by Alisha Rai
She had looked grief-stricken.
And why not? He had been heartbroken when his mother died not long after Ben was born. He’d had his differences with his flighty father, but Jacob had been sorrowful at Harvey’s death. Akira’s strange and antagonistic relationship with her parents didn’t preclude the possibility she loved them. That she could love someone, other than herself.
She’s not a monster.
No. But she was…alone. An island. An entity unto herself.
At the funeral, the sexual tug he always felt toward her had been subsumed by something larger. Something strange and frightening had urged him to pull her close and get her away from the conservatively decorated service and the nosy mourners.
Instead, he had mumbled his condolences and sat in the back of the church with his family. Leaving her in the front row on her own, her profile stony.
Maybe he should have elbowed in and made sure she was okay. If it had been someone else, he might have. But he was certain she didn’t particularly like him, so inflicting himself on her would probably have been the last thing she wanted. That was what he’d continued to tell himself when he occasionally considered seeking her out after the funeral, to ensure she was holding up okay. The Akira he had thought he knew would have been fine…but the Akira he had seen at the funeral? She had needed someone.
Now that he thought about it…the air of brittleness she’d carried at the funeral remained around her, hadn’t it? Maybe she’d lost weight too. She’d seemed somehow diminished, less robust standing in his cabin.
He shook his head. Not your concern.
No, but his sister and her words were.
“Judging her isn’t your place,” he said quietly. “Plus, she could have been naked, and it wouldn’t give you an excuse to call her slutty.”
Kati’s eye roll was epic this time. “Ugh, don’t get all saintly on me. Even Mei used to call Akira a slut.”
His stomach tightened. Not in his presence, she hadn’t.
It was silly to feel any kind of sympathy for Akira, because he had the feeling she would take it and fling it in his face, but it bloomed regardless. What mother would say that to her child, no matter the problems they might have? How had Akira managed to take that sort of abuse? “I don’t care what Mei said. I have never,” he said, biting off each word, “called any woman a slut, let alone Akira. And I didn’t raise anyone in this family to do so either.”
Her sigh made her bangs flutter. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I don’t see what the big deal is, but I won’t call that Akira a slut again.”
His rage was usually a slow-boiling thing, but it was explosive when prodded. Red covered his vision, and he thrust out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
Kati scowled. “What, why?”
Normally, he was careful about his size around his little sister, but now he straightened to his full height, uncaring that he loomed over her. “Give it to me.”
Apprehensive, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a pink, bejeweled phone. He tightened his fist around it, easing up only when the plastic gave a threatening crack.
It was a struggle to speak coherently past his anger. “When Ben and Connor were younger than you are now, I told them if I ever heard them call a woman a whore or a slut, I would be the first in line to smack some sense into them. Clearly, I was remiss with you. Since you don’t understand what the issue is, I’m taking your phone. Maybe that’ll help you figure out what the big deal is.”
Her eyes widened with dismayed alarm. “What? You can’t do that! How am I going to call you if I need something?”
Actually, a valid point. Kati had been amongst the first of her peers to have a cell phone, not because he was so cool, but because his overactive imagination couldn’t help but play all the ways she could be hurt and in need when she was away from him. “I’ll give you my old flip phone,” he improvised. Since he was pissed, he continued. “It has no texting capabilities.”
Frustrated tears filled her eyes. “You’re being so mean right now. You’re not my dad, Jacob.”
Jacob had to control his flinch. Talk about rubbing salt into a wound. Kati had ripped his raw spot open, stuck a splinter in it, and then dipped it in kerosene.
If she had slapped him, it would’ve hurt less. “That may be true,” he rasped. “But it’s still my job to raise you into a decent human being.”
A tear slipped down her face. “I am a decent human being.”
“Then act like it.” He gestured to the box. “Keeping this from me. Being so disrespectful to a person you barely know. Think, and once you understand what you did wrong, maybe you can get your phone back.”
Looking nothing like the almost adult she was, Kati choked out a small scream. “You hate her anyway! I don’t understand why you’re taking her side.” She ran out of the kitchen before he could respond. Her feet thudded up the stairs, and a door crashed shut.
Jacob gave a humorless laugh and massaged his neck. Hate her? Please.
He couldn’t hate her if he tried. She was going to make the return of this heirloom of hers painful, and he couldn’t work up concern over that because the reckless, insane part of him he could never quite silence was excited. Excited over the prospect of seeing her legs, her eyes, her cynical smirk, the languid way she moved. The husky way she laughed when she was teasing him.
No. Hating her wasn’t his problem. Figuring out how to resist her if she put her hands on him again? There was the problem.
Chapter Four
A.M. Enterprises owned and operated high-end bars and nightclubs in some of the most sophisticated places in the world: London, Dubai, New York, Miami. Little surprise had been expressed when Akira had set up headquarters in San Francisco—her flagship establishment, a thriving rooftop bar, was near Union Square.
People expected her office space to be as sleek and swanky as her bars, and to a lesser extent, her family’s old business. The London headquarters of her father’s former business, the Mori Corporation, had defined high-tech and impersonal. She could well remember sitting quietly in her father’s office while he ignored her, unable to get comfortable on the piece of modern art doubling as his sofa.
Since she both enjoyed crushing expectations and being nothing like her father, Akira had found an old mansion in lower Pacific Heights that had been restored to its turn-of-the-century charm. The grand staircase, European stained glass and intricate woodwork gave her a sense of history, while the marble floors and HVAC system catered to her and her staff’s comfort.
She strode through the double doors of her office, each step soothing the raw, vulnerable part of her that so rarely managed to break free of the defenses she’d built to hold it in. Mine. I built this. Built it with her brain and her ambition and yes, her body, because her body was a part of her. No shame. This was who she was.
Jacob could go fuck himself if he didn’t like it.
Everyone, she corrected herself hastily. Everyone could go fuck themselves if they didn’t like it. Jacob didn’t need to be singled out for fucking.
Actually…
Releasing a low growl under her breath, she struggled to retain the zen-like pleasure her business gave her.
It was too early for her assistant to be in; too early for most of her staff, actually. She loved the hours before the normal workday started. She could deal with East Coast and European markets in peace.
She sat down in her large desk chair and gave it a second. A second for the zing of pleasure, for the sense of purpose to take over and tell her whether she would reach for the phone or boot up her computer. To tell her how she could make the world dance and shift.
Her mother had sneered at her profession. It didn’t matter that Akira’s bars and clubs were expensive, exclusive venues. They would always be dens of sin. Akira would always be a useless, partying slut.
Stop thinking about her.
Easier said than done. Akira cranked her head on her shoulders, the nagging restlessness that had ridden her al
l weekend settling over her like an unwanted mantle. Running hadn’t gotten rid of it. Neither had furiously reverse alphabetizing and then alphabetizing her extensive book collection.
Work called. She was in the process of acquiring a chain of a hundred pubs and bars in Europe, which would take her business to the next level. A purchase of this magnitude was huge for her, and she needed to ensure everything was going smoothly.
Right…now.
Now?
Now.
She scratched at a small stain on her desk.
Damn it.
She should have called a friend this weekend. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed an athletic, sweaty bout between the sheets? Between her mother’s death and the issues with her estate, as well as her preoccupation with finding her grandmother’s legacy, too long. Maybe that was why she’d been ready to climb Jacob like a tree. Maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to get his ass out of her dreams.
Yeah, sure. It wasn’t because she’d spent a good chunk of her life battling her attraction to the man. And the man’s ass.
Nope, this was old-fashioned sexual frustration, something remedied as easily as dialing a number. Ready to do just that, Akira pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the list of available candidates. Models, actors, socialites, politicians, businessmen and women, lawyers, doctors, even a lumberjack or two from when she’d gone through her outdoorsmen phase.
Oh, yes. A lumberjack might be nice. She had a sudden and inexplicable hankering for a nice, thick beard.
Did she know any green-eyed lumberjacks?
Akira snarled and tossed her cell on the desk. Heaven help her.
It’s because you have so much on your mind.
She snorted, too viciously honest to lie even to herself. Multitasking was her life’s blood. She was capable of feeling raw and juggling a multibillion-dollar business. Unless, it seemed, she added her unwanted attraction to a man who despised her to the mix. Then, you know, everything went to shit.
The phone rang, shrill and loud, interrupting her thoughts. Distraction! Not checking the display, she snatched it up on the second ring. “Akira Mori.”
“Akira! My love. You are a hard woman to get a hold of.”
Ice spread through her veins, chilling her. That would teach her not to pay attention. “Father.” The single word was mocking. Over the years, she’d made an art form out of paternal annoyance, rivaled only by her aptitude at maternal rage. “That should tell you something. I’m busy.”
“Too busy for your own father?”
“Too busy for the cameras following my father around.”
Her dad gave a chuckle, roughened from years of smoking. She knew he was probably tucked away in his lavish Calabasas home this early in the morning, his new family sound asleep from whatever late-night escapade they’d enjoyed the evening before.
Thank God the Mori Corporation had been dissolved long ago, the great hotels once bearing her family name now Hiltons and Marriotts and God knows what else. Granted, the move had probably made her paternal grandfather turn over in his grave, but his son had been an inept idiot when it came to business. Anyway, her father was far too busy to run a hotel empire now, since he was busy running his second family. Or, more accurately, letting them run him.
“Speaking of cameras…” She swiveled in her seat and stared out the window. She had a view of a lush green park not far away. A child was playing there, running behind a ball. “Take me off of speakerphone. And tell the film crew to leave.”
A pause lasted a fraction of a beat too long. “What do you mean, my love?”
“You know I have attorneys,” she said quietly. “And I’m not afraid to use them.”
There was a click on the other end, and then the muffled sound of her father speaking to someone. A second later, he was back, much of the manufactured warmth amazingly leached from his voice. “They’re gone.”
“What do you want?” Because, without a doubt, her father wanted something. He had no use for his only biological child otherwise.
Without an audience to thrill, her father didn’t bother to beat around the bush. “We want you to be on the show.”
The freak show. Who would have thought the American public would embrace the wild exploits of a rich ex-hotelier, a washed-up actress, and her five insane asshole children?
Oh. Everyone. Four years later, it was still a ratings powerhouse.
And would forever be the bane of Akira’s existence. Her family had been in the public eye prior to this show, but never quite like this. “I’ve already told you. No.”
“We were thinking of doing a family dinner, Akira. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Whatever part of her soul had craved family dinners with her father had died long ago. If it had ever existed. “No.”
“Akira, it would be a great angle. My daughter and Chloe’s kids, all at a table together?”
It would be a great angle, until she clawed someone’s eyes out. Not that she had a problem with clawing eyes out, but she wasn’t keen on getting the clawing on tape. Terrible for legal reasons. “You know the last time I saw him, your precious stepson Brandon called me his little china doll?”
“What? Were we filming?”
She closed her eyes. “Goodbye.”
“But it would be amazing.” Her father paused for dramatic effect. “A real yours, mine, and ours moment.”
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck. Her lips barely moved. “What are you saying?”
“I wanted to wait to announce it at the dinner, but I suppose you have the right to know…Chloe and I are pregnant.”
She clenched her hand around the phone receiver, wishing it was her father’s neck. Did he think she would be overcome with sisterly affection for the fetus? That she would show up at the set of their show to support her new half-brother or -sister?
Jacob’s caressing voice, when he spoke to his half-sister, popped into her mind. No, this wasn’t the same at all. Her involvement with the unborn kid could be dealt with later. Only one thing was important right now. “Does she want it?”
“What?”
“Chloe. Does she want it?”
“What a silly question. Of course she wants it.”
“No,” she bit off. “It’s not a silly question. Not with you.”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And neither do you.” The words were low and threatening. Akira almost laughed. Like her father could threaten her with anything. A person had to care to feel a threat, and she made damn certain no one knew where her affections lay.
Bitterness rose in her throat, choking her. “You’re fucking ancient. Isn’t your sperm dead by now?”
“Watch your language.” Akira could visualize his hands clenching around the phone, his face turning red. Age was a sore spot for the man, which was probably why he tended to go for women half his age. Chloe was forty-eight to his almost seventy. Akira’s own mother had been eighteen when he’d snapped her up, well into his mid-thirties.
Grab them young, that was Daddy’s motto. The better to manipulate them.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to singe your virgin ears with my unladylike language. I’m just expressing my surprise you can get it up, let alone have any swimmers.”
“You…”
“What?” she asked, sweet as pie. “Bitch? Whore? Maybe you should bring the cameras back in so we can film you spewing your pet names for me. Such a wonderful moment we’re having, when you announce new spawn. I’m sure it will be as big a dick as all of Chloe’s other kids.”
“You will show her respect.”
“Uh, no. I don’t think I will, Father. Congratulations, by the way. I hope it’s yours and not that hot young tennis instructor Chloe hired.”
Her father’s voice was loud, a sure sign she had struck a nerve. “How do you know about the tennis instructor?”
“There’s always a tennis instructor. At least the instructor is employed, right?”
That’s right, Daddy. Remember I succeeded where you failed. Remember if I had inherited the precious Mori empire, it would have thrived.
“You fucking bitch.”
Bitch. Cunt. Whore. She should thank her parents, really. By the time she had become an adult, those words had lost all power to hurt her.
She injected a note of false cheer into her voice. “This has been fun. I’ll call you on Father’s Day. Maybe we can go to brunch. Toodles, Daddy.” She ended the call with a quiet click, loath to give the fucking asshole dick the satisfaction of her slamming the phone down on him.
Akira didn’t have to wonder if the birth of the newest Mori would be televised. The ratings would skyrocket, and her father could milk the pregnancy and birth and first year for at least three or four seasons. That was something the kid could look back on, a televised scrapbook of dysfunction. And these are my parents and siblings showing their asses on cable TV.
She massaged the back of her neck. Of course, when the pregnancy became public knowledge, reporters would come swarming around, as they always did when something dramatic happened on the show. Poking at her private life, smirking over her house parties, waiting outside her home to ask her what she thought about her father’s “leaked” sex tape or her dearest stepmother’s alleged affairs or the ancient history that made up her parents’ acrimonious divorce when she was a baby.
Being the center of attention was fine, but not when her dad was the cause of it.
A knock on the door startled her. She smoothed her hair and straightened her jacket before rapping out, “Yes.”
The door opened almost instantly, and a small dark-haired woman stepped in. Akira frowned at her. This was not her assistant. “Who are you? You’re not Kim. Where’s Kim?”