It was true, she had moved on. And all this anger was to do with the ranch, not actually with him. She didn’t care about him the way she used to, not anymore. She’d been managing things fine all by herself and would continue to do so. She didn’t need anyone.
Careful to not examine her reasons for brushing her hair, Chloe pushed the by-now straight and glossy strands behind her ears then slipped off the bed and went out of the room.
The house was silent, and she didn’t quite know where to go first. Upstairs to see if she could find Van or downstairs to get coffee—if indeed downstairs was where the kitchen was.
Like there was even a choice after the kind of sleep she’d had—coffee it was.
Feeling gritty eyed and with a burgeoning headache from lack of sleep, Chloe went down the grand staircase, creeping down the hallway at the bottom and heading toward the back of the house, since that’s where she guessed the kitchen would probably be.
Passing through a wood-paneled and very formal-looking dining room, she went through another door that, sure enough, opened into a massive, gleaming kitchen that was all stainless steel and white tile.
A kitchen that was already occupied by a very tall, very broad-shouldered man currently leaning back against the counter of the kitchen island, a coffee mug in one hand, a sleek silver phone in the other. His black head was bent, his attention on the phone.
Van.
Chloe stopped short in the doorway, staring at him because she simply couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away.
He wore suit pants today, dark charcoal wool that sat low on his lean hips in much the same way as the jeans he’d been wearing the night before had. Instead of the long-sleeved black T-shirt, he wore a plain white business shirt. It was unbuttoned, leaving a large quantity of bronzed chest and abs on show.
Her mouth dried as she was catapulted back to when she’d been sixteen, staring at him as he’d checked that horse’s hoof while shirtless, mesmerized by all that finely carved muscle and tanned bare skin. He looked … even more incredible now if that was possible. Like someone had taken to his torso with a chisel and sculpted the perfect male form.
She blinked, focusing on the chain around his neck instead of his sharply defined pecs and the corrugations of his abs that almost seemed to beg for a set of fingers to run lightly over them to confirm they were as hard as they looked. It wasn’t a necklace as she’d first thought. It was his dog tags.
The tight feeling in her gut got even tighter.
“If you’re going to come in, come in,” he said without looking up from his phone. “I won’t bite.”
His deep voice came as a shock, and Chloe felt her cheeks heat. Wonderful. He’d caught her staring at him. How irritating.
“I was just trying to find out where to get coffee,” she muttered grumpily, taking a few steps toward the kitchen island where he was standing, scanning about for a coffee machine.
Van shifted, putting his phone down on the counter then pulling out one of the stools. “Sit down. I’ll fix you something.”
It was another of his orders, issued with the same calm authority he’d used the night before, as if he absolutely expected her to do what he said without argument.
It made her hackles rise.
“What is it with you and food?” She couldn’t quite keep the snappish note from her voice. “I can make my own breakfast, thank you very much.”
He gave her a look. “Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”
“What?”
“You’ve got dark circles under your eyes and you’re as grumpy as fuck.”
She bristled, not liking the observation for reasons she didn’t care to examine too closely. “I am not.”
Van sighed. “Look, how about instead of arguing, you sit down and let me fix you some breakfast, okay? I’m making myself something anyway.” He didn’t wait for an answer, already moving around the kitchen island and going over to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves.
Unreasonably annoyed, Chloe debated arguing further, then decided against it. She didn’t know where the food was and if he was making himself breakfast anyway, it seemed like a stupid hill to die on. Maybe they could have a little chat about orders and such after she’d finished eating.
Moving over to the stool he’d pulled out for her, she sat down on it, leaned her elbows on the counter, and watched him get out some eggs and milk from the fridge. Setting them down, he then pulled open a drawer and took out a bowl, plus several other kitchen utensils.
“So what’s your plan?” she asked as he started cracking eggs. “For getting rid of the de Santis threat, I mean.”
“I don’t have a plan yet. I’m still at the gathering intel stage.”
“But you’ve had a whole week.”
“Yeah and I’ve had other shit to do.” He began mixing up the ingredients, and she found she had to concentrate her gaze on the movements of his hands, because the flex and release of his abs was way too distracting.
Already she could feel frustration eating away at her, making her antsy. She wasn’t used to sitting around and letting other people do stuff for her. She wasn’t used to sitting around, period. God, what the hell was she going to do all day?
“Well, can I do anything?” She folded her arms on the counter to stop herself from drumming her fingers impatiently. “I mean, I have to do something, right?”
He glanced up, his clear green-gold eyes momentarily making her catch her breath. “Other than sit there and wait for me to serve you some food? No.”
“Yeah, but I can’t sit here all day.”
His mouth curved. “I thought you had to speak to O’Neil about the new stable complex.”
There was amusement in his tone, which should have annoyed her since he was quite clearly teasing her. Yet she found herself looking down at the counter instead, somehow short of breath.
It was that smile of his. She remembered it. Warm and generous, and as a lonely kid looking for a connection to someone, she’d found it incredibly reassuring.
He’d smiled like that at her when she’d given him that dumb rock she’d found on one of her rides around Shadow Peak. It had been just before he’d left to go on his first deployment and somehow she’d sensed that he was afraid, though he was trying hard not to show it. She felt afraid too, for him, and so to make them both brave, she’d found a little piece of Wyoming to take with him.
It had made sense when she’d been ten, but as an adult, she cringed remembering it.
Her feelings about his smile as an adult too were cringeworthy. Yes, Van was hot, but that was no reason to feel all breathless and weird about it. Jesus, she wasn’t sixteen anymore.
Been a while since Jason, though.
Yeah, that was true, but she was in no hurry to find another guy to fill his shoes. He’d started to get possessive and she wasn’t into that. She preferred being on her own and anyway, sex wasn’t that big of a deal. She could do without it just fine. This weird reaction to Van must be a holdover from her teenage years and possibly it was a grief thing. Or even an anger thing. Who knew?
Whatever, she had to ignore it before she embarrassed herself.
“I’m not quite sure why you think me getting angry about not being at the ranch is funny.” She kept her gaze on the white marble countertop. “Maybe you’ve never poured your heart and soul into anything the way I have.”
Van paused in his mixing. “I don’t think it’s funny, and actually I have poured my heart and soul into something. Why do you think I’m going back to base the first moment I can?”
She looked up, momentarily distracted. “What? Being a soldier?”
“Being a SEAL, yeah.”
“Is that why you never called me? Never even sent an email?” As soon as the words were out, she felt herself start to go red, because she hadn’t meant to say it so sharply, like an accusation almost. But now that she had, there wasn’t any point trying to take it back.
Van stared at her. Then he put
down the whisk he was holding with a very precise movement and leaned his hands on the edge of the counter, his dog tags swinging. “Is that why you’re so pissed at me? Because I never sent you an email?”
The heat in her cheeks climbed even higher. “I’m not pissed at you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re not. You’ve been prickly and irritable since the moment you got off the plane.”
“Are you surprised? I hear nothing from you for eight years, not even about the damn will, which you must have known would be a problem for me. And then the first thing I get is some short email telling me I have to come to New York immediately, without any explanation whatsoever.” She stopped, aware that her voice had started to rise. Crap. This wasn’t supposed to matter and yet here she was, making a big deal out of it.
Something glinted in Van’s eyes, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. It made her go even redder.
“Not that I care,” she added quickly, before he could say anything. “I just want the ranch back. That’s the only thing I care about.”
There was a brief silence.
“Uh-huh,” Van murmured finally, an entire universe of sarcasm contained in the two wordless syllables.
She had to look away again, the way he was staring at her making her feel oddly vulnerable, as if she’d accidentally shown him a piece of her soul. Which was annoying, because hadn’t she told herself she didn’t care what he thought anymore? Once, she had. But that had been back when she’d been sixteen and in the throes of a massive crush. She’d gotten over that like she’d gotten over the loneliness that had been her constant companion since childhood.
She had the ranch and that was all she needed.
Van studied her as if she were a piece of machinery he was assessing for defects, then without a word, he turned and went over to the stove, picking up the coffeepot and bringing it back to the kitchen island. He grabbed a cup from a cupboard and put that beside the pot, moving the milk carton alongside it too.
“Coffee,” he said neutrally. “Get yourself a cup while I make this breakfast for you. I have to go out to do some business shit soon, but if you’ve got any questions about the will or Dad’s letter, I’ll explain what I can before I leave.”
The coffee smelled good, and suddenly caffeine seemed the perfect antidote to the vulnerable feeling sitting in her chest. Reaching for the pot, she poured herself a cup, adding a bit of milk. There didn’t seem to be any sugar about so she had a sip without it, the hot, bitter liquid calming her somewhat.
She gripped the cup, the heat of it burning her fingers, but she didn’t let go.
Van had turned back to the stove and she heard the hiss as he poured the omelet mixture into a pan. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t turn around, all his attention centered on what he was cooking.
Silence descended in the kitchen and for some reason the vulnerable feeling began to ebb. But then, she’d always found Van’s presence reassuring, hadn’t she?
Before she’d learned to ride, she’d been afraid of horses. Of their size and their hooves. Of their big teeth. There hadn’t been any reason for it, she’d just found them a bit frightening. Her father had been busy with work and had no time to deal with what he called her “irrational fears,” so he’d made Van take charge of her riding lessons.
At first she’d been upset about that, wanting her father because she never saw enough of him as it was and she didn’t know Van very well since he’d been away at boarding school. Yet when the time had come for her lessons, Van had been so calm, so patient, and so utterly reassuring that she’d soon lost her fear of horses, coming to love them instead. Just like she’d come to idolize her big foster brother.
That familiar reassurance threaded through her now as she sat on her stool, sipping coffee while Van cooked. It was a seductive, insidious feeling, one she shouldn’t give into. Because relying on someone else for support, to be there for her, only ended in disappointment, and she of all people should remember that.
She tried to ignore the sensation, concentrating on what questions she might have about the will and the de Santis threat instead.
“Why me?” she asked after a moment. “Why am I a target and not you, or Wolf or Lucas?”
Van didn’t answer immediately, getting out a plate and slipping a perfectly folded omelet onto it before pushing it toward her, along with a knife and fork. Then he came around the counter and pulled out a stool next to her, sitting down and reaching for the coffeepot to refill his own cup.
“For a start, you’re a soft target,” he said, the deep rumble of his voice echoing around inside her in a way that made her feel strangely restless. “The most easily accessible and the weakest link.”
She was the weakest link. Great. “I can take care of myself,” she muttered irritably.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I said that’s likely why de Santis wants you instead of Lucas or Wolf or me. We’re SEALs. We’re not exactly easy to take down.”
Picking up her fork, Chloe stared at the omelet in front of her. It smelled delicious, and she had no doubt that it would taste delicious too. But she suddenly wasn’t hungry. “What does he want me for?”
“De Santis? A ransom demand of some kind probably.” He sounded calm, as if this shouldn’t be a shock in any way.
And hell, it kind of wasn’t. Her father had been worried about this very thing for years.
She poked at the omelet. “But why now? Why after Dad’s gone?”
“I suspect Dad and de Santis had some kind of detente and now that Dad’s dead, that’s over.” Van’s long fingers cradled his coffee mug in a way she found oddly distracting. “Dad’s letter wasn’t very specific, unfortunately.”
Ah yes, the letters. Which each of her foster brothers got, but she didn’t.
She poked at the omelet again, conscious of a curious tightness in her chest. It wasn’t the same kind as when she looked at Van. No, this was different. Painful. Like when she’d found out about the will, about how her father had left her out of it entirely. As if nothing she’d done on the ranch had mattered.
As if you don’t matter, right?
“What do you mean it wasn’t very specific?” she asked, ignoring the voice in her head. “What did it say?”
Van was silent for a long moment, staring down into his mug, a certain tension in his posture, a tension that was bleeding into the air around him.
The tight thing inside her coiled into a hard knot of inexplicable dread.
She dropped her fork, letting it clatter against the plate, her heartbeat suddenly accelerating. “What was in that letter?”
He sat so still, his gaze on the liquid in his mug, not saying a word.
“Something’s wrong.” The dread coiled even tighter, crowding out all the air in her chest, making her feel breathless. “What was in it, Van?”
His head lifted and turned, those piercing green-gold eyes catching hers, a terribly sympathy in them. “Chloe…”
“Tell me.” Her fingers had curled into her palms, her nails pressing down into her skin.
He was going to tell her something awful, she was certain of it. Something she wasn’t going to want to hear.
“Dad didn’t want you to know,” Van said, his voice quiet. “He didn’t want me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” She tried sucking in a breath and failed, her heartbeat thundering in her head.
Van’s gaze was unwavering. “Are you sure you want to know now?”
She didn’t even have to think about her response. “Of course I want to know now. Tell me, for God’s sake.”
He put down the mug and turned to face her, a certain fierceness in his eyes. “There’s a reason de Santis is moving now and there’s a reason you’re his target. You’re his daughter, Chloe. You are Cesare de Santis’s blood daughter.”
She almost laughed, a flood of relief almost making her dizzy. “Don’t be stupid. Noah’s my father. He had an affair with my mother, and she died
having me.”
Yet Van didn’t laugh with her. He didn’t even smile. He only looked at her with that piercing hazel gaze. “Dad was infertile. He couldn’t have kids. There were test results in his letter that confirmed it. There was also a paternity test.” He paused, his gaze searching her face. “It’s true, pretty. You’re de Santis’s kid.”
Her brain wanted to protest, to tell him he was wrong, that her father had lied. But somehow, deep down, she knew that wasn’t the case.
Her relief ebbed away, that tight thing inside her clenching so hard all the air vanished from her lungs entirely. She couldn’t breathe. As if the truth had sucked the oxygen from the room.
Oh God, she had to get out. Get some air.
Her hands shaking, Chloe shoved back her stool and slipped off it, stumbling from the room before Van could say another word.
* * *
It took everything in him not to go after her, but instinct told Van that she needed a bit of space and that it was better to let it lie. So he stared down at the mug in his hands and not at the doorway Chloe had disappeared through.
Why the fuck did you tell her?
Noah had instructed him not to say a word to her, that she would have too many other things to deal with following his death and that the knowledge that she wasn’t his daughter would be too much for her to bear at an already stressful time. Better to wait until de Santis had been neutralized.
Which was bullshit and another sign of his father’s emotional cowardice.
Not knowing would only delay the hurt and possibly make it even worse. Christ knew that he’d be pretty fucking pissed if a truth like that had been kept from him, especially if it was delayed further because of some spurious concern for his emotional well-being.
Noah hadn’t been interested in anyone’s emotional wellbeing—he just hadn’t been that type of father. And to pretend he gave a shit about Chloe only added insult to injury.
No, the truth was better than that and she deserved to hear it. She deserved to know why Noah hadn’t been able to leave anything at all to her too, that he couldn’t because of her blood tie to de Santis. And perhaps even more than that, she deserved to know that her father had been a goddamned liar for over twenty years.
The Dangerous Billionaire Page 6