by Meghan March
I drop my forehead to my knees and let the tears stream down. If I were a decent human being, tonight I’d be mourning the actual death of my husband.
Instead, I’m mourning the loss of my own life.
Mount
When I tell Keira my plans for the evening have changed because I have business to attend to and send her home with V, I’m only partially lying.
Confusion lines her features, but it doesn’t matter. I have to get away from her. J’s words still echo through my head, and I know that what happened tonight shifted things even further in the opposite direction from where they should be going.
Compartmentalization? Fuck, I’ll be lucky if I can ever look at any desk without getting an instant hard-on from picturing Keira bent over it.
Despite the lie I told her, too much truth was spoken in her office tonight. She loves what I give her and is on the verge of admitting it, even though she doesn’t have to. I see it in her every reaction. Her body responds to me like nothing I’ve ever seen. She was made for me—I knew it the night of the masquerade. That’s why I had to have her again, only to be denied for too long.
Work. That’s what I need.
Even though the casino isn’t nearly as busy as it will be later tonight, I walk the floor, stopping to watch dealers flip cards across the green felt of table after table, and observe the spinning roulette wheel as the ball clatters across the black, red, and green numbers. At the craps table, a call girl blows on the dice for a player before he throws them, and groans when he loses everything.
I shake a few people’s hands and watch their mouths moving, but don’t hear their words. I’m too distracted. The lights and sounds of the casino used to fascinate me, but they’re not enough to keep my mind off her.
In less than ten minutes, I could be in my bedroom, preferably with Keira pinned beneath me, her red hair spread across my pillow again. Except this time, her green eyes would be snapping at me in rebellion until I buried myself inside her. Then they’d go soft, wanting, needing, begging for what only I can give her.
As my dick jerks at the vision, I shove the thought away. Because that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m getting out of here.
I duck into the security control room, remind them to keep an eye on a few specific guests, and leave through a sliding panel in the wall.
I take the long way around, headed for a garage on the north side of my complex. Tonight, I need a drive to clear my head, and nothing does a better job of that than my Chevelle.
As I navigate the maze of secret hallways to get there, I spot a familiar figure heading toward his own rooms.
“G?”
The old man’s head comes up and he pauses. “Sir? Do you require my services?”
“No. How did it go tonight?”
“I was able to finish steaming almost everything, but Ms. Kilgore returned sooner than anticipated, so I still have to finish the job. It’ll be done tomorrow, however.” He pauses before adding, “She seemed quite shocked when she saw the closet. Even more than shocked. Upset, really.”
G is one of the very few people I trust, so I ask, “How upset?”
“Very. It seems like a warning might have been in order.”
Most women, at least in my experience, would be thrilled to receive an expensive designer wardrobe like I had G put together for Keira. It shouldn’t surprise me at all that her response would be the exact opposite.
“I’ll deal with her.”
G nods again and his lips press together, disappearing beneath his gray mustache.
“What? I can tell you want to say something else.”
He takes his time, as though considering his words carefully. “She seems different from the others, sir. All of this seems different.”
It’s almost an exact recitation of what J said earlier.
I open my mouth to tell G that she’s not different, it’s just the circumstances. The debt. That’s the only reason I’m doing this. But he’s one of the few people who can tell when I’m lying. So instead, I go with the truth.
“She is. All of it is. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
I don’t admit weakness. I always exude absolute control. You don’t retain power like I have without it. But G is different. His loyalty is unquestioned.
“Then might I share a suggestion, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“She seems like the type of woman that needs to be handled with more care.”
“I haven’t hurt her.” My tone takes on a sharp edge.
G shakes his head. “No, no, I would never imply that. What I mean is . . . you know she’s different. That means you have to treat her differently.”
I jam my hands into my hair. “I am. That’s the whole fucking problem.”
“Respectfully, sir, you’re missing my point.”
“Then just say it, old man. Lay it out, because it’s obvious I’m not picking up on the subtleties here.”
“Have you ever had to woo a woman?”
I look at him like he’s just asked me for a dime bag. “Woo?”
“Yes. Entice. Seduce, but not sexually—emotionally. Court her. Show her that she is different by giving her something she needs or wants.”
I mull over his words as he continues to speak.
“If you think about it, coming from the outside into your world would be a very difficult transition, especially under these circumstances. The position you hold is not one that many can, and it carries great responsibilities and risk. Maybe you should show her that there are also advantages to your position. Persuade her that making this transition is not without reward.”
I know what G is saying. At least, I think I do.
I’ve stripped all of Keira’s control away, and she’s fought me at every turn. Her fire is what drew me to her, but if I keep pushing, there’s a chance I could snuff it out. And that’s not what I want at all.
What the fuck do I want? G won’t be able to answer that question, so there’s no use making him stand here waiting in the hallway.
“Thank you. I appreciate your candor.”
“Of course, sir. I am always at your service,” G says, and continues down the hall.
His words have me thinking as much as J’s did earlier, but their advice pushes me in opposite directions.
I head toward my garage, more intent than ever on getting the hell out of here so I can try to sort my head out somewhere that doesn’t remind me of Keira Kilgore.
Mount
The growl of the Chevelle’s engine is exactly what I needed, but instead of driving around aimlessly, it takes me somewhere I haven’t been in a while, and that’s something I need to rectify. The majority of my life is lived in the shadows. People whisper my name, as if afraid saying it out loud will bring me to their doorstep. Sometimes, it does.
But luckily for me, there are a few places that border the shadows where I can go without being bothered and still make the connections necessary to continue to expand my empire. The Jackson Club is one of those places.
It’s rumored it was started by Andrew Jackson himself in the early 1800s, but I couldn’t care less about the club’s history or pedigree. All I care about is that the membership is exclusive, and there’s a known rule that it’s neutral territory. A hitman could see his target in the club, and if he made a move, the penalty would be death. Every member has the right to enforce that rule. It’s the only way to maintain order in the club and allow some of the most powerful men in the world to feel at ease behind its hallowed doors.
I’ve heard the waiting list to be granted entrance is years long, but a few things get you to the top in a hurry—like a shitload of money, a blueblood pedigree, or some kind of celebrity status. Luckily for me, I own this town. They would never deny me entrance. In addition, the current manager is an acquaintance. Quade Buck keeps this club running efficiently, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to lure him away to run my casino, he turns me down. I can’t blame him.
I wouldn’t want to work for me either. One major fuckup can easily cost someone their life.
Quade greets me from behind the bar as soon as I enter the dark-paneled room. The club is updated annually, and our dues reflect it. It’s a masculine refuge from the outside world. Heavy wooden furniture dominates, and a tinge of cigar smoke not captured by the air-filtration system hangs in the air. Although I see plenty of familiar faces as I scan the large room, I choose to head in Quade’s direction behind the bar first. A drink is definitely in order.
“When are you going to quit pulling shifts behind this bar? If you worked at my place, you wouldn’t have to serve another drink as long as you live.”
Quade’s gruff laugh is the same response I get every time. “I don’t mind slinging drinks. I’m not too proud to work. Besides, this way I get to keep my finger on the pulse of the club and what’s happening with everyone in it. You drinking tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
When Quade turns to grab what he knows is my preferred brand of Scotch, a bottle on the shelf catches my eye. Seven Sinners whiskey.
Fuck, she even followed me here.
Quade follows my gaze in the mirror toward it, missing nothing. “You changing it up tonight?” He shifts his hand to wrap around the neck of the Seven Sinners bottle, his eyebrows raised in question.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I’ve already had the best Seven Sinners has to offer tonight, but I bite it back. “No. I want exactly what I always have.”
Quade eyes me with interest as he grabs the Scotch and pours three fingers, neat. When he slides it across the bar, he leans against the thick, aged wood. “What brings you in? It’s been a few months since you’ve been around.”
“Been wrapped up with a few issues.”
He pushes off the bar and crosses his arms. “Issues? Thought men at your level didn’t have those.”
A huff that’s half laugh, half grunt escapes my lips. “Wouldn’t that be nice. I’ve got them handled. No other option.”
“Scorched earth, right? That’s what you’re known for.”
“Doesn’t work all the time.”
Quade tosses the towel in the sink and watches me for a few moments before speaking again. “Word around the club is that V has been spending a lot of time driving back and forth between your compound and a certain distillery in town.” He nods to the bottle of Seven Sinners whiskey on the shelf, as though his statement needs clarification.
J’s warning was right. People are noticing and talking, and that’s not good.
“Who the fuck cares where he’s driving?”
Quade crosses his arms again. “Plenty of people, apparently. It’s not like you’re known for putting your mark on a local.”
“What are they saying?” I need to know, because maybe scorched earth will become necessary to shut down any gossip.
“Everything from blackmail and extortion to kidnapping and indentured servitude.” He eyes me carefully. “When it comes to you, I don’t have a hard time believing any of it.”
Relief surges through me because my obsession hasn’t become part of the conversation.
When I don’t reply, he asks, “You gonna tell me what’s really going on, Mount?”
I lift the glass of Scotch to my lips and take a sip. Immediately, I wish I’d picked the whiskey.
What the hell is she doing to me?
“Does it matter?”
He shrugs. “Call it curiosity. No one could believe when Brett Hyde conned his way into that family. There’s been more than one guy in the club who definitely wasn’t sad to see her come back on the market.”
I bite back the urge to tell him she’s not on the fucking market, and won’t be anytime soon. Before I have to come up with some suitable reply, a broad-shouldered man takes a stool one down from mine.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come out of your compound so I could talk you into selling me a piece of property you own in the Quarter. I don’t do all that secret handshake and password bullshit it takes to track you down, but waiting isn’t my forte either.”
I turn to see Lucas Titan push his empty glass toward Quade.
“I’ll take another, Buck.” Turning back to me, Titan says, “So, what do you say? You willing to entertain offers?”
I don’t have a damn clue what piece of property he’s talking about, but it doesn’t really matter. “Pretty sure you know I rarely sell anything I acquire.”
“I get the what’s mine, I keep mentality, but this is for my wife, so I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Which property?”
Titan accepts the refilled glass from Quade and takes a sip. “Don’t worry, it’s not part of your block. It’s a couple streets over.”
“What the hell does your wife want it for?” It’s not vitally important to know, but in my position, more information is always better than less.
Quade disappears to the other end of the bar before Titan answers.
“She doesn’t know she wants it yet. But she will. Her store’s kicking ass. She’s going to need to expand, and when she realizes she needs the space, I want it already lined up. It’ll make for a hell of a surprise gift, but I know she’d never ask for it.”
Titan’s wife sounds a lot like one particular woman I know. I dig through my memory to dredge up what I remember hearing about them when they hooked up.
“This is the wife you surprised with a wedding so she had no choice but to marry you on the spot?” I ask. The story made the rounds for months after it happened, since Titan might be the only man in this town with remotely close to as much money as me.
He takes another sip, but the grin on his face is clear. He answers when he finishes. “I did what I had to do to lock that woman down. She’s stubborn as hell, and I’ve got no regrets.”
“Clearly, it worked.” I nod at his wedding ring. “Doesn’t sound like a half-bad plan.”
Titan eyes me with new interest. “Thinking about trying it yourself?”
“She’d just as soon murder me in my sleep at this point.”
“Lachlan Mount with woman problems.” Titan leans back on his stool, looking arrogant as hell. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Fuck off.”
Instead of dropping the subject, he laughs. “Let me give you a piece of unsolicited advice. Check your ego at the door. It isn’t going to help you win this battle.”
“You’re right, definitely unsolicited.”
I take another sip and make a snap decision. Fuck it. It’s not like he’s gonna talk. He’s got something to lose if he pisses me off.
“Say I was having problems, and I check my ego. Then what?”
Titan gives me a nonchalant shrug. “Figure out what she wants and then give it to her.”
“Like it’s that fucking easy,” I reply with a harsh laugh.
“It is if you listen. She’s gonna tell you. Maybe not outright, but you didn’t get to where you are without being able to read between the lines.”
I consider what he says. It sounds too simple.
Listen. Figure out what she wants. Give it to her.
Nothing with Keira could be that easy. Or could it? What the hell does she want most?
My inner voice wastes no time shooting back answers that piss me off. Her freedom. Not to be tied to you by that debt. Well, that’s too fucking bad, because I’m not willing to give her either of those, so it has to be something else.
“So, you gonna sell me that building or what?”
By the time I leave the club, I’ve reached a deal with Titan to sell him the building, and my brain is already working out the answer to the million-dollar question.
How do I figure out what else Keira wants?
No matter what it is, I can get it for her. She’s never seen the advantages of what my boundless resources bring to the table.
It’s time to change that.
Keira
When I wake up the next morning, I give myself
the pep talk to end all pep talks. I will not let him control me. He thinks he owns me, but he never will. It gets repetitive enough to turn into a mantra.
The pillow beside mine has an impression indicating someone slept there last night, but I don’t remember. If Mount did sleep here, he definitely didn’t bother to wake me. Probably a good thing, because I had nail scissors on my nightstand that I might have used to stab him if he tried to touch me.
I come to a complete halt in the bathroom when the thought crosses my mind, and I stare in the mirror at myself.
I look the same, but damn, do I sound like a bloodthirsty crazy woman now or what? That definitely has to be Mount’s influence, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never had a thought like that before. Maybe.
There was that time Jury sabotaged my date with the captain of the football team when I was in tenth grade, and instead of ending up at a party with him, his car died on the side of the road and we had to get help from a neighbor. I didn’t know Jury had put sugar in his gas tank until the next day when I was complaining that he’d probably never take me out again because I was bad luck for his beloved Mustang.
When Jury met my gaze in the mirror and told me point-blank what she’d done, I grabbed the sharpest thing I could find, the pointy end of my makeup brush, and jabbed it in her direction.
“Why would you do that to me?”
“Because he told all his friends he was going to get you hammered and nail you. Then the next weekend, he was going after Imogen, and then me next month. He called it ‘the Kilgore hat trick,’ which apparently has become a challenge for a football player to pull off. But that shit ain’t happening on my watch.”
So, basically, only Mount and Jury make me stabby. And sometimes Imogen when she acts holier-than-thou. Thoughts of my sisters buoy my spirits, but also make me disheartened that we haven’t stayed close as adults.
With that depressing thought, I take an age in the shower before venturing into the closet that almost broke me last night. I refuse to say it did break me, because that would be giving Mount too much power. I take my time choosing what to wear, and don the clothing like a suit of armor.