So this was Tate House. It was, she had to admit, amazing. Beautiful even.
Grief ached at the reminder of her father, a grief that was as much to do with anger as it was with loss. At yet another empty promise he’d made to her.
But no, she wasn’t going to think about that now. She had to concentrate on what was important, and that was talking to Sullivan about the ranch. The rest of her feelings she could deal with later.
Chloe swallowed back the thickness in her throat and ignored the ache in her chest, glancing off to her right, to where the door to the sitting room was.
Okay, might as well go and sit down since there wasn’t much else to do.
Going over to the door, she pulled it open and stepped inside.
The sitting room was as elegant as the gallery outside it, decorated in shades of white and cream. There was a sofa set before the fireplace, upholstered in white linen, with matching armchairs arranged beside it. A huge antique mirror was displayed above the white marble mantelpiece, reflecting the light from expensive-looking lamps positioned around the room plus the massive crystal chandelier that graced the vaulted, ornate ceiling. Art covered the walls—paintings by artists Chloe didn’t recognize as well as a few artsy photographs. Along one wall were huge windows that looked out over the streets but were now covered with thick, white textured curtains.
It was all grace and elegance. However, on the coffee table in front of the couch were signs of Tate House’s new occupant—an open pizza box with a single cold pizza slice in it, a couple of cans of beer, and, incongruously, what looked like a gun that had been taken apart, the pieces all laid out carefully on a length of white cloth.
Ignoring the interesting-looking bits of metal for the moment, Chloe moved over to the fireplace, dropping her duffel bag beside the couch as she went, her attention caught by the framed photographs sitting on the mantelpiece. They were all of her father with various important-looking people, including one of him with three men in uniform.
Noah Tate was a tall man and yet even he was dwarfed by his three adopted sons, all of them six-two at the very least. There was Wolf, the tallest, his uniform straining over his massive shoulders and his different-colored eyes vivid against his olive skin. Beside him was Lucas, his heartbreakingly handsome features saved from complete prettiness by the strength of his jaw and the icy gleam of his silver-blue eyes. And Sullivan, about the same height as Lucas, but not as pretty. His dark brows were straight, his hazel gaze staring straight at the camera with more than a hint of defiance. Noah was standing beside Sullivan, his hands folded in front of him, his craggy features typically stern.
The thickness returned to Chloe’s throat. He always looked good, did Noah, holding his own against his handsome foster sons with a full head of silver hair and a proud beak of a nose from some Roman ancestor. There was a dynamism to him, a charisma that had helped take him from poor rancher to oil magnate within the space of thirty years.
He’d been an absent father. Hardly around while she was growing up, leaving her mainly in the care of the ranch housekeeper while he spent long periods in New York at Tate Oil and Gas. But the rare times he visited, he’d always been attentive if emotionally distant toward her, and once she’d started managing the ranch herself, he’d even been openly approving.
Which made it so strange that he’d given the ranch to Sullivan.
Noah had told her it was her responsibility, had told her that it would pass to her, and certainly he’d known how much that place had meant to her, how much she loved it. And the obvious backtrack of that will made no sense.
She didn’t care about his oil billions. She didn’t give one single fuck about his company, or his power, or whatever else he’d had. It was the ranch that she wanted. The ranch that was everything to her. And he’d promised …
You know how much his promises are worth.
Chloe shoved that thought away, allowing herself a moment before taking a look at the other pictures sitting there. They weren’t of anyone she recognized. And then another unexpected disappointment curled in her gut as she noticed something else.
There were no pictures of her. Not one. Not anywhere.
Weird. Did he not have any photos of her he liked? Or did he just not think of her while he was here? He had a photo of the boys, so why not of her?
Behind her came the click of the door, and she turned around sharply to find Sullivan had come back in. He was holding a plate with a sandwich on it in one hand and carrying what looked to be a glass of milk in the other. Kicking the door shut unceremoniously behind him, he walked to the coffee table and bent over it, pushing aside the pizza box and putting the plate and glass down. Then he straightened and looked at her. “Food,” he announced. “Which you don’t have to eat.”
Chloe glanced down at the plate. It looked like … Holy crap. “Peanut butter and jelly? Really?” She lifted her attention back to him. “I’m not eight anymore, you know that, right?”
He was standing on the other side of the coffee table with his arms folded, dark brows drawn down, a ferocious-looking expression on his strong face. With his shorn head, massive shoulders, and black overcoat, he looked like something lethal out of the Matrix. All he needed was sunglasses.
“I know how old you are.” His voice was flat.
“That would be twenty-five,” she reminded him, in case he actually didn’t.
For some reason this only made his expression turn even more ferocious. “It’s all I had in the fridge. Just eat it.”
Chloe ignored him. “I’m not here to eat sandwiches. I’m here to talk about the ranch. About the fact that Dad left everything to you.”
He stared silently at her a long moment then turned, shrugging out of the overcoat before throwing it carelessly over the back of the sofa. Underneath he wore a pair of worn dark blue jeans that sat low on his hips, plus a long-sleeved black T-shirt that pulled tight over his heavily muscled shoulders.
Flinging himself down in one of the armchairs, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, long, tanned fingers loosely linked between them. A big, powerful man, he made the chair he sat on look small and delicate.
That feeling that had kicked her at the airfield kicked again, making it difficult to tear her gaze away from him. Disturbed, she forced it down, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Well?” she demanded when he didn’t speak. “You’re going to give the ranch to me, aren’t you?”
“You’re wet.” His deep voice hit a place inside her she wasn’t quite comfortable with. “I hope you’ve got more than one change of clothes in that tiny bag.”
Irritated, Chloe shifted on her feet. “I’ve got another pair of jeans, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Two pairs of jeans? That’s it?”
“Was I supposed to bring more?” She glared at him. “Are you going to keep on ignoring me or what?”
His jaw hardened. Noticeably.
Too bad. He might be used to calling the shots with other people, but that wasn’t going to work with her. She hadn’t left Wyoming and flown over half the country purely to sit on the couch, eat a sandwich, and passively listen to him tell her what to do like a good girl. She was here to get her ranch back and that’s all.
She met his gaze, lifting her chin slightly, letting him know she wasn’t up for any kind of male bullshit, while he stared back, his black brows drawn down, somehow looking even more dangerous than he had out on the airfield tarmac.
A strange, electric kind of jolt pulsed down her spine, a cautious part of her whispering that maybe challenging him like this wasn’t such a great idea.
Chloe ignored the whisper. She managed a whole damn ranch and a bunch of male ranch hands, and she wasn’t about to let her own idiot foster brother get the better of her no matter how dangerous he looked.
“Okay,” Sullivan said after a long moment. “Have it your way. I didn’t bring you here to talk about the ranch.”
Surprise rippled thr
ough her. “What? But I thought—”
“You’re here because you’re in danger.”
* * *
Chloe’s dark eyes narrowed. She stood across from him near the fireplace, her arms folded, her shoulders hunched, all prickly and annoyed.
Again, he couldn’t blame her. Hearing what he had to say was going to suck, especially when he gave her the truth about the ranch too. But shit, he didn’t have a choice about this and neither did she, not if she wanted to be safe.
“So what?” she said. “According to Dad, I’m always in danger. How is this any different from any other time? And what has that got to do with the ranch?”
Their father had always been—in Van’s private view—a little overanxious about threats, both to his company and to his kids, especially Chloe because she was so much younger and … for other reasons. Noah had even employed private security guards to patrol the perimeter of the ranch, paying them well to stay out of sight and keep a low profile. The guards were all hardened mercs, who did their job and did it well. You wouldn’t even know they were there even if you were looking for them.
When Van was younger, he hadn’t questioned the need for guards, had simply accepted it as the price of having a wealthy, powerful father who had an equally wealthy and powerful enemy. But as he’d gotten older, he’d started to wonder if de Santis really was as dangerous as his father made out. Whether there was an actual reason to have armed guards everywhere, all the time, or whether his father was simply paranoid.
Even now, after reading that letter, he wondered. But even so, he couldn’t afford to dismiss it. If anything happened to Chloe while he was supposed to be protecting her …
Nothing will happen to her. Not if you do your job properly.
Yeah, and he would. End of story.
“It’s got nothing to do with the ranch,” he said, holding her gaze. “It’s about Cesare de Santis.”
“And?” She didn’t look surprised and why should she? Noah had brought them all up on tales of the de Santis family and the feud that had been going on between him and Cesare for over twenty years. How they’d once been friends until Cesare had tried to claim Noah’s oil strike for himself. How their friendship had subsequently dissolved into a bitter rivalry that was still going on.
Van eyed her. “Dad’s lawyer gave me a letter from Dad that was apparently only supposed to be given to me on the occasion of Dad’s death. It was a set of instructions.” He paused to let that sink in. “Instructions for protecting you.”
She blinked, thick, silky lashes fluttering. “You got a letter?”
Still thinking about the danger part of it, Van didn’t immediately notice the slight edge in her voice. “Yeah, Lucas and Wolf and I each got one.”
Her mouth opened, then shut, a spark of an emotion he couldn’t identify glittering briefly in her eyes. “I didn’t get a letter.”
He studied her. Hurt. That’s what it was. She was hurt. And no wonder. What the fuck had Noah been thinking? Van knew why Chloe hadn’t been given the ranch, but why Noah hadn’t sent her a letter of her own to explain a few things, Van had no idea.
In fact, the whole situation was tricky, because Noah had been very clear that Chloe wasn’t to know the specific reason why she in particular was being targeted by de Santis. Personally Van didn’t agree. If someone was in danger, they deserved to have all the information at their disposal so they could act accordingly, not be kept in the dark. But Noah’s letter couldn’t have been plainer; Chloe wasn’t to know the truth until the danger had passed.
It was a truth Van was having difficulty getting his head around himself and he preferred not to think about it, not when he had more pressing things to worry about.
He didn’t know what to tell her about the fact that she hadn’t gotten a letter, so he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Dad made it very clear you were in danger and that the ranch wasn’t safe for you anymore.”
Her eyes widened at that. “Not safe on the ranch? What the hell?”
“He was certain that if anything happened to him, de Santis would make a decisive move. And that you should be here in New York, where you could be better protected.”
“‘Better protected,’” she echoed, frowning even harder. “By who?”
“By me.”
For a second the frown vanished, then a brief look of shock passed like lightning over her face. “What?”
Before she’d arrived, Van had expected that when he told her about the danger she was in, she’d fall into line the way everyone else fell into line when he told them what was going to happen. But that had been before she’d stepped off the plane, before he’d gotten a glimpse of her anger and her stubborn determination. Before he’d fully understood that she wasn’t the excited, joyful little kid he’d once known.
Yeah, she wasn’t that anymore, and he had a feeling that she wasn’t going to fall in line like he’d hoped she would either.
“I have to protect you, Chloe,” he said. “It was in Dad’s letter. He wanted me to bring you to New York and protect you until I’ve managed to neutralize the de Santis threat.”
She stared crossly at him. “But I can’t stay here. You understand that, right? We’re in the middle of building a new stable complex and I need to be back there to oversee it.”
Shit. He was right. There would be no falling into line.
“I don’t give a crap what you need to do. Dad thought you were in danger and that you needed to be in New York where I could protect you.”
“I don’t think you get it.” Her lovely mouth had thinned. “I’m the manager. Of the entire ranch. I’ve got O’Neil taking care of things while I’m away, but he can only do that for a couple of days. This stable complex is—”
“Let me ask you something,” Van interrupted, trying to hold onto the threads of his fraying patience. “What’s more important to you? Your life or the ranch?”
She gave a short laugh. “No one’s going to kill me. Anyway, I asked Dad to reduce the number of guards patrolling the ranch a few months back since we didn’t need them. He wasn’t happy about it, so he didn’t. I have the full complement of men out there, which means I have more than enough to protect me. I certainly don’t need to be here.”
“Yeah, with a bunch of mercs who’ve got nothing to do all day but walk around checking perimeters and shooting at rabbits.” He leaned back in the armchair. “While here you’d be with a Navy SEAL whose last deployment was a couple of weeks ago in Eastern Europe taking out human traffickers.”
Chloe’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t care what your last deployment was. My ranch is in Wyoming, not New York, and that’s where I need to be.”
Stubborn woman. How could he have forgotten that? Even as a kid, she had been. Back then, he’d been impressed by it. How every time she fell off that little pony he’d been teaching her to ride, she’d get to her feet, dust herself off, and climb back up on its back again. Her chin would jut and she’d get that look in her eye, the one that was in her eyes right now. The one that said she was going to do what she wanted to do come hell or high water.
Unfortunately for her, this was one time when her determination wasn’t going to win.
“But it’s not your ranch, Chloe.” Van kept his tone calm. “It’s mine.”
Another expression blazed across her face—shock or rage or hurt, or maybe a combination of all three, he couldn’t tell. Then she looked away, her jaw tight, her shoulders hunched, as if trying to keep all that emotion locked up tight inside her. “It’s my ranch,” she repeated, as if saying it would make it so. “It’s mine. I’ve been pouring my own blood, sweat, and tears into that place for the last five years.” She shot him a dark glance. “When was the last time you even set foot on it?”
Van shifted uncomfortably in his chair, because he had a feeling she knew as well as he did exactly how long it had been. But there had been reasons for that, reasons he wasn’t going to share with her right now because quite frankl
y there were more important things at stake than how long he’d been away from the fucking ranch.
“It doesn’t matter when I last set foot on it.” He tried to ease the tension in his posture. “What matters is that you’re in danger and the ranch is no longer safe. Which means you’re staying in New York until this is over.”
Something in Chloe’s dark, bitter chocolate eyes flared. “And how long will that be? Weeks? Months? Years? Dad and de Santis have been enemies for twenty years. So if you’re telling me I have to stay here—”
“It won’t be goddamn twenty years,” he snapped, not sure why he was letting her aggravate him quite so much, only sure that she was very definitely aggravating him. “And if you think I like this any better than you do, then you can think again.”
A mutinous expression crossed her face. “I’m not staying here, Sullivan. I’m not. And you can’t make me.”
Fuck.
“So you don’t give a shit about your own life?”
She snorted. “Of course I give a shit. You just haven’t given me any compelling evidence that I’m better off here than I am at the ranch. And since you haven’t, I’ll be damned if I stay here any longer than I have to.”
Double fuck.
Anger glowed like an ember just behind his breastbone. He didn’t want to have to deal with this shit. What he wanted was to fix the mess Noah’s death had left at Tate Oil and Gas, find a new CEO to run the company, then head back to base and the military career he’d thrown his whole heart and soul into.
What he did not want was Chloe being argumentative when she was under threat. Especially when short of locking her up in one of the upstairs rooms, there wasn’t any way he could keep her here if she wanted to leave. Though, quite frankly, if it did come to locking her in a room in order to save her life, then that’s what he’d do.
Alternatively, you could let her go, since she’s right—she does have some protection at the ranch. And since when did you pay any attention to the old man’s wishes?
Good point. His relationship with Noah had deteriorated so badly after the fiasco in Columbia, Noah making no concessions for him whatsoever. So why should he slavishly obey the old bastard’s wishes now that he was dead?
The Dangerous Billionaire Page 4