Thursday proves that good is in the air when Emily and I arrive at work to discover my father is out of the office. Unfortunately, he’s also with his mistress, but my mother is not with Mike Rogers. She’s at the governor’s mansion, where she’s been hired to redecorate—which I know from Seth, because she won’t take my calls. The sports center deal closes, and Jessica and I complete the contracts, which I deliver to the seller’s attorney myself. But the ultimate good of this day: after all this hellish juggling, to have everyone on our side sign off on the new offer for the sports center, a necessary evil to ensure that I don’t make the offer and not have the backing, it’s paid off. By midmorning I receive a verbal agreement accepting that offer, allowing the written contracts to be processed, reviewed, and once approved, signed.
On Emily’s end, “Brandon Style,” as she’s decided to call the new division, is well underway, the takeover of the old to establish our new, moving along. By evening we’ve retreated to our apartment to finish our work, changed into sweats, and claimed the island in the kitchen as our workspace. “Room service or something else?” I ask, powering up my MacBook.
“I feel like I need to eat egg whites,” she says, tying her hair at her nape. “I’ve eaten nothing but junk for days, but I’m still three pounds down. I really want macaroni ’n’ cheese.”
“Macaroni ’n’ cheese? Where did that come from?”
“My mother used to make it all the time,” she says. “I have her on my mind.”
I set my MacBook aside. “Because Reagan is dead?”
“Yes,” she says. “Because Reagan is dead, but remembering my mother isn’t a bad thing. I might not have agreed with her ignoring my stepfather’s bad behavior, but I loved her.”
“Of course you did,” I say. “Mac ’n’ cheese it is.” I dial downstairs and place our order, which includes an extra-large mac ’n’ cheese. “Done,” I say. “Mac ’n’ cheese on its way.”
“I can’t wait,” she says, hesitating a moment. “Has Seth sent you any of the news from Texas? I’m curious about how the media is reporting my death.”
“He won’t send anything like that to either of us by email,” I say. “But I can have him bring by the clippings.”
“No. Don’t. It’s just morbid curiosity. It’s really not a big deal.” She changes the subject. “I want to talk about Brandon Style.”
“All right then,” I say. “Let’s talk fashion.”
From there, we plot world domination over dinner once it arrives, and settle on a key component of our success: the recruitment of a well-known designer whose name will put us on the fashion map. “The one I want will cost us a lot of money,” she warns. “Any of the names that get us attention will, though.”
“How much?”
“I talked to some industry recruiting experts today,” she says, setting a piece of paper in front of me.
I glance at the compensation package and whistle. “That is a big number.”
“Too big?”
“Only if we fail.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she says instantly, her tone and expression fierce.
“I know,” I say, leaning in closer to settle my hand on her cheek, the air instantly charging between us in that now familiar way I used to comically believe I could fuck out of my system.
“How?” she asks, the breathless quality to her voice telling me she feels it too.
“It’s in your eyes,” I say, recalling our first dinner together, as I did while she slept last night.
Her lips—those sexy, kissable lips—curve. “Back to my eyes,” she says, following my lead.
“Yes. Back to your eyes.”
“Stop looking.”
“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”
“I don’t know,” she says now just as she had then. “I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”
I lean in, and then my lips are on her lips, a caress, a tease that is there and gone, and yet I linger there, my breath fanning her lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as I ask, “You want to know if I what?”
Her response is to scoot off her barstool, and even before she can sway in my direction, I pull her to me, between my legs, my hand splaying at the base of her spine. “What do you want, Emily?”
“Everything,” she murmurs. “Absolutely everything.”
“Are you sure about that?” I challenge, thinking of the battle we had over Martina, of all the parts of me that will always be my father’s son.
“Everything,” she repeats, inching back and looking up at me. “Don’t promise me all good. Don’t tell me only the good. Because that’s a lie and I hate lies.”
I cup the back of her head. “I will never lie to you,” I vow, my tongue licking into her mouth, and I let her taste that everything she wants. The man who would kill Martina if he had the chance. The man who will destroy Mike Rogers and lose absolutely no sleep. The man who would die to protect her. And live for her. It’s a kiss that is meant to tell all, be all. A kiss that sears. A kiss that bleeds pain and promise.
Her hands slide under my shirt, her palms soft and cool, and yet still my skin burns with her touch. “Everything,” I tell her, dragging my T-shirt over my head.
“Everything,” she whispers in return, dragging her T-shirt over her head.
My gaze rakes over the swell of her breasts above the black lace of her bra, and she reaches down and unhooks it, tossing it aside, and immediately after, she is toeing off her shoes and then skimming her pants down. They pool at her feet, followed by the tiny lace that are her panties. She kicks them aside, and I travel the path up her legs to the sexy V of her body, where just a hint of blonde hair there reminds me that with everyone but me she has to hide. Not with me. My gaze lifts to her belly, her slender waist. Her breasts and nipples. And when my eyes meet hers, whatever she sees in mine parts her lips. My cock thickens in reaction, my mind conjuring all the places I want her mouth before this night is over. But what I want most is for her to know that everything means she can do anything with me, be anything with me, and it will be about pleasure, about trust.
I stand, my hands settling at that tiny waist, my lips curving when my touch triggers her shiver. I like that she shivers for me. I lift her, setting her on the barstool, my hands on her knees. “The thing about everything,” I say, “is that it means everything. It means you’re open to me in every way.” I inch her legs apart. “Exposed to me.” I lean back, my gaze raking over her breasts, her puckered nipples. Her sex. “It means,” I say, my eyes lifting to hers, “no inhibitions.” I take her hands in mine and press them to her breasts. “Show me,” I say.
Her breath trembles from her lips, her hands caressing her breasts beneath my hands, and I move them to frame her waist. I lean in, my cheek next to hers, and my mouth at her ear, “Everything means going further, going darker.” I drag my lips across her cheek, her jaw, her lips, before I pull back to watch her touch herself. And she does, caressing her breasts, her nipples. She rolls them in her fingers, her head tilting back slightly, her lashes fluttering, lowering. I lean in, tonguing a stiff peak through her fingers and suckling. Her hand goes to my head, fingers slicing into my hair. I lick and tease and use her fingers and mine to tease her and please her.
My hand slides to the wet heat between her thighs, stroking into her sex. Her hands are instantly on my shoulders, her body arcing forward, even as her hips arch into my touch. I tangle my fingers into her hair now, dragging her mouth to mine. As I kiss her deeply, the taste of her is addictive, a drug I willingly crave. I slip two fingers inside her, and she pants into my mouth. I stroke her, hold her, caressing her to a place where she is trembling in my arms. And there is nothing sweeter than this woman trembling in my arms. She shatters for me, trembling, becoming a quake, until she collapses, melting into me, my name on her lips.
I cradle her body and then scoop her up, carrying her to the stairs, where I start the walk up to our bedroom. Holding everything in my arms—and the thing about holding everything in your arms is that you have everything to lose. I know this. Losing my brother makes this painfully evident. It makes the moment I lay her in our bed powerful. Right. It makes every touch, every taste that follows, more intense. It makes the moment I’m inside her, buried deep, too soon, and yet I need it and her.
Hours later, after the storm of passion between us is spent, we lie in bed again, and I listen to her breathing, that dark, possessive need to protect her I’d felt at the restaurant last night back again. Maybe it’s the side effect of death, and near death, that is too raw, but it reminds me of a feeling I used to get when I was trying a case and knew something was wrong. I was missing something. What am I missing now?
* * *
Morning comes, and with the closure of the week, I plan to mark the final, signed closure of the sports center contract as well. Friday also officially delivers the gift that just keeps giving: my father. He’s at the office, it seems, solely for the purpose of expressing his impatience for the sports complex closing, no doubt ready to revel in Mike’s defeat and get paid for it. “Why hasn’t that broker returned the signed agreement?” he demands, buzzing into my office for the third time this morning with no other greeting.
“He has six signatures to acquire,” I say. “And I have far more than that once he returns it.”
“I hope like hell you plan to make your part happen this weekend,” he grumbles. “Call me when the contract is in.”
Three hours later he appears in my office, his scalp still smooth, his blue suit draping his thin body. “Well?”
Jessica appears in the doorway, holding up an envelope. “The executed contract just arrived. It’s done.”
My father glares at her. “It’s not done,” he snaps. “Every one of our investors has to review this contract and sign it. Get to work.” He charges toward her, and she backs out of the office to let him depart.
A moment later she reappears and walks toward me. “I’m shocked this white dress I’m wearing today isn’t splattered with my own blood right about now.” She holds up the folder in her hand. “I assume you want to review this before I prep any packages we’ll need to courier out tonight?”
“I do,” I say, accepting the envelope from her. “There will be a total of twelve signatures. Call them and alert them that this is not only happening, but we need it to happen by Monday morning. Courier them the contracts and include a return envelope that’s addressed to my apartment.”
“In other words,” she says, “it’s going to be a late night. Good thing I have absolutely no love life.”
I read between Jessica’s well-defined lines. “What kind of Band-Aid do you want?”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She simply says, “Chanel.”
“Use my card.”
“What’s my limit?”
“Seven thousand.”
“God, I love this family,” she says. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to start making copies.”
She exits the office and shuts the door. I immediately pick up the phone and dial Emily. “The contract is in.”
“Yay! Do we drink that expensive whiskey your father gave us tonight?”
“After we execute the reverse signatures.”
“And then we drink,” she says.
“And then we drink.”
“And then we’re done with him.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “And then we’re done with him.”
We disconnect the line and I sit there, processing those words: And then we’re done with him.
My fingers tap the desk. I should be celebrating those words, but the truth is, I’d still feel better if he were dead. I dial Seth, and a few minutes later we stand at the window, side by side.
“I planned to kill Martina,” I confess. “After some time had passed and I’d distanced myself from him.”
“Time and space is a necessity,” he says, never missing a beat. “And killing him might be too humane anyway.”
I arch a brow. “You have my attention.”
“My suggestion is a slow, calculated plan over the course of a year to eighteen months that includes bad press that won’t go away and gets him and his father the wrong kind of attention. Once his father turns on him, we slowly destroy his financial assets. He’ll be broke and broken.”
“Broke and broken,” I say, my lips curving with the idea. “Make it happen.”
Just the idea is a weight off my shoulders. Because when you have everything to lose, you want to make sure that anyone who would—or could—take it away is broke, broken, or dead.