Masking his response, Van lifted a shoulder as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I get that a lot. Now answer the fucking question before I get security to throw you out.” Not that he needed security.
He could probably take the guy by himself.
De Santis gave Van an easy smile. “No need to get aggressive, son. I’ll give you an answer then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Van crossed his arms, matching the other man stare for stare. Waiting.
The smile eased from de Santis’s craggy, handsome face. “You want to know what I want? I want to see my daughter.”
Something electric curled around Van’s spine. So this was about Chloe.
“And which daughter would that be?” Van asked, seeing no point in making it easy for him. “Since you already have one and all.”
The other man gave a soft laugh. “Are we going to play games now? And here was I thinking you preferred the direct approach. You know which daughter I’m talking about, Mr. Tate.”
Yeah, he did. The small, delicate one curled up in the guest bedroom as he’d left the apartment that morning. The one with the soft, silky skin he’d spent most of the previous night stroking and tasting every inch of, making her cry his name over and over again.
The one who’d told him that whatever it was that he’d done, whatever standard it was that he hadn’t lived up to, Noah was wrong.
But of course he shouldn’t be thinking of her right now, or of the conversation they’d had the previous night, because it was all supposed to be over anyway. One night, that was it.
The anger that was already glowing in his gut glowed a little brighter for no goddamn reason that he could see. Not when he’d been telling himself it was a one-night-only thing right from the moment he’d decided to take her to bed.
He’d given her what she wanted, end of story.
Yet there was another part of him, the deeply territorial, primitive part, that absolutely refused this logic. That was angry at even the thought of it. That considered Chloe as his and saw no reason why he should have to give her up at all.
Which didn’t make sense, since it was exactly the kind of over-the-top emotional response he’d sworn to himself he was going to avoid.
He couldn’t have her again. She was under his protection and if history hadn’t already taught him what a bad idea that was, then the fact that she was in a uniquely vulnerable position should. She was alone in New York, dependent on him, which made screwing her—even apart from the whole foster sister thing—a very, very bad idea.
Too late, asshole. She’s already given you her trust, let you inside her. You can’t take that back now.
Van shoved the thought away. “She’s not your daughter,” he said flatly. “She’s Noah Tate’s.”
“Apparently the paternity test your father ordered disagrees.”
“Were you the one taking care of her for twenty-five years? No, I don’t think so.”
“No,” de Santis agreed. “Because I didn’t know her mother was pregnant.” He smiled at Van, but this time there was nothing pleasant about it. “Your father stole her from me. I didn’t even know she existed until after she was born.”
“Right. So you waited all this time to come find her?”
De Santis tilted his head, the gray light of the winter’s afternoon shining on a few of the black threads lacing his gray hair. “You seem to persist in thinking I’m the bad guy, Mr. Tate. I assure you I’m not. I had no idea I had even had a daughter until your father told me.” He paused. “And I didn’t wait to come and find her. Noah told me in no uncertain terms that he was going to keep my child as his hostage and if I made even so much as one move in his direction, then something might happen to her. Something I might not like.”
This time it was Van’s turn to laugh. “Is that supposed to shock me? I know what Dad did. He told me. He initially kept Chloe to ensure that you left our family alone. But if you’re implying he would have hurt her, you’re flat out wrong.”
“Am I?” De Santis’s cold gaze never wavered. “You’re very sure of your father, Mr. Tate. Surer than you should be. Noah was a deeply flawed man, make no mistake, and he was ruthless. Believe me, I know exactly how ruthless he was.”
Of course Noah was deeply flawed. Like Van didn’t already know that himself. He certainly wasn’t going to give this prick the satisfaction of knowing he knew.
“So is that what this takeover bid’s about then?” Van met the other man’s stare. “Is it revenge? Or is it simply a distraction from your interest in Chloe?”
De Santis’s mouth pulled up in a sneer. “You really think I’d tell you? Why don’t you work it out for yourself?”
“Revenge then.” Van watched the other man’s face carefully. “You want revenge because Dad put a stop to you stealing his oil.”
Something flickered in de Santis’s cold blue eyes, but was gone so quickly Van couldn’t tell what it was. “Draw whatever conclusions you like, Mr. Tate. The facts remain that your father has been holding my daughter hostage for twenty-five years and now I want to see her, understand me?”
Oh, he understood all right. And hell, maybe in different circumstances, Van might have even felt sorry for the guy. Chloe was his kid after all, and it had been a shitty thing Noah had done to keep her from him.
But there was no way, no way in hell, that Van was going to let this man anywhere near her.
He moved, shoving back his chair and getting to his feet. Then he strolled casually over to where de Santis stood, reaching around to grab his Glock and holding it in an easy grip. “Sure, I get it. And here’s my problem with it. If seeing your kid was all you wanted, you could have done that years ago. But you didn’t, did you?” He didn’t do anything with the gun, merely held it at his side as a subtle warning. “And now you’ve got guys hanging around my house, following me everywhere, trying to get eyes on her, and you know what that says to me? That says it’s not seeing her you’re all that interested in. You want her for something else.”
De Santis didn’t even look at the gun, his gaze pinned to Van’s. “You think I’d hurt her?”
“I think you want to take Tate Oil down and I think you don’t much care how you do it. And if that involves Chloe, then too bad.” Van arched an eyebrow. “How am I doing so far?”
Again that flicker in the other man’s eyes, and it wasn’t aggression or anger. It was something colder, something that seemed to see right through Van. “You don’t know, do you?” De Santis said quietly.
Van felt his jaw tighten. “Know what?”
“Why your father and I hated each other.”
“Sure I do, you tried to steal his oil. Which is just one more reason why Chloe isn’t having anything to do with you.”
De Santis didn’t say anything, merely studying Van through narrowed blue eyes. “Does she know about me?” he asked after a moment. “Does she know I’m her father?”
Van remained silent, giving nothing away, keeping his face expressionless. A hard blue flame glittered briefly in the older man’s eyes.
“If she doesn’t know already, she’ll find out,” de Santis said, his voice soft and very cold. “And she won’t appreciate being lied to. She won’t appreciate being prevented from meeting me, either.”
Van smiled, though it wasn’t pleasant. “You don’t know her. So how about you don’t comment on what she may or may not appreciate. Now”—his fingers tightened around the Glock—“I think we’re done here, don’t you? Shall I get Margery to show you out or would you prefer security?”
The older man’s smile changed, becoming almost warm. “Ah, perhaps I neglected to mention the fact that if you don’t give me Chloe, I shall move on Tate Oil within the next twenty-four hours.”
Van laughed. “You can’t. My management team and I went over the details of your bid this morning. You haven’t got quite the shares you need to move yet.”
“Haven’t I?” De Santis lifted a shoulder. “Maybe you know business better than
I do, Mr. Tate. What with being a motherfucking SEAL and all.” He turned toward the door. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all you have. And don’t worry, I expect I can see myself out.”
Before Van could move, de Santis turned and strolled calmly out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chloe spent the day sitting at the table working on Van’s laptop, dealing with ranch stuff and trying very, very hard not to think about what had happened between her and Van the night before. Especially not when it was so insanely distracting. His big hands on her skin; his hot, hard body covering hers; the way he’d felt inside her … God, so good.
But she really needed to not think about it because he’d been very clear it was only supposed to be one night. And that night was over. Which meant it couldn’t happen again, and she was fine with that. Absolutely fine.
Annoying that he’d gone out before she’d even woken up that morning, though. So she hadn’t even had a chance to run her hands over his incredible stomach one last time, but then you couldn’t have everything.
Yes, the sex had been great but it was done now. And all that other stuff, all that messy, tangled emotional stuff she’d felt when he’d held her in his arms, when he’d given her that blinding smile of his, well she needed to do what she usually did with it. Which was to not think about that either.
Besides, it wasn’t as if they didn’t already have enough on their plates, what with de Santis trying to find her and that takeover bid that Van told her about last night. And then there was the meeting Van had apparently invited him to …
Anxiousness twisted in her gut, but she ignored it as she typed the last couple of lines of the email to O’Neil then pressed send.
Sitting back in her chair, she stared at the laptop for a moment, wondering what the hell she was going to do next, because she had to do something. She didn’t want to sit here the way she had back in the Tate mansion, not when there was so much stuff going on.
Van was handling all of it, which didn’t seem fair, especially since Wolf and Lucas were off doing whatever the hell it was they were doing and apparently not inclined to help. No, Van only had her.
And you’re worse than useless in this situation.
Chloe scowled, not liking that thought. Sure, the situation they were in now was kind of her fault and even though she wasn’t exactly a muscle-bound SEAL who could leap over buildings while brandishing a gun, she wasn’t useless either. She had a fairly analytical brain, a good head for business, and nothing but time on her hands right now, so maybe she could start helping by finding out everything she could about Cesare de Santis.
Pulling her chair a little closer to the table, Chloe started searching.
There was a lot of information on him. As the erstwhile owner of DS Corp, a massive defense company, he was one of New York’s most powerful businessmen. Or at least he used to be. A year earlier he’d stepped down from helming his company in favor of his middle son, Rafael, and had been avoiding the public eye ever since. The gossip on the web was that he was living a life of gracious retirement in between attending upper class social engagements and fundraisers, spending most of his time at the family estate in the Hamptons. He had four sons—one illegitimate—and one daughter, Olivia. Of his sons, only Rafael and Lorenzo seemed to be heavily involved with DS Corp. Chloe was intrigued to see that Cesare’s youngest son, Xavier, lived out on a ranch in Wyoming.
No surprises there. The de Santis family had come from Wyoming, were descended from Italian immigrants who’d settled there many, many years earlier. In fact, Cesare de Santis had been the one to take the family gun business into the stratosphere, growing from a small family-owned company into a major conglomerate in a few decades. It was remarkable. Then again, no more remarkable than what Noah had done with Tate Oil.
It was no wonder the two of them had once been friends. Both men seemed to be rather alike.
Chloe was still searching as lunchtime came around, pulling up as many images of Cesare as she could. He was a handsome man even now, but back in his youth, he’d been quite devastating from the looks of things. The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. No wonder her mother had indulged herself with him.
She clicked on one of the most recent pictures, staring at it. The years had carved deep lines over his face, but they hadn’t dimmed the intense color of his blue eyes and there were still strands of black in his hair. She half-raised a hand to her own face. Did she have his nose? His mouth? But then she’d thought she’d gotten her dark eyes and black hair from Noah, and that clearly wasn’t the case, so how would she know?
Maybe you’re only seeing what you want to see?
She grimaced at the pictures. No, she wasn’t. She didn’t want to see anything of him in her because she didn’t like the idea of being his daughter, period.
But you have a ready-made family right there. Actual half brothers and a half sister. You’d never be alone again …
Her heartbeat thumped in her head, gone oddly fast, a strange aching sensation in her chest. Weird to feel like this, because she wasn’t alone. She had Wolf and Lucas and Van. She had the ranch. She didn’t need anyone else.
But you don’t know Wolf and Lucas. And the ranch isn’t yours yet. And neither is Van.
Chloe shoved her chair away from the table and got up, walking quickly into the kitchen and pressing the button on Lucas’s fancy coffeemaker. Caffeine, that’s what she needed. She hadn’t had much sleep the night before, so maybe that’s why she was feeling so weird.
Yet even with a mug of coffee in her hands, the hot liquid burning her throat as she took a sip, the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away. And she found herself helplessly drawn back to the laptop, clicking through yet more pictures of the man who apparently was her father.
What kind of guy was he? He was Noah’s enemy, sure, but what did that mean? He’d made a play for Noah’s oil, and that had destroyed their friendship, but had that really been enough for Noah to have taken Cesare’s daughter and keep her? And why hadn’t Cesare come for her earlier? Was it really true? Would Noah have hurt her if his enemy had made a move for her?
She didn’t like the way that made her feel. God, she needed Van back so she could have some distraction from the way her thoughts kept turning themselves into knots over all this crap.
Pushing away the laptop, she reached for the snow globe of Rockefeller Center that Noah had given her. She’d gotten it out of her bag that morning and put it on the table, why, she had no idea. Maybe so she’d have something pretty to look at or maybe because she needed something to fiddle with.
Or maybe because you need the reminder of what happens when you let yourself want something. When you let yourself hope.
The ache in her chest deepened, but she was sick of thinking about it, sick of feeling it, so she got herself yet more coffee, going back to the laptop and continuing with her searches to distract herself.
Eventually she heard the sound of the complicated lock on the front door of the apartment clicking and the door opening, the sound of Van’s footsteps echoing down the hall. Her heartbeat sped up.
He could move very silently when he wanted, which meant he wanted to make it obvious to her that it was him and that he was home.
That nagging ache throbbed. Okay, so obviously the worst hadn’t happened with de Santis since Van had made it back in one piece. It was either that or maybe de Santis hadn’t showed. But still, Van was back.
Suddenly she wanted to shove her chair back and go to him, put her arms around him and hold on tight. Feel his warmth and his strength, see his smile. Have him touch her in that gentle, careful, patient way.
But she couldn’t. They’d had their night and she wasn’t going to ask for more. She wasn’t going to want again and she definitely wasn’t going to hope.
Van appeared in the living room, undoing the top buttons on his shirt then pulling at his tie as he crossed over to the dining area, and just for a second she wavered. Because the fabric parted,
revealing the tanned skin of his throat and giving her a glimpse of the chain of his dog tags. And she was back again on the bed, lying beneath his big, hard body, that chain in her hands, looking up into his gleaming gold eyes. His heat around her, his scent making her crazy. Desperate for him to touch her.
There was a pulse between her legs, heavy and insistent, but she forced herself to ignore it. They’d had sex and yes, it had been great, but she didn’t need it again. She just didn’t.
He smiled at her, making her feel like someone had taken her heart in his hands and was busy squeezing it hard. “Hey pretty, how was today?” He moved over to the table, coiling his tie in one hand then hanging it over the back of one of the chairs.
“It was fine.” She picked up her coffee mug and held it tight to stop herself from reaching for him instead. The heat burned her fingertips, but she ignored it. “What about your meeting? Did he show?”
“Oh, he showed all right.” That lethal edge to Van’s smile was back. “He showed to deliver an ultimatum: he wants you within twenty-four hours or else he’s going to move on that takeover bid.”
Shock coursed through her and suddenly she wasn’t clutching the coffee mug to keep from reaching for him, she was clutching it to stop her hands from shaking. “Oh,” she heard herself say, her voice sounding thin. “That sounds … like a problem.”
Van leaned on the back of the chair, his long fingers curled over the wood, his sharp hazel gaze meeting hers. “You seriously think I’d let him take you?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Ah, crap. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have simply pretended she was fine the way she normally did. But it was too late for that now. She was going to have to tell him, give away the fact that she cared. And that was always bad. Always.
Chloe looked down at her mug, trying to untangle the sudden thick mass of emotion in her chest. “I don’t … like that he gave you an ultimatum, that he’s using me against you. I don’t want to be the reason Tate Oil gets taken over. I … don’t want you to have to choose.”
The Dangerous Billionaire Page 17