Just because you’re pissed with him doesn’t mean you need to take it out on her.
Van reached out for his coffee mug again, holding the hot ceramic between his fingers, his jaw gone tight.
He wasn’t fucking taking it out on her. Yeah, he’d been pissed with Noah and he still was. But this wasn’t about him and his relationship with his father. This was about her. About the flash of hurt he’d seen in her eyes the previous night when she’d realized she hadn’t gotten a letter like the rest of them had. About the anger in her voice as she’d bargained with him for the ranch, and the fierce way she’d talked about it.
“I’ve been pouring my own blood, sweat, and tears into that place for the last five years.”
Yeah, she deserved to know the truth, even if it was yet another hurt on top of a whole pile of others. And hell, he knew how that went. He was still struggling with the revelation himself and had been the whole week. And not even so much that Chloe wasn’t actually Noah’s daughter. No, the real shock was his own lack of surprise. It was almost as if he’d expected it. Noah had always been a secretive bastard, both in his business practices and in his personal life, so the fact that he’d been lying both to Chloe and to his sons all this time wasn’t that big of a revelation.
Clearly it’s a shock to her.
It certainly had been. But then she’d always had more faith in Noah than Van ever had.
A feeling he’d thought he’d long put behind him twisted, making him have to take a deep breath to get rid of it. No, he fucking wasn’t going down that route again. Empathy he could allow himself, but he wasn’t going to feel sympathy for her, no damn way. Hadn’t he learned that in Columbia? Getting involved emotionally was always a mistake. It led to errors of judgment, and he couldn’t afford that, not with her. Especially not with her.
Van put his mug down and placed his hands flat on the counter, consciously trying to relax. Christ, he really had to get on to dealing with the whole mess Noah had left him. The bereavement leave he’d managed to swing allowed him a month, but then he needed to be back on base and training for the next deployment.
He didn’t have time to screw around, not with figuring out how he and his brothers were going to manage the sudden responsibility of the company, not to mention getting a handle on de Santis and the threat to Chloe.
At that moment he heard a noise coming from the front of the house, the faint and yet unmistakable sound of the front door closing.
Was that Chloe leaving? Or was that someone coming in? Either way …
Years of training kicked in and he was up and off the barstool, heading out of the kitchen, moving fast down the hallway, extending his awareness in the way he’d learned to do. Sensitive to every sound, to the brush of the air over his skin and the taste of it around him, alert to the slightest movement.
There was nothing but silence as he reached the front door, but by then he already knew—he was alone in the house. Which meant Chloe, the little idiot, had run out.
He didn’t bother with a weapon—shit, he was a fucking weapon—throwing open the door and moving down the steps. Pausing at the bottom, he scanned the street, and sure enough, there she was, a small figure walking very fast down the sidewalk, heading toward Central Park.
Van didn’t run—no point in drawing too much attention since the traffic was starting to build and there were people around—but he started after her, moving faster than she was since her legs were shorter. As he walked, he checked his environment, on the alert for any kind of threat. Luckily for her there didn’t seem to be any, but still.… What the fuck was she thinking?
He’d told her that she was in danger, and yet what was the first thing she did? She ran out of the goddamn house.
Come on, she’s in shock. Especially after what you just told her.
Anger began to gather inside him, thick and hot. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything after all. Certainly he should have gone after her the minute she’d left the kitchen, and damn giving her her own space. Because quite frankly, the last thing he needed right now was her running outside during a threat situation, especially if she was having a meltdown.
You really shouldn’t have told her.
Furious all of a sudden and this time with himself, Van powered down the street after Chloe, gaining on her. Some sixth sense must have alerted her because she turned, glancing behind her. The color drained from her face and her dark eyes widened as they spotted him coming, and she turned back around and began to run.
But it was too late. He had her in his sights and there would be no escaping him.
Shifting into an easy lope, Van got closer and closer until he was right behind her. Then he reached out and looped an arm around her waist, pulling her up short. She gave a gasp, her hands coming down, clawing at his forearm and trying to pry it away from her, wriggling in his grip. But she wasn’t getting away from him, not again.
Van jerked her back against him, bending his head to growl in her ear, “Keep the fuck still.”
She didn’t, her nails digging into his forearm, her back arching in an effort to shake him off. “Let me go!”
“No.” He pulled her in tighter, letting her feel his strength so she knew that struggling was pointless. “I know that was a shock, but you’re supposed to stay in the fucking house. It’s not safe for you to go outside.”
“I don’t care!” She gave another violent wriggle. “Just leave me alone!”
Oh Christ. That this wasn’t going well was an understatement. Several people passing them were giving him funny looks, and he knew that if he didn’t lock this down right now, he was going to get a 911 call pretty damn soon.
“Chloe.” He made her name an order, hard and flat to cut through her obvious distress, then he wrapped both arms around her and held on tight to keep her immobile. “Keep still.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Her voice this time sounded fragile and he became aware that the soft, warm body in his arms was trembling.
Jesus. She really was upset. His anger drained away, the sympathy he was trying so hard to ignore taking its place instead.
He bent his head and gentled his tone. “It’s okay, pretty. We’ll talk about this later, but right now, I need you to come back into the house.”
She went still in his arms, the resistance bleeding out of her. And he became conscious, slowly, of her heat. Of the scent of her hair, like apples, and beneath that a light, musky smell that had something very primitive and very male suddenly coming alert inside him. The way it had the night before when he’d hugged her.
Which was very, very wrong.
“I don’t want to stay inside,” she whispered. “I can’t breathe in there…”
He needed to let her go, he really needed to. But he couldn’t, not when she sounded so lost. Not when he’d just taken apart the very fabric of her life.
With an effort, he forced his focus onto what she was saying and not the feel of her body against his. But it was difficult because it had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of softness and warmth. His last mission had been a months-long human trafficking operation in Eastern Europe, and there’d been precious little in the way of warmth or softness of any kind out there. Not that he required it, but there had been times he’d craved … something. And sometimes a woman would ease the craving, and sometimes a woman would only make it worse.
And sometimes it was better to pretend he didn’t feel it at all.
Yeah, and he wasn’t going to be thinking about that kind of shit, not now.
“I’m sorry, Chloe, but you have to get inside the house.” He eased his grip on her so she wasn’t right up against him. “We can talk once you’re safe.”
There was a moment when he could feel her muscles go tight and he thought she might be on the verge of running again. But then, taking him completely by surprise, she turned around and pressed her head against his chest, a great hiccupping sob tearing from her throat.
And just for a second, he
was back in the jungle. The hot thick air. The rain that never stopped falling. The darkness. The terrain that seemed hell-bent on killing them with every step. The girl, whose hand in his was so small. She’d been so brave, that girl. She hadn’t cried once. Except for that final night, out of fear and exhaustion, and he’d held her and told her it would be okay. Told her that he’d save her. He’d meant it with every fiber of his being.
But it hadn’t been okay, and he hadn’t saved her.
And he couldn’t do it again, he just couldn’t.
Chloe gave another sob, pressing her face hard against him, the sound so full of grief that it was all he could do not to shove her away. Shit, he had to get a hold of himself. He wasn’t in fucking Columbia anymore, that had been ten years ago and that girl, Sofia, was long dead. This was Chloe, his foster sister, and she was crying not because she was afraid, but because the man she’d always believed in had lied to her for over twenty years.
He couldn’t push her away. He had to fucking handle the situation, and that wasn’t by letting the past get to him.
Van put his hand on the back of her head and let it rest there, then he tightened his other arm around her. She trembled as another hiccupping sob shook her, then another and another, deep and wracking, like bitter grief.
She’d cried like this once before, when she’d taken her first fall from that pony he’d taught her how to ride. Her tears hadn’t been quite as wild as these, but she’d cried all the same. He’d crouched down beside her, instinctively putting his arms around her. She’d been the first person he’d hugged since he’d left his childhood behind, and the instinctive way she’d buried her head in his chest, responding to his comfort, had made him feel … good.
An echo of that feeling caught him now, edged as it was with the grief he kept buried so far down he normally didn’t feel it at all. But he ignored that, keeping it firmly behind the walls he’d built around it and all the rest of his emotions. This wasn’t about him anyway, it was about her. And besides, these days he lived by the rule of keeping himself as unemotionally involved as possible. It was easier that way.
People were looking at them, but Van kept her head pressed to his chest so her face was hidden and stared them all down. They really needed to get back inside, but giving her a moment to cry wouldn’t hurt.
He stroked her hair absently as her sobs began to wind down, the black strands all soft and silky against his palm. There was damp heat against his chest and he realized, with a sudden jolt, that her cheek was pressed to his bare skin because, of course, he’d left his shirt unbuttoned.
He stilled, his heart speeding up, his cock—the stupid shit—hardening against the zipper of his suit pants. Jesus. She was his goddamn foster sister and if that wasn’t bad enough, she was grieving, for fuck’s sake. There was nothing about this picture that was right in any way, shape, or form.
Her hands moved, coming to his waist. Her cool fingers on the bare skin of his hips shocked him. Made it abruptly hard to breathe. If she moved her head just a touch, her mouth would be on him …
Christ, she shouldn’t be touching him. Why was she touching him? When he’d given her nothing but bad news after bad news?
Push her away, dick. Before you embarrass both yourself and her.
But he couldn’t do that, not when she was sobbing on him. That would hurt her and he sure as hell wasn’t going to do that, not after the bombshell he’d just dropped. And apart from anything else, he wasn’t a teenage boy. He was a goddamn SEAL. He could control one wildly inappropriate hard-on.
Ignoring his thudding heart and the tightness in his groin, he adjusted his grip on her yet again so she’d stop giving his cock any more ideas. “Come on, pretty. Time to go in.”
She raised her tearstained face from his chest. Her cheeks were shiny and there was moisture caught in her lashes. For a moment she stared up at him, grief and pain laid bare in her reddened eyes. Then abruptly her expression shuttered and she pulled herself out of his grip, looking away and swiping at her face with one hand. Without a word, she turned and began to head back to the house.
Ignoring the weird urge he had to pull her back into his arms and hold her, soothe her obvious distress, Van glanced down at his watch then cursed. He’d hoped to be able to explain further the implications of the de Santis threat when they got back to the house, but he was due at the fucking lawyer’s in an hour. Which meant it was going to have to wait.
Following her back, he reflexively watched the streets as they made their way up the steps and through the front door. But there were no obvious threats and nothing out of the ordinary happening. Looked like her impromptu tour of the sidewalk hadn’t had any immediate consequences, thank God.
After they’d gotten inside, he closed the door very firmly behind them, then turned to find her heading in the direction of the kitchen.
“Hey,” he called after her. “Chloe, wait.”
She stopped, but didn’t turn. Her shoulders were hunched and she had her arms wrapped around herself as if in pain. It made him want to go over to her and pull her back into his arms, let her cry some more until it didn’t hurt. But he didn’t have time.
You shouldn’t anyway. You need to stay uninvolved, remember?
Yeah, that too.
So all he said was, “We’re going to have to talk about this later. I need to go to the lawyer’s, and I’ll probably be a couple of hours.
She said nothing, only nodded.
Ah, shit, he didn’t like that she’d suddenly closed up on him. “Chloe,” he ordered softly. “Look at me.”
A few moments passed where she didn’t move. Then she turned her head, giving him the unbelievably pure line of her profile.
“You’ll be okay?” He had to know. He didn’t want to leave her like this.
“Yes, of course.” The words were defiant. As if daring him to tell her otherwise.
He narrowed his gaze at her. She wasn’t okay, not if that meltdown outside was anything to go by, but he didn’t have time to push it, not now. “I’ll try not to be too long, but there’s a TV in the living room on the third floor if you get bored.” He paused. “De Santis doesn’t know you’re in New York and I don’t want him finding out. Which means you can’t go outside. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t got this place under surveillance just yet, but I don’t want to take any chances. Understand?”
“Yes.” This time the word was flat.
“Not even to look around,” he persisted. “Not even if you—”
“I get it,” she interrupted. “I’m not a child, Van. Stop treating me like one.”
He let out a breath. “I’m not. If I was treating you like a child, I wouldn’t have told you the truth about de Santis.”
Chloe turned her head away. “Can I go now? Some dick made me an omelet and if I don’t eat it now, it’ll get cold.”
And before he could say anything more, she disappeared down the hallway.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chloe pressed the button on the remote, frustratingly clicking through yet another lot of channels that seemed to be nothing but soap operas and shopping, neither of which she was interested in. She wasn’t generally interested in television, period. But she’d already called O’Neil and dealt with the various construction issues that had come up over the past couple of days, gone over some spreadsheets, handled a few questions from breeders, problem-solved a ranch hand’s preference for beer over work, answered all her emails, and now she had nothing to do but sit.
The day before, while Van had been at the lawyer’s, sitting and watching TV was exactly what she’d wanted, escaping into a different reality for a couple of hours and not thinking at all about what he’d told her—the truth that had left her feeling battered and bruised and not a little betrayed.
Her father had never been a physically affectionate man and he’d always been reserved, preferring to keep the world at arm’s length where he could observe it without having to interact with it. When she’d been a kid,
she’d sensed that distance, battering at it as if it were a pane of glass she could break if only she threw herself against it hard enough. And there had been times when it felt as if she had, some very rare occasions when he’d look at her with real warmth, with actual, honest-to-God emotion that wasn’t the pleasant, business-like smile he reserved for all his dealings with people.
But those moments never lasted. And in the end, she’d stopped throwing herself against that glass and had thrown herself into the ranch instead, because at least the ranch gave something back.
So the fact that he’d lied to her so completely and for so long shouldn’t have come as a surprise, since it wasn’t exactly the first time she was aware that he hadn’t been honest with her. It certainly shouldn’t feel like her heart had been ripped out of her chest. After all, hadn’t she kept that snow globe he’d given her as a reminder of what a liar he was? And that his promises were always empty ones? “Later,” he used to tell her when she’d begged to be taken on one of his trips to New York. “When you’re older,” or “Next month, when I don’t have so much work,” or “Maybe in January, when things have quieted down.”
He’d never taken her anywhere, never treated her as his own flesh and blood, despite telling her that she was. No, he hadn’t even treated her as well as he’d treated his foster sons. She was always an afterthought. And now she knew why.
Pain she didn’t want to acknowledge curled in her heart, but she concentrated instead on the woman on TV displaying a pair of tacky-looking diamond earrings. She really needed to stop sitting here, go find Van, and have the conversation she’d been avoiding. Get the facts.
Except then, you’d have to deal with what happened yesterday.
Yeah, and she didn’t want to think about that either. Her making a giant fool of herself by running outside then breaking down and weeping pathetically against his chest.
The Dangerous Billionaire Page 7