by Cora Kenborn
He slams the lit end of the cigar into his ashtray, pulverizing it until it’s nothing but a bent mass. Eyes as cold as steel gaze up at me from under his gray eyebrows. “I don’t want your goddamn money. Call this off, Dominic. We both know that girl is no more Alexandra Romanov than I am. Send the bitch back to Chula Vista and issue a retraction. I won’t tell you again.”
I leap to my feet. “Is that a threat?”
Not to be outdone, the devil rises from his chair and places both palms flat on the desk. “That’s a promise. Continue with this charade, and you’ll wish you’d listened.”
It’s only then I realize how ironic life can be. I begged this man to put a bullet in my head seventeen years ago. He refused, taking me under his wing and forcing a life on me I never wanted.
Because of it, what I’m about to do will send us both straight to hell.
Mimicking his stance, I lean forward with my palms against the wood, our faces inches apart. “Someone once told me wishes and hopes are useless weapons, and the fool who stands with his hand out waiting for life to step up to the plate only ends up with two things.”
His eyes flash. “Empty hands and an empty wallet.”
“I’m no fool, and my hand’s no longer out, Luciano. You do what you have to do because I’m damn sure going to do what I have to.” Pushing off the desk, I do something few men have ever done and lived to talk about. I turn my back on Luciano Ricci and walk away.
“Dominic.” I’m halfway out the door when his booming voice stops me. I slowly turn my chin over my shoulder and meet his emotionless stare. “That was the third time you disrespected me.”
“Then I suppose I’d better make it count.” I slam the door behind me.
Chapter Seventeen
Dominic
Tension has a smell.
It’s thick and damp with an overpowering stench of a strained rubber band being stretched to its breaking point. One more tug. One more push, and it’ll snap. I’ve smelled it for years. It has become as familiar to me as spicy cigar smoke.
That’s why I immediately recognize it the moment the elevator doors close. It seeps into every crack and crevice, making everything feel cramped even though Angel and I are the only two people inside.
I steal a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye. The black skirt and white blouse I had Milly drop off this morning fit her like a glove. Paired with her sleek dark hair and classy black heels, she certainly looks like Hollywood royalty.
Until you get to her face.
Dark circles line her eyes as she stares up at the illuminated numbers, watching the floors slowly tick away as we rise. She has her arms folded tightly across her chest and her lips pressed in a thin line. The same way they’ve been since I returned late this morning after visiting Luciano.
She said nothing as we fought another swarm of paparazzi waiting on my front lawn, and she gave me the silent treatment the whole drive from West Hollywood to Pasadena. Even when we arrived at the offices of Arroyo, Tate, and Wrenn, I barely parked the car before she hopped out and tore across the parking lot like her ass was on fire.
By the time we reach the tenth floor, I can’t take it anymore, and the rubber band snaps. “Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?”
“This,” I motion a hand down the length of her body. “Angel, you’re so uptight, if I shoved a lump of coal up your ass, I’d get a diamond.”
“I’m sorry.” She flashes a brittle smile. “I’m not a pathological liar like some people. Forgive me if I don’t do cartwheels into the lawyer’s office where I’m about to commit a fucking felony!”
In two steps, I have her pinned against the wall with my hand across her mouth. She blinks up at me, her eyes wide with shock. “News flash, voices carry, and my ass is on the line just as much as yours. Now, either you tell me what’s gotten into you and we solve it right now, or you can wipe that look off your face and walk in that office like you just found the pot of gold at the end of a goddamn rainbow. Which is it going to be?”
Her eyes narrow as she snatches my hand off her face. “You want to know why I’m so pissed? Where did you go this morning?”
I look away. “Out.”
Her sharp laugh echoes in the tiny metal box. “You are such a hypocrite.”
My eyes snap back to hers. “Watch it.”
But she doesn’t. She pushes her palms against the wall and lifts her chin. Arching her back, she brushes her breasts against my chest, sending my head spinning. “You command me to speak, and I’m supposed to bark, is that it? Well, it doesn’t work that way. This is a two-way street, Dominic. So, either you start barking, or—”
“Or what?” I press both hands on either side of her.
“Or I start biting.”
Whatever self-control held me back last night goes up in flames. Wrapping a hand around her throat, I slam her against the wall so hard she lets out a rattled wheeze. It causes her mouth to fall open, which is exactly what I want. It’s at the perfect angle for me to claim it.
So, I do.
My hand tightens. My tongue delves. My body presses. I free fall into sensory overload as I take from this woman. This stranger. This unholy temptation. The floors tick away as I taste her lips, indulging in everything I know is forbidden.
“Dominic,” she breathes, breaking away and gasping for air.
“Bark or bite,” I challenge, pressing my hips against her while tightening my thumb under her jaw. “You have one floor to decide.”
Something feral flashes in her eyes and another rubber band snaps. Diving both hands into my hair, she drags me toward her, capturing my bottom lip between her teeth.
And then she bites down.
Hard.
“Wrong choice, rook.” Crushing her against the wall, I take her mouth again in a bruising kiss. I come undone, grabbing the back of her thigh and shifting it higher while pushing her skirt up. When the tips of my fingers graze the crease where her thigh meets her ass, my cock jerks against my zipper.
Forget the meeting and the lawyers. The only thing I care about is getting under that skirt and fucking the attitude out of her.
“Angel,” I groan, dipping my fingers inward. “I want—”
Ding.
As the elevator doors open, we spring apart as if we’ve touched fire. I busy myself running a hand through my hair as Angel becomes preoccupied straightening her skirt. We nod politely at the trio of men in business suits who board the elevator as we exit, but we might as well have porno music playing in the background for as guilty as we look.
Angel clears her throat, her hand braced on her stomach as we near the desk. “You might want to do something about that.”
“About what?”
She cuts her eyes back at me, slowly lowering them past my belt. “Unless you plan to fly a flag in the next thirty seconds, your friend there might raise a few questions.”
I follow her gaze to where, yep, my dick is hard enough to punch through a brick wall. I’m not a modest man. It’s impressive. Nine full inches that’ll make your eyes roll back in your head and your pussy sing.
Ever hear a pussy sing?
If not, get a new man.
“It’s biology, sweetheart.” My smirk widens as we walk. “Unless you want to make a detour into the men’s room and take care of it for me, there’s not a lot I can do about it.”
I’m only half serious.
Unless, of course, she agrees.
Then I’m completely serious.
“You wish.” She snorts, but I catch the blush rushing up her neck before she looks away. “Fine. Just stay behind me then.”
I toss her a wink. “Whatever you say, rook.”
True to her word, Angel approaches the receptionist’s desk first. “Hello, we have an appointment with Harris—” And true to my word, I crowd in behind her, shoving my dick right against her ass. “Wrr-renn,” she finishes with a broken stutter. “Harris Wrenn.” Whipping her
head around, she glares at me.
“Your names, please?”
For all her earlier confidence, Angel falters. I can see the panic set in as she grips the edge of the receptionist’s desk, her knuckles turning as white as her face. We practiced this the whole drive from Chula Vista, but theory and reality are two very different beasts.
Stepping in front of her, I take control. “Dominic McCallum and Alexandra Romanov.”
The receptionist’s eyes grow wide. I’m not surprised when she peers around me to get a second look at Angel. Having Alexandra Romanov casually show up at a lawyer’s office is like having Big Foot walk into a shoe store.
“Y-yes, of course. One moment, please.” Her hand fumbles for her desk phone, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a cell phone in the other.
Which is fine. There is no such thing as bad publicity.
Unless the publicity comes from me.
Then you’re fucked.
Ten minutes and a lot of pacing later, Angel and I sit in Harris Wrenn’s office. It’s not surprising that the Romanov estate is handled by a partner in the firm instead of being handed off to some junior executive. There are million-dollar accounts and then there’s the Romanovs. An estate with trust funds that could buy and sell dozens of small countries and still piss on the change.
Existing made them famous, but death made them legends.
“There’s a protocol we must follow, Mr. McCallum,” Wrenn says, straightening his red tie. “I’s that must be dotted. T’s that must be crossed. Boxes that must be checked. I’m sure you understand with your,” he clears his throat, “reputation, the estate will need irrefutable proof.”
Beside me, Angel sucks in a sharp breath while I just stare at that damn red tie. Power tie, men like him call it. Bullshit. It tells me he’s trying to make up for what he’s lacking below the belt. Dazzle them with a bright tie to distract from a limp dick.
Here’s a tip for you: I’ve never worn a tie in my life.
“So, what is protocol?” Angel asks, clearing her throat. “What’s the next step?”
“Normally, we’d take things slow, Miss Smith.” Angel flinches at hearing her real name.
“Miss Romanov,” I remind him.
He smirks. “Not yet. As I was saying, normally, we’d keep your identity quiet, not only for your protection but for the privacy of the estate. However, since Mr. McCallum has already taken matters into his own hands”—he turns to me, his mouth clenching so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if his face cracks—“we’re forced to expedite the process.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” I ask, throwing my arms out wide. “Expedite away.”
Wrenn doesn’t say anything as he rolls his chair back, dragging one of his desk drawers along with it. While his attention is diverted, I steal a quick glance at Angel. She still looks like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and if she doesn’t snap out of it soon, she’s going to blow this all to hell.
Keeping my hand low, I tap her leg. Her eyes immediately snap to mine, and I silently mouth the words, “Jade Saxton.”
She furrows her eyebrows.
“Be Jade Saxton,” I mouth again. “Play the role.” I hope what I’m saying gets through to her because if she doesn’t start acting like an heiress, we’re fifty shades of fucked.
Wrenn turns back around, and drops what looks to be a giant Ziploc on his desk. “I’ll need a DNA sample.”
I knew this was coming. I prepared for it. That test will go to QuestTech Labs and come back a one-hundred percent match for Alexandra Romanov.
I turn toward Angel. Her head is lowered, her gaze on the twisted fingers in her lap. I’ve done all I can. The ball’s in her court now.
Wrenn clears his throat. “Miss Smith.”
Angel lifts her chin, and I swear to Christ, it’s like someone else takes over. Her shoulders push back, and she straightens her spine. Hands that moments ago were clenched in her lap drape flawlessly over the arms of the chair. Even the wide, panicked eyes that silently searched for a quick escape, lower to half-lidded disinterest. But what almost knocks me sideways is her mouth. Gone are the tight, pressed lips. Instead, a hint of a smile slightly curves them upward.
Secret. Mysterious.
Fucking regal.
I’ll be damned.
Placing her hands on the edge of the desk, Angel leans forward. “Of course, Mr. Wrenn. My family’s reputation is at stake. It’s the least I can do.”
Wrenn’s jaw drops. “Well said, Miss Smith.”
“Actually, Mr. Wrenn, it’s Miss Romanov.” Dragging the Ziploc toward her, she lifts it up, dangling it between her thumb and forefinger. “And I can prove it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Angel
Two weeks of waiting.
Two weeks of trusting a man who doesn’t deserve it.
Not to mention two weeks of dodging paparazzi who know where we’re going to be before we do. It’s gotten so bad we haven’t left Dominic’s house in three days.
Well, until today, that is.
Day fourteen.
I count my steps as I pace the perimeter of BTN’s empty office, pausing every fifth step to glare at Dominic, hand shoved in his hair and hunched over his desk behind the glass walls of his office.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My steps falter as my dream invades my thoughts again. Just like it’s done every day for the past two weeks. I smell pennies. The words echo in my ears when I’m awake and haunt me when I sleep.
“It’s time to go, little one. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”
On my fifth time around the office, Milly glances up from filing her nails and swings a jean-clad leg out in front of me. “Would you sit down? You’re starting to stress me out.”
“Were you with Dominic when he got that tattoo on his hand?”
She pauses mid-file, her fingers tightening around the plastic handle. “What?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.” An uncomfortable silence falls around us as Milly goes back to her manicure. My eyes shift back to Dominic, still at his desk, one hand gripping his phone, the other palming the back of his neck. Sighing, I nod toward his office. “What’s he doing in there?”
Milly follows my gaze. “Hard to say. Normally, I’d say running an international news empire.” Puffing out her cheeks, she blows a steady breath across her hand, sending a cloud of nail dust into the air. “But since you occupy every portion of his brain these days, I assume he’s playing the role of your press secretary, Miss Romanov.”
The sarcasm in her voice is so thick I almost choke on it.
“Look, you don’t like me. I get it. It’s obvious you two are close.” She arches an eyebrow, because she’s no idiot. There’s a “but” attached to this ego stroke. “But in being close, you also know this whole thing was his idea. He came to me.”
A smirk curls Milly’s lip as she stretches her legs across the top of the desk. “And what are the odds he stumbled upon the one girl who has every reason to hold a grudge against him?”
I bristle at her jab. “Let’s be honest, lots of people have a grudge against him.”
“Let’s be honest, only one has gotten close enough to see it through.”
Steeling my jaw, I hold her accusatory stare. Hell yeah, I have a grudge. Any half-sane person in my position would. A year of poverty and shame isn’t something you just let go of because the villain in your story unties you from the train tracks and slaps a crown on your head.
Even if he makes you crave his kiss almost as much as fear it.
Tossing the nail file over her shoulder, Milly swings her legs around and straightens her glasses. “Look, Dom hasn’t had the easiest life. Everything he has, he’s fought for with blood and sacrifice. So am I protective of him? Yeah, you’re damn right, I am.” She punctuates each word with a jab of her finger. “And until I’m satisfied you’re not hiding some ulterior motive I’ll question everything t
hat comes out of that pretty little mouth.”
This is the kind of information I tried to get out of Dominic two weeks ago. Which obviously never happened. I bared pieces of my soul, and he drowned them in whiskey. Since then, our conversations have been limited to Alexandra Romanov’s past, appropriate press answers, and take-out options.
It’s like living with a robot.
Milly isn’t my biggest fan, but at this point I’m willing to try anything. I left the group home because I wanted control over my life. Dominic took that away once when he forced me out of Hollywood. Now, a year later, it’s déjà vu all over again. He has all the power while I shoulder all the risk.
It’s time to even the playing field.
“Is his so-called sacrifice why this place is so empty?” I ask, cocking a hip. “To be such an international news source, you’d think BTN would be more than a two-person operation.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“What?”
“Six months ago, Beyond the News employed over forty people. This place was a perpetual hub of chaos.” She waves a hand around the bullpen. “Cameramen, reporters, copywriters, technical advisors—hell, we had our own paparazzi buzzing around.”
Whoa, back up.
“Dominic hates paparazzi. They’ve camped out on his lawn for weeks.”
“Oh, really?” She chuckles, that smirk spreading across her face again. “And have they shown up every place you’ve gone? Gotten there before you did?” She rolls her eyes. “Come on, girl, it’s not blind luck. You have to build an army of leeches to battle one.”
Son of a bitch. He tipped them off.
What better way to control the story than to write it yourself.
Part of me wants to crash through Dominic’s glass fortress and demand answers. But two weeks of sharing space with that man taught me you don’t confront Dominic McCallum.
You combat him.
Milly’s eyes narrow as I hop up on the desk beside her. She’s suspicious, as well she should be. I’m about to go fishing and drop the mother of all hooks. “Dominic mentioned he’d pissed off the wrong person, and they’d retaliated. After I refused to go along with this whole scheme, he admitted it was his last resort before he lost everything.” I motion around the silent office. “BTN, his house, his life…all of it.”
