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~ Cara ~
I wince at the taut grip Damian has on my hand. The intensity emitting off the man is palpable, fistfuls of apprehension or anger or frustration. It can be any of those things and more. His large strides eat up the marble floor of the regal building and straight into the classy elevator with its subdue glamour and reflective doors, not giving me a chance to secretly admire the massive and wondrously decorated tree in the lobby. There’s no chance to take in or appreciate the posh charm, the glittery yet tasteful holiday decor. I don’t think he realizes he still has my hand and that I’m scrambling to keep up with his openly aggressive pace. At the sight of that fierceness, the doorman had instantly leaped back in fear.
The shiver that racks through me isn’t from dread. It’s something I wouldn’t begin to know how to identify.
Our reflection bounces back at me in the private car. I peer at the imposing man next to me, the grim, harsh expression one I’ve not seen on him. He’s been this way since the driver relayed the clearly detested message.
“You don’t get along with your father,” I observe out loud.
The dim lighting turns his eyes mostly blue. “You are to go straight upstairs. Pick a room-I don’t care which-and lock yourself in until I come for you.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t the time for questions or to test me.”
After he learned of his guest, not for a second did I expect Damian to bring me here. He might want to do things with me, sweaty, achy things that men do to women as they groan in rushed pleasure. There were plenty of those on the streets. To my astonishment, I want that too. The defiant, there’s-nothing-left-to-lose mood that’s blanketing my hopes. Why shouldn’t I do things with this ravishing man? For once, I want to hurl caution and planning far away and do what I want. What has all the careful living gotten me?
Heartache.
Bringing me here when his father is waiting for him wasn’t what I’d expected, and I was, in fact, prepared for him to drop me off at the Fernandez House after all.
Despite being here, him ordering me to stay out of sight as he meets with his father isn’t entirely a surprise. I’m no one, an unemployable drifter who once begged just to fill my empty tummy. Mirrors don’t lie, and the sad image in front of me is one with messy-bun blonde hair, oversized, secondhand parka, and thin khaki pants. Why would he bother his father with me?
“You don’t have to worry. I’ve no interest in Mr. Delevan.”
“You’re smarter than a lot of people then.” The discreet chime proclaims the start of the coming round. “And that’s Senator Delevan.”
The doors glide apart, and he’s pulling me out without giving me a dropped heartbeat to dig in my heels or make a panicked run for it.
It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the murky lobby from the elevator. No, not a lobby. It’s called a foyer, my muddled brain flashes in my mind as though it matters. A beautiful expanse of gleaming stone floor under ambient lighting and posh furnishings the likes I’ve only seen at Paige’s new home with Colin.
“Damian.” A jumble of protests rushes up my throat but don’t make it out. You’re crushing my hand. I can’t do this. I need to go home after all.
Quietly, he eases the ornate front door open. “Take the stairs to the left, then pick a room and lock the door.” He’s already steering me in that direction, our rushed steps tapping and squeaking on the pristine floor. “Do not come down under any circumstances.”
“I’m hurt, Damian.” The composed male voice penetrates before the figure of a man emerges near the curved staircase. “Surely acceptable manners would dictate you introduce your companion to your pops.”
As though the strained air isn’t choking, the stranger comes right up and wraps his arms around Damian’s stiff form. With a pat on the back, he eases away with his hands cupping Damian’s shoulders, proudly studying him from head to toe.
My first impression of the senator is height, clearly something Damian inherited. Slick, with attractive streaks of gray on his otherwise dark hair. The classy charcoal-gray Armani suit emphasizes his sturdy shoulders, fitting his lean yet solid physique perfectly. He’s handsome, dazzling even, reeking of you-can’t-touch-this cologne and old money.
And his measuring gaze is sizing me up without apology when his attention switches to me.
If Damian is more rigid, he might snap in two. “Acceptable manners would dictate an invitation, yet you’re here nonetheless.”
There’s a smile, a decided tilt of lips. “Would they?” he asks mildly and let his hands drop. “My representative conveyed how much my son wanted me here, and I would do anything for him, even if he refuses every time. You must be Cara Candlewood.”
The hand held out to me is big, not unlike the one still clutching mine, except I have a feeling this one might deliberately inflict pain.
He knows who I am. What does that mean? Does he know about Damian’s plan for me?
Since Damian gives no hint of releasing me anytime soon, I fleetingly clasp my free fingers to the outstretched limb. “Senator,” I nervously manage to push off my dead tongue.
“Call me Alan.” The smile widens. I’m harmless, it shouts. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined. My son is a lucky man.”
Then my hand is lifted, the light press of his lips on the top of my fingers smooth and practiced.
I don’t know much about politics, don’t find it remotely worth my time, but I recognize Senator Delevan from TV. The delicious politician, as Mrs. Fernandez whispered with a girlish giggle. I don’t know how I didn’t put the two and two together. The resemblance between father and son is undeniable.
Irritated, Damian draws me away, not once diverting his hard focus from his father. “Now that acceptable manners are taken care of, you know your way out.”
“I came all the way here to see you, Damian.” To his credit, he appears genuinely hurt by his son’s brusque dismissal. “Is it that difficult to spend some time with your pops?”
Damian’s jaw firms. “As you can see, I have a guest.”
“You have the rest of the night with her. As I said, you’re a lucky man. I’m sure Ms. Candlewood wouldn’t mind my stealing a few minutes.”
Damian’s father believes I’m here for sex. A one-night stand.
The gush of hot blood heats my skin.
Aren’t I?
“I should go.” My meaningful tugs only succeed in tightening the grasp on my fingers. “Thanks for...” For what? “Thanks for showing me your home.”
Noisy air leaves Damian. “Excuse us,” he says to his father before turning to me. “Come with me.”
I’m not given much of a choice when Damian resolutely tows me up the stairs.
Straight into a lavish bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I drone as he kicks shut the door behind him. “I don’t need to pee.” Not with him in the room.
On an impatient huff, he lobs off his coat and suit jacket before wrenching on the faucet, yanking me in until I’m wedged between the vanity and him, pulling up my sleeves. “You don’t know where he’s been,” he mutters with testiness and pumps, pumps, pumps a whole lump of soap into his palm, briskly scrubbing it all over my hands like I’m a toddler learning how to wash up. “The guy is as slimy as he is filthy.”
“He’s your father,” I remind him. Just as annoyed now, I elbow his stomach. It’s taut like the rest of him. “I can do it.”
“He’s only my father in name.”
“At least you have one,” I snap. “God, you’re weird,” I let out while rinsing off the mushrooming suds. “Both of you.”
For some bizarre reason, that noticeably pacifies his foul mood.
Male hands cover mine under the stream of warm water. “How am I weird?”
Indrawn air abruptly halts in my throat as the softly spoken words drift right over the shell of my ear. He tips closer, his chest over my back, arms cocooning me. Through the thick layer of my jacket his heat radiates into my shuddering flesh.
“You’re angry at your father for visiting you.” Breathe. I need to breathe. “He gets off on goading you. Getting a rise out of you. That’s how he tries to get your attention from someone who refuses to give him any. You and your father. You’re weird.”
Not my most articulate, but I’m having a really hard time when he’s eating up my space with that hard body.
He flips off the water and snatches a hand towel, draping the crazy softness over my dripping hands. Grateful for something to do, I’m busy patting at the dampness when he eases me back by my shoulders. My questioning gaze collides with his in the mirror over the sink.
“My father was right about one thing. Where are my manners?” His hands curve over the top of my shoulders. “I haven’t even taken your jacket.”
Damian towers over me. The top of my head doesn’t reach his chin. I’m fascinated at the sight of us, at those masculine fingers skating to the metal tab connecting the two sides of my jacket at the base of my throat. I watch, mesmerized by his thumb and finger seizing it, dragging it down to my pounding chest, between my breasts, sending all kinds of ferocious quivers through me. Lower still to the stomach urgently clenching. His hands are slow and gentle, and I’ve got thick layers on, but the heat of him creeps into my bones and makes a home.
His hand is so much bigger than the stub that it should look ridiculous. It doesn’t. It’s...breath-robbing. Suggestive. All the romance novels, all the designer words branding the pages don’t do this hot and cold, exquisite sensation justice.
A second after I lose sight of his hands on our reflection, the zipper releases.
Those fingers, those breath-robbing, suggestive, amazing fingers, curl into either opening, gently brushing the insides of my breasts, and draw them down my suddenly languid arms to reveal the red Café Love T-shirt. The hand towel drops to the floor.
“You’ve done that before.”
There’s amusement as he lays it on the vanity next to me. “Many times. I have to admit, it’s more fun with yours than mine.” Playful features sober. “Why did you ask to come here, Cara?”
Nerves. They’re battling within me once more. “I didn’t want to go home.”
Deep sea eyes silently hold mine. “Why did you ask to come here?” he insists more firmly.
I pull in a breath. Another. Yet another.
They don’t calm the jitters running amok inside me.
“To be with you.”
“To fuck,” he adds on my behalf.
The flinch comes quick, but he doesn’t miss it. I have a feeling Damian Delevan doesn’t miss much.
“Yes.”
It’s a wonder the glass doesn’t melt at the searing burn of his eyes. “No condom.”
Not a statement. Definitely not a request.
It was a demand.
“I’ve not agreed to the arrangement.”
“I’m clean. I know you are. I got the report to prove it. I want to fuck without it.” One brow arches slightly. “Problem?”
Hm. The romance novels never had anything about negotiating the terms. A hasty mental calculation confirms there shouldn’t be a risk, but still...
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“It is,” he insists but reluctantly sighs at my expression. “I’m still recovering. The likelihood of pregnancy right now is on the slim side.”
My image frowns back at me. “Recovering from what?”
“Chemo.”
Not able to hide my shock, I turn to search his deliberately composed features. “As in chemotherapy? For cancer?”
“That’s right.”
“When was this?”
“Last year. With your cycle, we should be fine.”
Grief for him momentarily overshadows my hesitation. He doesn’t want to talk about his illness. Maybe he thinks it makes him appear weak, doesn’t care for pity. That’s the last thing I feel for him. In his shoes, I probably wouldn’t freely share the very private detail either.
Is that why he wants to be a father? Realizing one’s mortality does different things to different people. I witnessed that multiple times at St. Christopher.
“All right,” I find myself agreeing. It doesn’t surprise me he remembers my conversation with Dr. Stanley about my menstrual cycle. A man on a focused mission to have a baby, and one that doesn’t miss much, wouldn’t forget something as important as that. “No condom.”
It’s his turn to search me. Whatever he sees must appease him, acknowledging it with a simple jerk of his head. “Good. Make yourself at home. There are bath things in here somewhere. Indulge a bit. I need a few minutes with my father.”