to recognize a man who desired her wealth and connections rather than her.
The irony didn’t elude her.
Then, she’d been the one used for upward mobility.
Now, she was doing the using. Not willingly. But in the end, it didn’t matter.
Not to her father. And certainly not to Cain Farrell.
At least she entered into this arrangement with her eyes wide open, not blinded by sentiments such as love and loyalty. Cain harbored none for her; the only emotion he possessed when it came to her was hate. And though that stung—God, glimpsing the loathing in his eyes, hearing it drip from his voice had been scalding—maybe, it was for the best.
As of now, she hadn’t devised a way to escape her father’s plans. Which meant for the foreseeable future, she was trapped, unable to back out and unable to confess to Cain why she had to go through with this.
But given her completely inconvenient desire for Cain, his disdain for her might save her from herself, from her untrustworthy heart. She’d confused physical attraction with love before. But just one mocking caress down her cheek from Cain had stoked her lust hotter than sex with Donald. So if she didn’t guard herself against Cain...
She couldn’t do anything as foolish as allow herself to be vulnerable with him. Lowering her guard would be like opening the cage door to a prowling lion.
In other words, stupid as hell.
“Can I help you?” the statuesque brunette behind a large gleaming desk asked Devon as she approached.
Devon glanced at the closed double doors behind the desk. For a moment, panic seized her. Cain had requested her presence with a terse text message, but he hadn’t included why. What awaited her? The first step in his plan to begin making her existence a “living hell”?
Anxiety should be the only emotion quivering through her at the thought of his threat. Not anticipation. Damn sure not excitement.
Maybe she was as twisted as Cain believed her to be.
“Hello,” she said, smiling at the executive assistant whose nameplate proclaimed her to be Charlene Gregg. “Cain Farrell is expecting me. Devon Cole.”
Charlene nodded. “Yes, he told me to send you in as soon as you arrived. Just through those doors.”
“Thank you.” Devon offered her another smile, hoping it didn’t betray the nerves rattling inside her.
Inhaling a deep breath, she walked forward, chin tilted upward, shoulders squared. One of her mother’s favorite sayings had been “Faith it until you make it,” her
twist on the old axiom. Well, Devon would have faith that she wouldn’t appear like a lamb heading into the slaughter until she actually didn’t feel like one.
No telling how long that would take.
Pulling open the door, she stepped into Cain’s inner sanctum. Stalling, she surveyed the spacious office. Glass comprised two of the four walls, and tasteful masculine furniture of wood and leather dotted a sitting area. Instead of the beautiful artwork that decorated the outer office, huge framed black-and-white photographs of historic Boston adorned the walls. Faneuil Hall. The Appeal to the Great Spirit statue in front of the Museum of Fine Arts. The Bunker Hill Monument. The Old North Church. The lighting, the imagery, the tone of the photos—they were all stunning. And seemed out of place in the office of a merciless billionaire.
Her gaze jerked toward Cain.
And immediately she regretted the impulse.
The stirring of curiosity flickered then died in her chest. His cold, narrowed stare extinguished it. Not even two minutes later, and she’d already broken a rule she’d set for herself. Guard against any emotion with Cain. And that included curiosity. Because it was the gateway drug that led to other emotions—interest, wonder, compassion, need...
Do better, she snapped at herself.
Then she deliberately conjured the memory of the heartache that had nearly ripped her in half after discovering Donald’s lies. She embraced that ache, let it soak into her skin, her bones. She’d hold on to it so she wouldn’t slip again.
“You summoned me here,” she said, injecting the calm nonchalance that had abandoned her the second she entered the downtown Boston skyscraper of Farrell International’s offices.
That was one lesson she’d come away with from their meeting at her home a week earlier.
Never show weakness in front of this man.
“Can I always expect this kind of pliancy during our marriage?” he mocked. “Submissiveness in a woman isn’t something I’m usually attracted to, but for you I could make an exception.”
“Making allowances for me already?” She shook her head, tsking, even as a voice inside her head yelled, What the hell are you doing? Don’t poke the beast! “You’re setting a bad precedent. And you know how women like me will take full advantage of that.”
He didn’t reply, but his intense scrutiny stroked over her, from the center part of her drawn-back hair, down the straight lines of her dress to her dark green stiletto heels. When she’d donned the green-and-white-striped shirt with the big bow tie at the neck and the emerald pencil skirt, the outfit had seemed both professional and flattering. Now, with that blue-gray gaze on her, she fought not to check if she’d left a button or two loose or if her skirt skimmed too tightly over her hips.
His eyes lifted to hers, and her words—“take full advantage of that”—seemed to resonate in the office. Suddenly, instead of referring to his permissiveness, it sounded as if she were offering him something else to exploit. Herself.
A dull throb of heat beat low in her belly, edging farther south. Settling deep between her legs. Her mind railed against the implication of her words, demanding she clear up her meaning. But her body, mainly the flesh between her legs, approved of this new plan of action.
She was in trouble.
“While I appreciate the sudden display of honesty, that’s not why I asked you here.” He picked up a tablet, tapped the screen a few times then rounded his desk, extending the device toward her.
Primal survival instincts cried out that she retreat, hide from the ultimate predator in the room. But pride—foolish, self-destructive pride—kept her feet rooted. She might not have any intention of going through with this disaster of a marriage if she could find a way out of it, but she also didn’t intend to start any relationship, no matter how short-lived, cowering from him.
She’d lost her mother as a child, and in every way that mattered, her father, too. And she’d survived it, become a woman who could weather a storm and come out stronger on the other side. Battered maybe, but not beaten.
And no way in hell would she allow Cain Farrell to accomplish what fate hadn’t managed to do.
She shifted forward instead of backing up, meeting him halfway and accepting the tablet. Her fingertips brushed his, but she kept her gaze glued to the screen, absorbing the tingling shock against her skin. She might not be able to do anything about her body’s reaction to this man, but she didn’t have to let him see the effect he had on her.
Focusing her attention on the device, she scanned the website he’d pulled up, recognizing it as one of the more popular columns that featured on-dits about Boston society. Huh. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who gave a damn about gossip. She frowned, but kept reading. Moments later, she sucked in an abrupt, hard breath.
What the... He hadn’t...
But dammit, he had.
“I—” she stuttered, humiliation and anger burning through her like a blowtorch. “I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” Cain cut her off, the ice in his tone freezing her. “Didn’t leak the news about our nonexistent engagement to the press? Didn’t give an exclusive to this little gossip rag?”
“I didn’t do it,” she insisted, her fingers so tight around the tablet it was a wonder the screen didn’t crack under the pressure. “I wouldn’t without your agreement.”
“So you’d have me believe you grew morals overnight?” He arched an eyebrow. “If you didn’t leak this, then your father did. Not that it matters. The only thing that does matter is that I hadn’t found the opportunity to tell my mother about our—” he paused, his lips twisting into a cruel sneer “—arrangement yet. Instead of hearing it from her son, she read it in that silly column. Do you know what it’s like to look your mother in the eye and lie to her, Devon? Do you know how dirty that makes you feel?”
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know what that’s like. My mother died when I was ten.”
Cain stiffened, and silence pounded in the room like a heartbeat. Throbbed with tension, with the ache of loss. At least on her part. What would her mother say about this situation? Would they even be here if she was alive? Would her father be the man he’d become?
So many what-ifs...
“You understood the pain I was feeling, you mentioned that in the garden,” he murmured, his gaze roaming over her face, searching. She wanted to hide from that incisive scrutiny. He couldn’t have her memories, couldn’t have her pain. “I’m sorry about your mother, Devon. Mothers...” An emotion so stark, so dark, that the breath locked in her lungs flashed in his eyes. In the next instant, it disappeared, but she hadn’t imagined it. Not when her chest echoed with it. “Mothers are special. And I’m sorry you lost yours.”
“It’s been sixteen years.”
“You still miss her.”
“I do,” she rasped, the admission slipping from her without her permission.
She blinked against the sting of tears. No, dammit. No weakness. God, there wasn’t much hope for her to survive this whole thing if she couldn’t stop breaking her rules with this man.
Clearing her throat, she shoved the tablet at him. “Here.” She barely waited for him to accept it, being careful that they didn’t touch again. Smoothing her damp palms down her hips, she strode over to one of the windows and stared out at the view of downtown Boston and beyond.
A king. He was a king all the way up here at the top floor of this lofty building. Did that make them all peasants in his sight? Or did that make him distant and lonely, a prince in a gilded tower of his own making?
“I didn’t place that gossip in the column. But I will apologize for my father’s actions. Not that it will make much difference now.”
“No, it won’t,” he agreed, the ice returning to his tone. “I hadn’t decided what story to tell my mother about an impending marriage, much less why I haven’t introduced her to a woman I�
�ve been seeing long enough to make my wife.” His woodsy, fresh scent, heated by that big body, reached out to her, teasing her. Teasing her with what she craved, but her mind—her heart—knew it would be lethal for her to partake. “I would cut my own heart out before breaking my mother’s. And telling her I’m entering the same loveless prison she endured with my father would accomplish that. So I had to lie and convince her I’ve fallen in love,” he bit out. A caustic note hardened those words, telegraphing his opinion of falling in love with her. “And with the choice of hurting my mother or continuing this charade, I’m going to sell the hell out of it. Which means even though you see a walking dollar bill when you look at me, you better scrape together all your superb acting skills and pretend I’m the man you can’t live without when you’re in front of her. And for whoever else we need to convince so the truth never gets back to her.”
The weight of her father’s machinations landed hard in her chest. From one moment to the next, she couldn’t breathe. As if all his schemes, lies and betrayals shrank the room, and she battled claustrophobia, scratching and clawing to escape. His needs, his goals, his greed demanded a price, but it was her and Cain who had to pay the cost.
And it was high.
“Mr. Farrell, Laurence Reese from Liberty Photography is here for your appointment.” Charlene’s voice dragged Devon from the dark hole she’d been sliding down, and she glanced at Cain’s desk phone, almost grateful.
“Consider this your first casting call,” Cain said, and she blinked at the enigmatic statement, turning to watch him stride toward his desk.
“What?” she asked, confused.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, a cold, humorless smile curving his mouth. “Our engagement photos.” Before she could reply—hell, if she could reply—he pressed a button on the phone. “Send him in, Charlene. Thank you.” He started toward his office door but paused at her side. Lowering his head, he murmured, “I want every person who looks at these photos to swoon and fall in love with the idea of us. To crown us the next fucking Harry and Meghan. So better bring your A game, sweetheart.”
