by S. M. West
“Do you need anything before we leave?” I ask and she hesitates, glancing up the stairs and then out the front door. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”
She doesn’t have a chance to answer before the officer says, “Sorry, sir, you’re not allowed up there. One of us will go up and gather what you need if you tell us where it is.”
“My bathroom under the sink, there’s a blue toiletries bag.” She hides her face by looking down at her clothes. “I don’t have anything else to wear, but…”
She wants to get out of here, and my guess is the thought of even having to think of her bedroom and the instructions she’d have to give the police is too daunting and troublesome.
“Don’t worry about your clothes. I’ve got you covered.” My arm slides around her shoulders and I wink at her for my poorly timed double entendre.
While the officer goes upstairs, Paige leans into me and I willingly give her the support, for my sake as much as hers. We stand like that for a beat or two.
“Did you call your family or friends?” I ask, not ready to hand over the responsibility of caring for her to someone else but also knowing we are acquaintances with a business deal.
Last night’s dinner may have been a success, great even, but it doesn’t change the fact that none of this is real.
We aren’t real.
But I can still be here for her. I feel responsible for what happened tonight, and once her brother finds out, Drew will likely feel the same way.
“What?” She looks up at me, dazed as if she was somewhere else and only now realizes where she is.
“Do your parents know what happened tonight? Drew?”
“No, Mom and Sam are away, and I won’t tell Drew tonight. He’d be on the first flight to Toronto, and Dad…well, no.”
“Okay.” I nod to the officer in thanks and gently nudge her out the door.
“Why?” she asks as we near my car.
“I wondered where you were staying tonight.”
Stay with me.
“Oh. Um, I guess my mom’s. I could stay with the family friends taking care of my youngest brother but…”
“But what?” I lean forward to open the passenger door to my car for her.
“Too many people and I don’t want to worry Bas.” She nibbles on her bottom lip, glancing to her feet and back up at me. “Can you take me to a hotel?”
Uncertainty swims in her usually warm chocolate gaze and I make the decision to push beyond our fake relationship. Besides, what I’m about to ask will only help our deal.
“Stay with me.”
“I don’t think that’s…”
“Stay tonight or as long as you want. You don’t have a permanent place to live right now.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” Her attempt at levity makes me chuckle.
“My building has security and I’ve got more than enough room.”
She’s about to open her mouth to protest—it’s written all over her face—when I place one finger on her now parted lips.
“It’s getting late and I don’t want you alone.”
“Okay.” She gives in more easily than I anticipated, and her tone suggests fatigue is the culprit—she’s too tired to argue—but her relief is hard to miss.
Turning to face the Bugatti, she slides into the cockpit-designed interior and sighs, “This is some car.”
I smirk at the admiration in her voice and nod, shutting the door, and when I slip into the driver seat, I find her palm running seductively along the buttery, one-of-a-kind leather.
The crotch area of my pants tightens at the thought of her hand stroking me like that.
Damn. I’ve got to get my head on straight.
Twelve
Zach
“Can we drive around for a bit?” Paige asks.
“Sure. What did you have in mind?”
She isn’t dressed for public places and even if she’s okay with it, I’m not. Those shorts and her tank top aren’t everyday clothes and now that I’ve had a closer look, I’m sure it’s her sleepwear.
“Nowhere in particular. I’m not ready to go to your place. Can we just drive?”
I nod, push the start button, and drive down the street, away from the glaring lights and activity.
“I’m not a car person but I think I’m in love.” Her hand does that thing again with the leather and I force my eyes back on the road.
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“Wow. No modesty, I see.” She gifts me her first genuine smile all night.
“Pardon?”
“You’re so sure of yourself and your choices.”
It’s in my nature to deliver a sharp, witty comeback, but her raw, open demeanor has me at a loss for words.
“I think it’s what I like about you the most,” she muses, looking straight ahead, out the windshield.
“You like me?”
When she turns to face me, I wink, again, and top it off with a sly grin. She laughs and rolls her eyes and while it’s short-lived, I’ll take it. Her eyes now hold a slight shine. A little more of her spark is back.
“You make no apologies for who you are and even filthy rich, your money isn’t even a factor.”
“I’m not sure I’m following. What are you talking about?”
“You’re a billionaire,” she says like she’s unable to wrap her head around the concept.
“Go on.”
“But you don’t make a big deal about it. Something tells me you’d be this self-assured and confident in who you are even if you lived under the Gardiner Expressway.”
I chuckle, shaking my head at the homeless image of me she’s conjured in my head. “Okay. That was kind of random.”
“Turn here.”
She points at the upcoming street, which heads east along the lakeshore. I take the turn and she gazes out the window at the lake to our right, our conversation abandoned.
Silence slides over us like a warm blanket and during our drive, I seize every opportunity to glance her way. With her head resting against the window, it’s hard to tell if she’s focused on the dark thick haze of the night or if her eyes are closed.
Her small form is curled into the seat, feet up and knees tucked into her chest. It’s a little after eleven and she’s got to be exhausted.
“I’m so angry. Angry at him and at myself.”
Her statement cuts at the soothing silence and while out of nowhere, I can relate to some of what she says. But not all of it. Some of it is troublesome. Anger isn’t even close to what I feel about Joel Hummel.
“I get why you’re angry with him, but why at yourself?”
“Because I let him take it this far. I should’ve moved out the first time I found him in my place and now he’s gotten into my head.”
She bitterly taps the side of her skull and I bite my tongue to hold back the admonishment for how harshly she’s treating herself.
“You’re going to be okay.” It seems like the thing to say and while I believe it, the words are hollow.
“I just feel so violated. The police think what I heard from the bathroom was him leaving.”
“It probably was.” With that thought, my fingers grip the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles whiten.
“You know the part that freaks me out the most?” She faces me, eyes now bright, and I wait for her to go on, but her pause is longer than I expect.
Finally, I fill the thick emptiness threatening to swallow us. “That he was there when you were in the bathroom?”
The mention of body fluids on her underwear slithers through my mind like a cold-blooded reptile. Does she know just how far Hummel went tonight?
It’s disturbing, and if she doesn’t know, I won’t be the one to tell her. Not now. It’ll only mess with her some more. Maybe later.
“Yes. But that he was there when I came home. Before the bath. I don’t remember what I did. I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Then don’t.”
> Her head whips in my direction and her stare is incredulous in a disappointed or affronted way, her mouth open and gaping.
“I know it’s easier said than done,” I say, quick to dispel any misunderstanding. “But you get to choose how or if this affects you. He’s a sick asshole and he will pay for what he did, but don’t let him get into your mind.”
Each word takes a little bit of the fight out of her as her body slumps farther and farther into the bucket seat. Her head lightly hits the car window with a thud and she burrows further into herself.
“This is a really nice car,” she murmurs, and I take her lead and drop it.
We drive parallel to Lake Ontario, at times almost at the water’s edge, and somewhere along the way, she drifts to sleep. By the time I’m parking in the underground lot of my building, it’s nearly two hours since we left her house and the police.
My phone has vibrated a few times while on the road, and I take the time to read what’s come in while Paige sleeps. Tamara has already sent a report. This is why she is one of the best. Even down, she rises to the occasion and she won’t make the same mistake twice.
Hummel has been arrested and he’s behind bars for the night. The private investigator, hired by Tamara’s team, decided to take a dinner break while watching Hummel and the idiot didn’t call in for back-up. And as luck would have it, during that window of time, Hummel left for Paige’s.
Many people messed up tonight. Tamara for hiring a firm I’ve never used before nor approved, the P.I., who is now out of a job, for not carrying out duties as assigned, and most of all me for not staying on top of this.
I could argue that I’d been too trusting or left it for others to manage because Paige’s situation was inconsequential to me, but that’s no longer the case. This is on me.
Satisfied with where things are for now, I scoop Paige out of the car, and she doesn’t move a muscle. She snuggles into my chest, her arms resting on her torso and her head on my shoulder.
It’s just past one in the morning and while in the elevator, I remember it’s poker night. I left my penthouse filled with about two dozen men. You’d think the guys would be long gone, but based on past experience, the diehard poker players—or guys who don’t want to go home to their wives or empty houses—will be just getting started.
I step off the elevator and three curious gazes pounce on me. It’s barely a blink before their thirsty stares wander to Paige’s slumbering form. They drink from her body, slowly, greedily at length, and judging from their expressions, she’s an oasis in the desert.
Dammit, I should have called earlier and told them to leave—and I completely forgot Donovan was among the idiots still at my place. Now I’m wondering how much of an eyeful he and the others have of her legs and other parts in these tiny shorts. I wish I had covered her up.
As if sensing the growing tension in my body, she stirs and her dark lashes flutter open. My face is the first she sees, and I’m gifted with the birth of her smile.
“What happened?” Like a hyena, Donovan inches closer to Paige—what he deems prized prey—and he wants to get his pound of flesh.
While Donovan is no stranger to her, she fidgets in my arms, now very aware she’s the main course, and seeks her feet under her.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she says, and I carefully put her down. “Thank you.” She tugs at the hem of her shorts but doesn’t shy away or cover her gorgeous legs from the hungry stares.
Both Walker, who some might say is my best friend for lack of a better word, and Gareth, one of my senior executives and a classmate from Harvard, look on with interest, all waiting for my response.
For several reasons, I want to tell them she is my fiancée, mostly to get them to back off and to mark her—mainly for Donovan—but I don’t go there. Not because of what Paige might do but because these men are gossips and like a clique. Anything I tell them will make the rounds of our social circle by lunchtime tomorrow and this includes Nan hearing about said fake engagement.
“She’s all right. This is Paige Hayes. My girlfriend.” I cringe at my poor choice of words.
Walker’s eyebrows skyrocket to his hairline. Donovan and Gareth do a better job of schooling their thoughts. A woman in my home isn’t a shocker, much less having one here on poker night.
What’s different is my entrance with Paige in my arms like I care. Staking a claim is totally my thing but not like this. I’m smoother, more subtle, and I’d never say “girlfriend.”
What am I doing?
Oh, yeah, I’m making it clear she’s off-limits because there’s no ambiguity about their intentions where she’s concerned. They’re hoping she’s fair game. Or more specifically, Donovan wants a piece and likely thinks he’s entitled to her given their brief history.
“Hi, Paige, I’m Walker Drummond. It’s a pleasure.” He takes her hand and gently kisses it.
I only hope the other two are smart enough to follow Walker’s lead. He and I are similar in that he wouldn’t move in on someone I’m seeing or even interested in. Besides, as horny or interested as Walk might be, he’s newly divorced. The inflicted wounds of his cheating wife are still fresh and tender.
“Hello.” Her smile is tight and nowhere near her eyes.
He reads her well and silently steps back. Unfortunately, Donovan is drunk and uncharacteristically clueless, wobbling toward her with a leering gaze—although I doubt he’d back off even sober. For some twisted reason, he thinks he has a right to Paige. Sinking my fingers into the bone of his shoulder, I stop him from getting any closer. He’s already too close.
“Paige, this is Gareth Markson, and Donovan you already know.”
She nods in greeting and Gareth does the same, but Donovan tries to get closer and the whiskey on him pricks at my nose.
“You don’t look okay,” Donovan slurs, trying to stand straight. “Let me take you home.”
He grabs for her arm and she steps back, closer to me. Her features bunch and twist, troubled. “I’m fine.”
“Paige, let me take care of you.” He tries again and steps toward her. “I know what you need.”
This time, in her still sleepy state, she isn’t fast enough, and he manages to latch onto her wrist.
“How the hell would you know what she needs?” My menacing tone causes him to pause as I get up close and personal.
“No.” Paige pulls back and into my side. “I’m staying with Zach.”
My chest swells at her willingness to trust I will take care of her and I widen my stance and broaden my chest like a barrier around her.
“Get him out of here,” Walker says before I can.
Gareth drags Donovan away while he mumbles crap about wanting to be there for her. She grips my forearm, fingernails breaking my flesh, and I grit my teeth to hold back a hiss. Pivoting, she takes me with her, my back now to the men as she steps into me, my body shielding her from their view.
“Get me out of here. Please. What is this, a party or something?”
It’s then the blaring music registers as do the many male voices booming like launched cannons from the game room.
“It’s poker night. I totally forgot when once you answered the phone. I’ll get rid of them.”
Before I can do as I promised, her nails dig into my muscle again. She’s got my attention. “Is there a washroom or somewhere I can go while they leave? I’m not exactly dressed for this.”
Within earshot, Walker offers to take her upstairs and while I want to be the one to do it, I need to tell the rowdy gang to hit the road, and it’s going to take a while. And I want to make sure Donovan leaves.
Thirty minutes later, all except Walker are gone. He lingers by the elevator and the wheels turning in his head are hard to miss.
“Just say it.” I tuck my hands in my pockets.
“Is she the one?”
Now there’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. There are so many ways I could take the question, albeit Walker knows about my plan to get m
y trust earlier. He even offered to float me the cash but I’m doing this on my own.
“Yes.”
“She’s pretty.” He smirks and my expression grows grim, exhausted and wanting him to leave. But for some reason, he’s not reading the signals or not smart enough tonight to leave well enough alone. “I thought the deal was strictly business. Did you work out benefits on the side?”
He isn’t suggesting anything I wouldn’t think to ask if the roles were reversed and he brought his fake partner to his home. Needless to say, his question more than gets under my skin—it burns—and I won’t entertain this conversation.
Uncurling my clenched fist, I hit the elevator button and the doors slide open. “We’re done here. Good night, Walk.”
“Hey, sorry, Zach,” he calls but I don’t give him a backward glance.
A sliver of light peeks from the bottom of the closed door to the bedroom where Paige should be sleeping. Fighting back the urge to check in on her—I don’t want to disturb her if she’s close to sleep—I take a quick shower, change, and then check again to see if the light is now out. It isn’t.
I tap on the door and wait. I do this a few more times and then whether imagined or not, I tell myself there was a faint murmur from the other side. That’s all I need to enter the room, where Paige sits on the bed with her back against the headboard, legs out in front of her, tucked under the covers. Her long hair is bedraggled and she’s staring straight ahead. The light from the bathroom streams through the open door.
She doesn’t acknowledge me, not even when I call her name. She’s not with me. It’s written all over her face. She’s caught up in the spin of her thoughts, a tornado of chaos.
Sighing, I sit beside her, looking directly into her glazed brown eyes. Perhaps it’s the movement since I am so close to her, or that I’m now in her line of sight, but she blinks several times and recognition seeps into her features. It’s as if she’s seeing me for the first time since I came into the room.