He exits the 911, his gaze landing hard on me, a smirk appearing on his chiseled features. “Ah, sweet brother,” he calls out, moving to the trunk of his car, his jacket now removed. “Working late I see.”
I take three steps, bringing us close enough to ensure Emily won’t overhear our conversation. “What are you doing here at this hour, Derek?”
“Rolling up my sleeves and getting the dirty work done, of course. A necessary evil considering I’m at war with my own brother, but at least I know who’s in my corner. I wonder if you do.”
It’s not a question and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns and walks toward the elevator, leaving me standing there, his words left behind as a taunt. His intent is to make me question myself and everyone around me. Of course, I know my father is ultimately on his side. Perhaps he even has more of the stockholders in his pocket than I suspect. Or not. In my experience, those who talk the loudest use language as a smokescreen. Why, if he had everything locked down, as he’d like me to believe, did he feel the need to plant a woman in our father’s life to spy on him? And I’d bet money that’s what’s happening. Whatever the case, all is fair in love and war, and I’m starting to believe all there is left for Derek is war. I inhale, feeling the darkening of my mood, like a monster taking over. I need an outlet and I need it now.
I start walking toward the Bentley, and I’m pretty damn sure the woman inside, and the pleasure I’m going to give her, are about the only honest things in my life right now.
In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns.
—Mario Puzo
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY
Shane is a man of absolute control, readable in his every action and reaction, including his long, calculated strides toward the Bentley to rejoin me. Too calculated, I decide, and I have the distinct impression he’s overcompensating for whatever emotional whirlwind he’s just had stirred to life. He makes his final approach, and I steel myself for the end of a night I’d finally decided to embrace, or whatever else, his mood brings to the table.
He opens the door, claiming the driver’s seat, and sealing us inside, inky shadows consuming the small space. I inhale the scent of him, autumn and spice, wholly male, and it assaults my senses right along with a wave of cutting dark energy. He doesn’t look at me or speak, wasting no time pressing the ignition to start the car, his hand going to the gear shift as if he can’t wait to get the hell out of here. But he doesn’t put us in drive. Instead, his wrist settles on the steering wheel, his spine stiff, and I have the distinct impression he’s suddenly back in the battle he’d had with that man outside the car.
I don’t know this man well, but I know that “no regrets” means not holding back. With another inhaled breath, I press my hand to his arm and try to turn the tables on him. “I could offer to get out of the car—”
He turns to me and my hand falls away, his expression a hard mask no amount of shadows can disguise. “No more back and forth. I need you in or out.”
“I was going to say, but I won’t offer. I won’t get out of the car. Whoever that was—”
“My brother. That was my brother.”
I hear betrayal in his voice and I understand in ways I can never share. And I don’t think that’s what he needs from me anyway. He needs something without complications and that’s me. “Well then,” I dare to say. “Your brother, your father, and the rest of the world, can’t have you tonight. Because just as you said I am yours, you’re mine.”
Those gray eyes of his sharpen, slicing through the darkness like hot ice and the impact of this man’s full attention is hard to describe. I have this uncanny sense of him seeing hidden pieces of me that I shelter with care and that he shouldn’t see. And then suddenly, his fingers tunnel into my hair and he drags me closer. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he says, and a moment later his mouth slants over mine, his tongue pressing into my mouth, stroking deeply, and I swear I feel it in the most intimate part of me. But more than anything I taste that harshness of turmoil in him that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with why he’s here with me tonight. And now I know why it has to be me and no one else. Because we are the same in ways that needs no words to be understood.
He deepens the kiss, kissing me like I have never been kissed. Like I am his next breath and I have never been anyone’s next breath. I moan and he responds by tearing his mouth from mine, his breath a warm whisper against my cheek as he lingers and promises, “You will do that many more times tonight.” He releases me and settles back in his seat, and this time he places the car in gear, and us in motion. Only we’ve been in motion since the moment I reached for a cup of coffee that wasn’t mine, but I think it was always meant for me. It’s a silly, fantastical idea for a woman who, at any other time, wants to believe stealing the power of the universe is as simple as Shane directed. Simply not giving it the power.
He stops us at the edge of the garage, waiting for traffic to pass before we exit and my gaze lands on the Bentley emblem, a “B” framed by wings. I reach out, touching it, a multitude of emotions rushing over me. I want this car. I want the life I was supposed to have, and it hits me that in the last few months I’ve become a victim, not because of what has happened to me, but rather, how I’m dealing with it.