“I'm sorry for any inconvenience,” she said. “I'm his sister, Justine. Jay.”
The woman stepped aside, letting her into the house, making no move to assist as she watched Jay struggle with her suitcase, purse, and cat. “Mr. Beaucroft doesn't have a sister.”
What? “There must be a mistake,” Jay said nervously. “I thought I was expected.”
“You are,” the woman said ominously. “Go ahead and make yourself at home. I'm Carmela, by the way. I was just on my way out—today was supposed to be my day off.”
With that pronouncement, she left, leaving Jay standing, stung, in the hallway alone.
Mr Beaucroft doesn't have a sister.
God, that look. She was still stinging from it. What had he said to that woman to make her hate her so much? Carmela, clean out the spare bedroom. I'll need it for my whore, Jay.
Jay heard the beep of an alarm system engaging. Sighing, she set down her things on the checkered tile floor and massaged her aching arms as she looked up at the two double staircases. Well, if Mr. Beaucroft was detained, it wouldn't hurt to take a quick, impromptu tour of the house. Especially since Carmela hadn't bothered to tell her where she'd be sleeping.
The house was like Nicholas—different, but the same. There had been a lounge area by the pool that had contained a large glass coffee table and cabana furniture made out of rattan and cream padding. Nicholas had gotten rid of all of his father's furniture. There was a white sectional sofa now, and the room had been repainted a cold, icy gray with a matching rug.
Jay looked out at the blue jewel of the pool, screened by lilies of the valley in concrete planters and a wooden arbor of grape leaves, with a few rustling palms growing out of strategic points in the large garden. That looks exactly the same, she thought. Not that she'd used the pool.
Back in the entryway once more, Jay made her way forward, into the den. The TV had been upgraded, all of the old video game consoles that had used to clutter it either packed away or sold, but the blue sofa was still there. Jay had spent so much time on that couch, watching TV. Nicholas had even fucked her on it—twice. He'd even kept the same tasseled throw.
She stared at the fabric until it blurred and she had to grab onto the back to keep from sinking. The ribbed, velvety texture of it beneath her palms threatened to undo her—Daddy, please, no, someone might see—and she yanked her hands away as if they had been singed.
He'd always enjoyed making her beg. He probably still does, she thought, which sent another tide of dizziness shivering over her. I guess I'll find out.
Nicholas's childhood bedroom was next to the den, but it had been converted into storage. Everything personal in it was gone. With a shiver, Jay walked up one of the staircases. There were two of them, a detail that had really made her feel like she was living in a palace as a young girl. She went up the left one, glancing at the half-wall that gave a view down into the den from above. There was a sculpture sitting on it by Louise Bourgeois. The organic, blobby shape of it had always creeped her out as a child, and it still creeped her out now.
She opened the door to the master bedroom.
It was completely different: dark instead of light. Unfashionably for L.A., Nicholas had gone with heavy furniture and austere colors. A mahogany sleigh bed dominated the right side of the room, turned over with slate gray and cream-colored bedding. There was a jacquard throw tossed over all it, picked out in navy, gray, and gold. It looked expensive and probably was.
The dresser, mirror, and bookshelf were all made of the same red-brown wood and they all looked old, ornately carved with details like trumpets and Flemish scrolls, which made Jay think that they were probably Victorian. Much too nice to be thrifted, they'd probably been purchased at an auction. She traced the wood, cool to the touch; everything was free of dust.
She glanced at the bookshelf, hoping for some insight into the man that Nicholas had become, but all of the books there appeared to be more for decoration than function. Like an interior decorator picked them out to match the vases, she thought, her mouth turning down. The glossy spines did match the vases, and none of the spines were cracked or creased.
The other half of the master had a small sitting area with a smaller, wall-mounted TV and a mini-bar that didn't appear to have been recently stocked. All of the bottles were half- or a quarter-full. He had a fairly sophisticated-looking sound system under the TV, next to a CD rack that was crammed with all of the bands he'd listened to when he was younger: Deftones, Tool, Nine Inch Nails, A Perfect Circle. Loud and angry music, throbbing with energy.
Metal Boy. The old childish nickname for him surfaced briefly, ghost-like, before fading.
There was a gray love seat in front of the TV, made of tinted suede, which had a view into the bathroom and dressing room. She patted the arm of the love seat to see if it was as soft as it looked before wandering into his bathroom. Compared to the rest of what she'd seen, it was woefully underfurnished. When her mother had lived here, the counters had been cluttered with perfume bottles, jewelry, and cosmetics. Now the drawers and the cabinets were all empty, some still stained with traces of eyeliner or lipstick, and the only things on the counter were his.
He didn't appear to share the space with anyone, so he probably wasn't seeing anyone. And if he was seeing someone, they didn't live here.
Jay left the master bedroom and went wandering down the hall to the one room in this house that she had been dying to see. She wanted to know what Nicholas had done to her old bedroom. Had he gone in there and smashed everything up, or ripped out and painted over every trace of her, the way he had with his father's den or her mother's bathroom? It would give her an idea of how much he hated her, how determined he was to eradicate her presence from this house.
With a shaking hand, Jay grabbed the knob—it wasn't locked—and twisted the door open. Sucking in a fortifying breath of air, she closed her eyes and stepped into warmth.
She waited for several seconds, as if bracing for an explosion, and when nothing happened, she slowly cracked her eyes open.
It looks . . . exactly the same. The voile curtains were open, still gathered back with one of her old hair clips, which had yellowed and faded in the sun. Faded pictures of her friends were still tacked to the walls. Her childhood books cluttered the bookshelf—mostly fantasy, but also Animorphs, and a couple of smutty romances that she'd purchased as an older teen.
Nicholas had done nothing to her bedroom. It even had the same yellow sheets and comforter, the same sunflower motif painted over the tops of the walls. The plate around the light switch even had its little floral moldings intact, although the gaily painted colors had begun to fade.
This is freaky, she thought, circling slowly. It's like a shrine.
Feeling numb, Jay went downstairs to get the cat and her suitcase, lugging both up the stairs to her old room. Once freed, Carbon immediately darted out of his carrier to hide under the bed, which made her smile because Gypsum had done the exact same thing when she had brought her into this same room seventeen years ago.
She removed the top part of the carrier and filled the tray with some litter she'd packed in her suitcase, putting some kibble in a screwed-off jar lid she'd packed into her purse.
Once the cat was taken care of, Jay changed out of her gross plane clothes into a pair of loose pants and a shirt that she'd purchased back in college that said “The Hush Sound” and couldn't bring herself to get rid of, even though it was fraying thin. She slung her arms into an equally old American Eagle hoodie, zipping it all the way up out of habit, and knelt to examine her bookshelf. As she did, she noticed something gleaming on the floor next to the shelf.
It was a small piece of rose quartz.
How did that get there? she wondered, but then she remembered—it was a piece from her own collection, knocked to the floor when she and Nicholas had fought eight years ago.
The rock seemed to grow hot in her fingers.. She set it down on a shelf and grabbed a beat-up copy of Joust.
Jay leaned back on the comforter of her childhood bed and settled back to read as the light from her window changed from pale yellow to dark gold, the turning of the pages growing less and less frequently with the passing of time as she was consumed by her thoughts. Eventually, the book fell from her fingers with a loud clap that scared the cat.
She had fallen asleep.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Nicholas had just gotten out of the last meeting in a long block of meetings. He couldn't stand presentations; he had to sit there and look interested for thirty minutes or however the fuck long it took and then start asking the questions that had everyone shifting and refusing to give him a straight answer. How much money is this going to cost us? Do you have the numbers to back that up? Why is this worth my time?
Really, he thought dryly. After years of this, it should stop being such a goddamn surprise to everyone that he wanted more information. And yet, here they were. Same old song and dance.
Nicholas had almost been late to this meeting. He'd had to print out all of his own notes and research the acquisitions himself. Until Jay was entered into the system and had her own clearance card, he supposed he'd be fetching his own papers and his own coffee and scheduling all of his own meetings for the foreseeable future.
He looked down at his administrative assistant's empty desk and let out a breath. Crystal hadn't been happy about being let go. She had shouted at him and then burst into tears in the conference room, and then she had sobbed all the way down the hall like a little primadonna as a grim-faced security guard trailed behind her holding her box of personal items.
“He's such a heartless bastard!” she had apparently shouted in the lobby, startling a clutch of interns. He'd heard two of his employees talking about the incident, before they had noticed him standing there and scattered like frightened quail.
Heartless, he thought, testing the word as he made his coffee. Yes, he'd been called that, and worse. There were plenty of people out there who believed he'd given up his heart and soul to get to where he was now. He remembered reading somewhere that many top-level executives embodied personality traits and behaviors that were typically shared by sociopaths.
It made him wonder where the line was.
A security notification popped up on his phone, informing him that someone was in his house. Jay. He felt a smile forming as another volley of notifications flooded his phone as she wandered room from room until he turned notifications off.
Jay was in his house. He stirred at the thought. Something to look forward to later.
She was going to be nervous. Nicholas could still remember how pale and shaken she'd looked after he kissed her in the alley. He wondered if he was going to have to chase her before he fucked her. The thought brought back memories that sent a dark cocktail of emotions pulsing through him that made his cock stiffen in his pants. He didn't hate the idea.
I am a heartless bastard, he thought. Poor little bird. She's so fucked.
Even after eight years, he still craved her surrender: the crack in her voice as she begged to come; the way she looked at him like he was her everything; the moment when shame and dread turned to helpless desire. He liked her submissive and sweet, especially when that sweetness came wrapped up in ribbons and lace, but what really got him hard was the way she called him “Daddy.” No one else could strike that perfect chord of fear and devotion.
Nicholas forced his mind to turn back to his work but by the time he got home, he was thrumming with desire and feverish anticipation. All of the windows in the house were dark, which was a little ominous. He hadn't considered that Jay might take a look around the inside of the house and run—but it was beginning to look as if that might be a distinct possibility. She wasn't in the den and she certainly wasn't waiting in his bedroom.
But then she wouldn't be, would she?
No. There was one other place she might have flown. Nicholas took two condoms out of the drawer of his nightstand, sliding them into his pocket before stalking down the hall. He opened the door to her bedroom, using his phone as a light, and saw the reflective eyes of a cat watching him in the darkness. It startled him.
She brought a cat. It didn't appear to be the same one as before. This one was black. He wondered what had happened to the other one.
Closing the door carefully behind him so the cat wouldn't escape, Nicholas walked deeper into the room, and the pale blue light caught on the sleeping form of Jay. He stopped several feet away and looked down at her. Her hair was tangled around her shoulders and obscuring part of her face, rendered soft and contented by sleep. Her shirt had ridden up a little and that line of bare skin above her waistband was utterly beguiling.
There you are, little bird, he thought, shutting the phone off and unfastening his suit jacket, draping it over the back of her chair. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. He dropped that on top of his jacket. Kicking off his shoes as he went, Nicholas swung over her wearing only his jeans, straddling her hips with his knees as he leaned over her body. She murmured something indecipherable at the quiet clatter of his phone being placed on the nightstand. It made him smile.
He ran his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek, tracing over the bump in her nose, her pointed chin, her lips. They were soft, her lips, like crushed flowers. He let his knuckles drag down her jaw, her throat, all the way down the center of her chest. Her heart was beating slowly, a distant thud through all those layers of clothes. He felt like he was about to drown.
Nicholas dragged down the zipper of her hoodie, baring a soft cotton shirt. It didn't look like she was wearing anything under it. He dragged the fabric up until it was gathered beneath her throat and encountered more soft, bare skin. He was so hard now that it was like a physical ache. He heard her breathing shift, becoming shallow and syncopated as she woke under his touch. Yes, he thought, smoothing his hand over the slight curve of her belly. Come to me, Jay.
And then he lowered his head and kissed her.
Chapter Six
2017
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Jay stirred, and for a moment, half-asleep and on the verge of waking, she thought that she was camping. Someone has left the tent, she thought randomly, still trapped in that warm, sleepy bubble. I hope there aren't any bears.
Doubt was pecking at her, though. Like an agitated bird urging her awake. The darkness was wrong and there were no stars and the light from the window was in the wrong place. I smell citrus, she thought. Confused and a little frightened, Jay reached out for where her lamp should be and let out a garbled sound of panic when her fingers grazed something that felt like an arm.
“Relax, blue jay.” A mouth brushed her cheek, rough with stubble. “It's just me.”
What— She wet her lips and was surprised when they burned. “N-Nicholas?”
“Mmm.”
Her hand shot up as he leaned over her, palm pressing against his chest as his body dipped to cover hers. Hard, muscled skin jumped under her touch. He was shirtless. Breathing a little faster, Jay's hand drifted lower and collided with something sharp: his belt buckle. No shirt, she thought, waking up very rapidly now, but he's wearing pants.
And then his hand covered her breast and squeezed lightly and Jay realized what the zipper sound she'd heard in her sleep had really been. “W-when—when did you get home?”
How long have you been touching me like this?
“Ten minutes ago.” She felt the sting of his breath on her lips, but he kissed her neck instead, sending little electric shocks bursting down the side of her throat in a shower of sensation. “I've been thinking about you all day . . . about all the things I'm going to do to you.”
Jay inhaled sharply as his bare torso grazed hers. Both of her hands were on him now, fingers biting into the ridge of his hips. To push him away, she told herself, but the tipping sensation in her belly at the sound of his low laugh had very little to do with fear.
“You scared me.” The words sounded uneven to her. “What's the matter with y
ou? I was asleep,” she added faintly. “Or is unconscious the only way you can get w—”
His mouth brushed hers, a light touch that firmed when she resisted, becoming forceful enough that it left her breathless. “Shut up and fuck me.” A painful tremor seized in her chest as his pelvis pushed into her, driving her deeper into the quilt. He was hard; she could feel all of him as he settled between her legs. “I know you remember how.”
At the clip of his teeth at her breast, she moaned, pushing her hips up against him. Heard him hiss through his teeth: “fuck.” The bed shifted several times in quick succession and a soft slap of fabric told her he'd taken off his pants. She held herself stiffly as he tugged her arms out of her sleeves and yanked her shirt over her head, making her shiver at the sudden chill.
And then her pants were off, and he was pressed against her—hard and soft, and full of heat. The one body she knew as well as her own. He smells the same, she thought wildly, as he lifted his head to cover her mouth in another one of those possessive kisses. Grapefruit and the sweet, slightly musky scent of a man's clean skin. She tensed instinctively as he nudged her thighs with the long, hard length of his cock.
“Spread your legs.”
“N-no, wait,” she said, her voice high and unrecognizable. “Use protection.”
She heard him swear again. Then he bent over her, groping for something on the floor, eliciting more bursts of heat and friction as his body slid against hers. She heard a crinkling sound, which made her relax an inch—at least he has a condom—until it occurred to her that she ought to be insulted that he'd come in here assuming that she'd be available for sex.
“Such a good girl.” His voice was deep and slightly mocking, almost like he could hear her thoughts. “Always following the rules. But that's what makes you so predictable. That's why you're here right now—” he slid ungently into her, the sweet torture of it wrenching a sound from her throat “—with me. Because you always play nice. And I don't.”
Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance Page 6
