Caleb stepped heavily on Nathan’s lead foot, causing him to lose his balance, arms windmilling to regain it. Caleb stepped between Nathan and Francesca, protecting her from junior’s clumsiness. She touched Caleb’s arm, tilted her chin up, and smiled with gratitude and amusement. He thought she was about to say something nice. Then Nathan grunted in rage and came at him, leaving Caleb only enough time to slap the punch aside and escort Francesca a few yards from the commotion.
Nathan howled, cradling his hand against his chest. A glance told Caleb it was dislocated, not broken, and that Francesca’s amusement had morphed to horror. His seduction had turned into a shitshow.
Quickly assessing his priorities, hoping to salvage the moment, Caleb waved the ever-watchful bodyguards forward, suggesting with a tilt of his head that they hustle Nathan Plimpton and his caterwauling from the room. Francesca’s guards exchanged glances as they hurried to the scene, and seemed to conclude Caleb’s plan acceptable, because they left with Nathan dangling between them, struggling, his feet dragging on the floor.
Nathan wasn’t happy, but Caleb was. Two birds with one stone. Francesca’s companion and her security guards were now occupied elsewhere, and he was the only one left on the field.
She acted as if nothing had transpired, but upon closer inspection, Caleb noticed her eyes were unfocused and she seemed to be listening to the room, gauging the level of disruption they’d created. After a moment of tense silence, she stepped closer and brought with her a waft of perfume—something complicated and expensive.
“My father noticed the commotion,” she whispered.
“I’m sure he didn’t.” Oh, yeah. Hamilton noticed.
“Hmm.” She glanced at him, her lips pursed. “You know what Freud says.” He arched his brow, instantly reminded that she was a clinical psychologist. Who else would quote Freud?
“No. What does Freud have to say?” Just hearing the words leave his lips forced Caleb to suppress a smile. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and he guessed a smile from him at this particular moment would do just that.
“‘He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.’” Francesca nodded, biting her lip so hard he feared she’s bleed. “My father notices everything…and he’s upset.”
Caleb suppressed a sigh. It was inevitable, of course. Nathan Plimpton had made a scene. But a glance told him the ailing patriarch was still conferring with his guests, mostly older Romeos eying Francesca like they were calculating their opening bids for the CEO/president slot. So Hamilton had noticed the commotion, but as yet had decided not to approach.
Caleb donned a calming smile, hoping to ease her mind. “Maybe if we stand real still, your father will find a shiny object to entertain him.” He bit his lower lip, as if trying to suppress a smile. When she mirrored him and glanced at her father before quickly looking away, he pushed down his frustration because when he’d approached, she was looking for fun. Now, after Nathan Plimpton’s interference, she was worried about her father.
Her father. Jonathan Hamilton.
The man’s second-in-command, Brent Levine, stood at his right—an ex-SEAL turned bodyguard turned Hamilton underling. Harris Tate, additional security, stood to Hamilton’s left. Caleb called them Barbie and Ken, one blond, one brunette, but whichever pissed him off at the time was always Ken. No balls. Their dossiers listed more than their share of action, so ball-less or not, they were still dangerous. Also, sources said Levine, the dark-haired one, was Hamilton’s tentative first choice for CEO/president, and most likely would be Francesca’s groom-to-be.
“Father won’t like that you hurt Nathan.” She seemed less upset than calculating, as if it were a problem she could solve. It amused him and made him want to tease her about it, but he didn’t want to risk misreading the moment, so he took two martinis off a passing waiter’s tray and handed her one. Francesca didn’t hesitate. She sipped and then grimaced. She waved a hand to someone behind Caleb. A waitress, dressed in black, stepped to her side. “Jessica, tell the bar they’re still using too much vermouth.” Jessica nodded and then hurried to comply. “Better hope my father doesn’t find out.”
Caleb sipped his drink, thinking the balance of vermouth to gin seemed fine. “I’d be surprised if he didn’t already know.”
“Hmm?” Distracted, she sipped her martini again and wrinkled her nose.
“Nathan’s hand,” he said. The cloud of confusion lifted from her face and she scowled.
“Nathan deserved what he got.” She relaxed, her gaze going all soft and flirty. “I was talking about the martini. Father has high standards.” She held the stem of her glass and almost lifted it to her lips, but at the last moment seemed to remember its flaw. As she moved, he noticed the red bruises developing on her pale wrist.
Caleb searched the room for evidence of Nathan, wanting to beat the shit out of the guy, but he was gone, and schooling a pup wasn’t his job, so Caleb pushed the urge down and consoled himself with finally having Francesca all to himself. Well, almost. He glanced at the staring crowd and realized this was probably as intimate a setting as he’d get, so he cupped her wrist, noting its delicacy, but instead of thinking of sweet nothings to say, he found himself unable to shrug off Nathan hurting her. It filled him with tempered rage. He felt responsible. Was responsible. The asshole wouldn’t have manhandled Francesca if Caleb had shown restraint.
“I’m sorry.” His words startled her…his mangled voice box had a way of doing that, making him sound menacing.
She swallowed hard and then slowly pulled her wrist away, but instead of withdrawing completely, she intertwined their fingers, exploring the callus between his thumb and index finger. He wondered if she knew it came from firing a weapon.
A glance told Caleb that Hamilton was watching them. Not ideal. The plan was supposed to be hide under the radar, sneak attack, but what the fuck was he supposed to do? She was guarded by security every moment of the day, and she was the one holding his hand. Socialites were tittering, gathering in groups, agog at her behavior. The other “applicants” for Francesca’s hand in marriage were frowning, in various levels of annoyance to see Caleb breaking through barriers they’d been unable to breach. Again, not ideal, but fuck ’em.
“Yikes. My father is coming over.” Her hand clutched his, gripping more tightly, sending mixed signals. Did she want him to hold her hand or not?
“I could walk away,” he said. “Just say the word.” He kept his tone casual, but his frustration was at the boiling point. He’d only just gotten her alone.
“I don’t want you to walk away.” She seemed more interested in his lips than meeting his gaze, allowing him to see her raw desire, with no pretense. It was arousing, refreshing, and damn honest, making him want to drag her from the party and touch her, and keep touching her until this growing hunger that kept him on edge was at least manageable.
“You are such a flirt,” Caleb said. It was one thing to seduce a woman, another altogether when Dad put the porch light on and peeked through the drapes. Francesca knew her father was heading over, advancing through the crowd, and she was tormenting Caleb with what he couldn’t have. Unless she was oblivious, he thought, and had no idea how visceral his attraction to her was. He studied her face, thinking it a possibility. He wasn’t sure and wanted to escape with her to find out. “Come with me.” It was a bad idea. It would fuck with his bottom line, but it wasn’t as if he’d planned to say the words. They’d just popped out of his mouth.
She nervously tilted her head, bringing his attention to her approaching father and his entourage. “After?” She lifted her brows, seeking his okay. Even with a week’s worth of mutual flirting under their belts, it never failed to amaze him how clueless Francesca was about her appeal. How could she not know he’d walk through coals to get her alone?
Caleb felt sorry for her…because he knew what was coming, he had a
soul, and a healthy conscience, and because she was buying him hook, line, and sinker. If he had his way, for her troubles and his sins, they were going to burn for each other, until there was no strength left in them, until night turned into day, until she was willing to do anything to please him…even betray her father. So yeah…he’d earn his place in hell, but…
“'After’ sounds good.” He winked.
Chapter Two
Francesca was nervous about holding Caleb’s hand with her father was on his way over, and very nervous that she’d agreed to a romantic liaison with a man so clearly out of her league. She blamed those two major stresses for her rudeness…allowing her gaze to linger too long on his amazing physique…getting caught gawking. Now he was returning the favor, his gaze starting at her toes, up her calves, thighs, to her hips, and waist.
Francesca sucked in her gut and pushed her shoulders back. She didn’t work out like Caleb obviously did, and being reasonably tall and annoyingly big-boned, she had the tendency to hunch, or so her father complained. But Caleb didn’t seem to mind. He was handsome in a rough, dangerous way and his voice dripped of sin, low and seductive.
A week ago, she’d watched Caleb’s black sports car enter the mansion’s circular drive and assumed whomever owned it was another suit her father always had around. When Caleb stepped out, his size intimidated her, and when the staff treated him like a big deal, the feeling just got worse…but her curiosity grew. That day she’d been off work, and she’d planned on lounging in bed, reading from her TBR pile, eating chocolate, watching a Jane Austen flick, but then Darcy started looking like the man in the black sports car, and her book boyfriends all had wide shoulders, and wore a leather jacket and boots. By lunch time, she’d given up and jumped in the shower, spent an inordinate amount of time primping, then she wandered the halls of the mansion near her father’s office in hopes of “accidentally” stumbling upon the big guy. It didn’t take long. She found him sitting in the foyer, as if waiting for the chauffeur to bring his car up front. When their gazes locked, he smiled, and something clicked in Francesca. Something sexual…and uncontrollable…and unfamiliar. She froze, and ducked into the kitchen. The week was mostly like that…tonight was supposed to be different. She’d gotten all dolled up, even pulled out the four inch heels for him.
Caleb lowered his gaze, and seemed to be waiting, as if resolved. Francesca realized he’d caught her staring at the scar on his neck, and suddenly she went from feeling like a sex kitten to the worst person ever.
“Sorry.” She indicated his scar with a waving index finger to her neck, figuring it was best to talk about the elephant in the room rather than dance around it. “A sporting accident?”
He tilted his head to the side, giving her a kind smile. “Life.”
He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Fine. There were plenty of things Francesca didn’t want to talk about. Like why such a drool-worthy, yummy guy had chosen to flirt with her all week long, or even stand next to her now, when there were a multitude of more attractive and equally rich women in the room. She glanced around said room, unable to miss the staring eyes, and finding it progressively harder to keep her belly sucked in while breathing enough not to faint. A guest tittered loudly, catching her attention. Unbelievable. People weren’t even trying to hide that they were staring at them—probably wondering the same things she was—but it was just plain rude.
“Don’t care what they think.” Caleb arched a brow. “They have no power you don’t give them.” He lifted her hand to his lips, caressing each knuckle with a brief kiss. It was romantic, and sexy, and she couldn’t help but wonder what his lips would feel like on her neck, her breasts, and…elsewhere.
“You don’t care?” Because everyone else cared about what was going on, that Caleb was making a move on her. In fact, she’d be surprised if every dinner table in the Boston metro area wasn’t talking about Caleb Smith kissing billionaire tycoon Jonathan Hamilton’s daughter’s hand at her graduation party. Her name wouldn’t even be used, because who cared about Francesca? She was only gossip-worthy because of who her father was. Her father, who was pulling away from the latest guest who delayed him, bending his ear.
Caleb stopped kissing her knuckles, but kept her hand close to his mouth. “I don’t care about them,” he said.
Anxiety had her pulling her hand from his, finding it hard to think when he was touching her. “Are you saying no one has power over you?”
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Do you want power over me?”
Francesca found she liked the idea a lot and was trembling at the thought. He was so damn much. She’d never found herself in this situation, unsure of how to act like his equal. She placed her subpar martini on a passing waiter’s tray and used the distraction to buy time to shore up her courage. “I’m feeling…”
Caleb stepped closer. “What are you feeling?”
That my father is almost upon us. She dragged her gaze from her father’s steely, disapproving one and did her best to live in the moment. “I’m feeling good.” It was a totally inadequate response to a leading bit of flirtation she’d failed miserably to match, but honesty would have embarrassed her.
Francesca felt wanted. In a room full of her father’s friends and associates, she had no illusions they were there to celebrate her achievement. They had agendas, and she was okay with that, but…Caleb wanted her. To talk to her, stand with her, flirt with her. She knew little more than his reputation, but it was said he was rich as Midas, so Caleb Smith didn’t need Francesca Hamilton, and she could only surmise that he spent time with her because he chose to…and didn’t that just circle back to that oh-so-delightful feeling that Caleb Smith wanted her.
Her father was but a few steps away, delayed by another guest’s outstretched hand, and pissed, barely hiding it.
Caleb leaned close, pressing his lips to her ear. “I can’t wait to touch you without an audience.” He wasn’t mincing words…and she liked it. But…what the hell?
“What are we doing?” she whispered back. Her father would not approve, and he had a habit of raining on her parade. Her instinct told her to pull back, reassess.
Caleb met her gaze and opened his mouth, as if a reply was at the ready. Francesca anticipated a smooth, sexy response, but instead, Caleb smiled with self-deprecation. “Being seduced to sin.”
“Francesca.” Her father arrived at her side, surrounded by his entourage. The one constant in her peripatetic life, he did more to mold Francesca than anyone. He’d taught her young that she was never enough, and in defense of her self-worth, she’d spent as much of her life as possible away from him.
His right-hand man, Brent Levine, and his associate, Harris Tate, bookended her father, so when she kissed his cheek, she was closer to them than she was comfortable with.
“The party is going well,” she said. “Everyone seems happy.”
She could feel Brent’s gaze rake possessively over her body, and Harris was giving her his usual creepy leer. She tried to ignore them both, focusing on her father, who appeared more pale and weak than normal. When he took her hand, she thought it was to help him maintain his balance. She was surprised to feel him clutch it, force her hand into the crook of his elbow, and in effect, control her physically, forcefully.
“Smith.” Her father’s grimace created more folds around his mouth, an unwanted reminder of his sudden weight loss. She knew it galled her father that his body was failing him so spectacularly. Always a robust and powerful man, his weakness disgusted him, and though he’d never been an easy man to be around, he was even less so lately as his temper grew short and his emotional outbursts more frequent. She’d chosen Boston for her PhD studies to be near him in his final days, but from the looks of him, she should have come sooner. His illness was ravaging his body quickly.
“Hamilton,” Caleb said.
“You broke Nathan Plimpton’s hand. He’s a son of an influential senator—”
“I know Nathan,” Caleb said.
“—who is poised to vote on a bill I need passed,” Hamilton talked over him. “Now I’m sending his son home broken. Smith, your behavior has jeopardized an important negotiation.”
“Father.” She lifted her wrist, revealing the bruise. “Nathan wasn’t behaving.”
Her father ignored her, holding Caleb’s gaze. “Are you suggesting a junior partner of Plimpton and Stern assaulted my daughter right under my nose?”
To do so would question her father’s authority, his ability to control his environment, and be seen as an insult. It was a twisted piece of logic, but he was her father, so she enabled him. Francesca shook her head. “It was a misunderstanding.”
Caleb frowned. “He hurt her. Continued to hurt her. So I stopped him.”
Francesca could tell her father was growing more agitated. “Caleb, please.” She shook her head again, hoping to stop further argument.
Her father’s fingers bit into the back of her hand and when she flinched, and instinctively tugged to escape, he jerked her hand to stop her struggles, so Francesca resigned herself to endure and hide the pain, lest Caleb decide to save her again, but this time from her father. Moments later, her relaxing seemed to have prompted her father’s grip to relax also.
“Smith, you need to fix this,” her father said. “Apologize to Nathan.”
“No.” Caleb tilted his head to the side, seemingly unperturbed. “But I could arrange a phone call with his father, the senator. Would that be helpful?” Francesca felt her father tense even more. He didn’t like surprises.
“Bullshit,” he said.
Caleb arched a brow. “You could consider it a thank-you for signing my contract.”
Her father snorted derisively. “I haven’t signed your contract.”
Caleb slipped his phone from his pocket and dialed, and then held it to his ear. Francesca recognized a deal being made, and was impressed that Caleb had enough chutzpah to make her father, king of all he surveyed, negotiate. It was no small thing, especially with her father in this mood. Then Caleb winked at her, and Francesca melted, because he made her feel like they were a team, that they had something going on, and she really, really, really liked that.
Seduced by Sin (Unlikely Hero) Page 2