Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy)

by Alexander, Magda

  Chapter 2

  ______________

  Gabriel

  MY LEG THROBS IN AGONY, but I get through the interview with The Wall Street Journal reporter and even manage a half hour of the cocktail party before I say goodbye to Carrey and his team. Leaning heavily on the cane, I head toward the lift, immensely grateful for my VP’s presence. If I start to keel over, Miranda will cover for me.

  Somehow I make it out of the building without any mishap and into the limo where Samuel Taylor, my driver and security guard, waits to whisk us to the Four Seasons. Once we arrive at the hotel, we go our separate ways—Miranda to a dinner she’s arranged with friends, I to my room, where I can give my leg a rest.

  Alone in my hotel suite, I pour a scotch from the mini bar and sink into the sofa to rest my injured leg. Clicking the remote, I twirl through the telly offerings, stop at a Washington Nationals game. Half an inning later, I'm gritting my teeth from the excruciating pain. The alcohol alone is not cutting it. I reach for my pills, knowing damn well the danger of mixing them with booze. But what choice do I have? I won’t last the night without both.

  When I float pain free, my mind wanders back to the events of the afternoon. Somehow the closing took second fiddle to meeting Elizabeth Watson, the woman I didn’t know existed until a week ago when Brianna told me about our relationship and my alleged role in her pregnancy. Something I find difficult to believe since I always use a condom. Or used to anyway. That much I remember. So I can’t comprehend how she could have become pregnant by me.

  According to Ms. Watson, I may not be the father of the child she carries. That statement tallies up with the care I usually took to prevent conception. And yet, I don’t believe her. Something about our conversation strikes me as odd. Months ago, she told Brianna I was the one responsible, but now she’s waffling on her statement. Why would she do that? Is she trying to throw me off the scent? Or did she speak the truth when she admitted to multiple sex partners? I don’t buy it. Her refusal to look at me when she mentioned other men seems to indicate a lie of some kind. Which baffles me. Why prevaricate about something that can be proved with a simple blood test?

  A remnant of a memory fleets across my mind—gardenias and the lush body of a woman beneath me. But it’s gone before I can examine it for further clues. Is it her? No. It can’t be. I didn’t detect a floral scent in her office, and in that confined space, I would have noticed. Wish I could remember her. She’s lovely, truly lovely. Mounds of dark hair, green, green eyes. And curves plump enough to get a rise out of a dying man.

  Ironic, I know.

  I’d schooled my features to reveal nothing when I met her today, for I didn’t want my face to give away my thoughts. Still, I’d hoped for something, anything, to clue me in to the woman who, according to Bri, captivated me in a way she’d never witnessed before. But when I saw Ms. Watson, I felt . . . nothing. Not even a spark. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

  Two months after the accident, and I still have major holes in my memory, with Elizabeth Watson being the biggest one of all. With careful coaching by Miranda Stone, whom I was forced to take into my confidence, I managed to recall and understand enough of the SouthWind deal to muddle through today’s closing and interview. When the article and photos make the business papers, everyone will think I have things under control when quite the opposite is true. I’m half the man I used to be. Mentally, emotionally, physically.

  Even though I abhor the wreck I’ve become, the accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for the head injury prompted the doctors to take a serious look inside my head. They discovered tumors, non-cancerous, but still large enough to cause the migraines. If they hadn’t been removed, they could have proved fatal. Hell, they would have proved fatal the day of the crash, but for whatever guardian angel watched over me that fateful night.

  While I convalesced in hospital, barely aware of my name, much less anything around me, Bri resisted the Countess’s efforts to wreck the SouthWind deal. Without my sister, everything I’ve fought for the last few years would have been dismantled. So I can’t very well yell at her over her decision to withhold information about Elizabeth Watson until a week ago. Not when she did it because I had enough to deal with at the time. A broken leg, amnesia, various bodily injuries. The night of the car wreck my blood alcohol content was way beyond the legal range. So I have no one to blame but myself for the state I’m in.

  My mobile rings. Brianna.

  “Darling, how are you?”

  I’m not about to share my level of pain. “Fair to middling.”

  “Leg still hurting?”

  “Yes, but it’s manageable.” Only through the combination of liquor and drugs.

  “How was the closing?”

  “We’re now the proud owners of the rights to develop the Brazilian Storm Industries Wind Farm.” I knock back the rest of the scotch. “Is everything in order for your trip?” Along with Jake Cooper, my head of security and her own personal bodyguard, Brianna will travel to Brazil to perform the necessary leg work before the construction project can begin. Even though SouthWind shared their reports, she needs to perform her own investigation and plan the best way to erect the wind turbines which even now are being built by one of our subsidiaries. The new machines will withstand wind forces of near hurricane strength making them superior to the current ones manufactured by other plants and making us the place to go for new wind power generators.

  “Yes, but I can put off our departure date for a week if you need me.”

  “I’m fine, Brianna.”

  “Are you sure, Gabe?”

  “Yes, darling girl. You’ve taken care of me long enough, now go do what you love to do.”

  “All right.” A pause. “How did it go with Elizabeth Watson?”

  “I didn’t recognize her, Bri.” I sound disappointed and, damn it, I am.

  “That’s too bad.” She seems just as despondent as me.

  “I invited her for brunch tomorrow so we can come to some sort of an arrangement about this child.” If in fact it’s mine.

  “It’s your baby, Gabriel. She said so.”

  I swirl the ice in the glass and another memory races across my consciousness. A cube of ice, luscious tits. I roll the glass across my brow. Why can’t I bloody hell remember? “I can’t blindly believe it just because she told you it was.” Especially after she placed my paternity in question. “I need proof.”

  She sighs. “Very well. Keep me informed.”

  “I will. Goodnight. And Bri?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “Oh, Gabe. You’ve done enough for me. It’s about time I returned the favor. Goodnight.”

  Hours later I wake, still on the couch, telly blathering with an infomercial. By my watch, it’s 3:18. I grab my cane and stumble my way to the bedroom, strip and fall exhausted into the king-sized bed. My dreams torture me with images of a gardenia-scented female body, mine pounding into hers. Something bound to live only in my imagination, for such an event will never come my way again.

  Chapter 3

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING comes around a bit too soon. After dressing, I fidget about my townhouse, straightening pillows on the couch, alphabetizing spices on the spice rack. Having developed an aversion to strong scents, I stay away from the more fragrant ones. Even a whiff of my gardenia perfume makes me gag. So I gave it up rather than barf.

  There are a lot fewer spices since Casey Jackson, the foster brother who raised me since I was six, moved out a month ago. The place seems so quiet without him. Strange, since he rarely spent time here toward the end.

  He dragged his feet on the move, but I insisted. After all, he’d done quite enough for me, and now he needs his own life. We get together for Sunday brunch at his new condo off Wisconsin Avenue, the place he and his girlfriend, a nurse at Georgetown University hospital, bought together.

  Before he
left, I found a new roommate, but she shacked up with her boyfriend instead, waiting until the day before her move-in date to let me know. She forfeited the security deposit and first month’s rent so I have enough to pay the current and next month’s payments. But I’ll need a new roommate after that.

  The thought of a new search with the endless phone calls and emails tacked on to a full time job and night law school classes exhausts me. But it’s something I need to do. If I don’t locate a new roommate, I’ll have to find some place a great deal cheaper than the Alexandria townhouse where I now live. As it is, my share of the rent is astronomical, half my monthly paycheck. So paying the full amount is beyond my means.

  I grab a white sweater, open the blinds. While I wait for Samuel, I smooth down my dress, an empire waistline navy blue and white outfit I bought in London. Don’t know why I chose to wear a dress which accentuates my slight baby bump since I do just the opposite at work, hiding my pregnancy behind loose smocks and business jackets. Not that it’s done any good. Everybody knows I’m pregnant.

  No one’s been bold enough to ask who’s the baby’s father, but the secretaries whisper when I walk by their desks. And I’ve caught more than one conversation behind my back. But what most upsets me is the change in my work assignments. Although Mr. Carrey continues to give me meaningful work, other partners and associates delegate menial jobs, rather than the meaty projects I enjoyed before my pregnancy became noticeable.

  The situation is bound to get worse after the baby’s birth. Whether I keep the child or put it up for adoption, I’ll be damned either way. My future with Smith Cannon has been compromised by my pregnancy, and I don’t see a way out. Although I would hate to pull up stakes and move to a new law firm, I may be forced to do just that.

  When I catch the limo pulling up, I grab my purse and walk toward the car where Samuel stands, holding the back door open for me. He’s wearing a stylish two-button suit which favors his large build to a T.

  “Good morning, Ms. Watson.” His accent is a curious combination of southern American roots with a touch of Brit.

  “How are you, Samuel?” I touch his arm, first time I’ve done so, but I can’t help myself. He got me out of a sticky spot in London, and, in a strange way, he’s dear to me.

  “Fine. Thank you for asking,” he returns with a smile.

  Soon he’s whisking me down the George Washington Parkway. The day is one of those early fall days, not hot, not cold, just right. As we cross Key Bridge toward Georgetown, I recall that wild ride in the limo and how I came apart in Gabriel’s arms. His power to seduce me in less than a day’s acquaintance astounded me then. Still does. I never fell so hard, so fast, for another man.

  When we arrive at the Four Seasons, Samuel asks a valet to park the car while he escorts me through the lobby, up the elevator, down the carpeted corridor to Gabriel’s suite.

  Barely a second after I knock on the door, Gabriel flings it open and my breath goes AWOL. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, taking him in.

  He’s as gorgeous as ever in denim jeans, white shirt and a heather blue v-neck cashmere sweater, with a gray jacket thrown over it all. His hair falls loose to his shoulders, curling at the ends. His sexy stubble weakens my knees. Who am I kidding? The entire package weakens my knees.

  “Thank you for bringing Ms. Watson,” he says to Samuel.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Storm.” To my surprise, Samuel folds his arms across his front and remains standing against the outside wall of the suite. I can’t imagine what Gabriel would need protection from here in D.C.

  “Please come in,” Gabriel says to me.

  I’ve never been inside the West Wing Presidential Suite, or any other at the Four Seasons for that matter. The entire place screams understated elegance, decorated as it is in light blues, golds and greens. A huge square coffee table commands the living room surrounded by two sofas, one a soft green, the other a light blue.

  “May I use the facilities?” One of the cons of pregnancy. You can’t go five minutes without having to pee.

  “Of course.” He points to my right.

  After I take care of business, I swipe a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spread lotion over my hands. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth. Enough stalling. I step out to find him lounging against the opposite wall, cane in hand, waiting for me. My cheeks flush with heat. I’ve done the dirty deed and then some with this man. Why I’m embarrassed by his hearing me urinate is beyond me.

  Ignoring my obvious embarrassment, he leads me farther into the suite. “The ride wasn’t too long?”

  “No.”

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat or if you suffered from . . .” His voice drifts off.

  “Morning sickness stopped about a month ago. I’m in the second trimester, the one where you eat like a horse.” I pat my stomach.

  He grins that special crooked grin of his, and my insides flip flop.

  “Good, because I ordered everything.”

  Boy, he’s not kidding. The dining room table fairly groans with pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, blintzes, fresh fruit, toast, croissants.

  I look around. No one here but him and me. “Are you expecting someone else?”

  “No. Just us.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see.” Only two places are set at the far end of the table.

  I load up my plate with bacon, eggs, pancakes and spread orange marmalade on a couple of croissants. He pours cups of coffee for him and me. I pass on the orange juice.

  While we tuck into the food, the only sound to be heard is the cutlery. How can we be this uncomfortable after everything we’ve done with each other? Stuffed to the gills after twenty minutes, I stop eating, and he encourages me to move to the living room. I carry a cup of coffee just to have something to sip. Somehow, he manages to juggle another plate in one hand while leaning on the cane with the other. When I sit, he slides the croissant plate with a dollop of orange marmalade to me.

  We’ve switched places, him and I. The first day we met I waited on him. And now he’s waiting on me. “You really want me to eat more?”

  He flashes that devastating smile. “This is my small way of taking care of you.”

  My chin hitches up. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m doing fine.”

  “I can see that. You’re glowing. Pregnancy suits you.”

  He’s seeing what I want him to see. He’s missed the early morning sickness, the endless exhaustion, not to mention dealing with a body growing bigger and more cumbersome every day. “So, I’m here. Let’s talk.” My tone is curt, businesslike. The only way I’m getting through this is to handle it like a business discussion and not allow my emotions to break loose. Hard to do when he’s so drop dead gorgeous, so overwhelmingly masculine. And when I want him so damn bad.

  He takes a seat on the blue sofa across from me, but doesn’t offer anything for a few seconds. Probably trying to figure out how to broach the subject we are here to discuss. “So the baby might be mine.”

  “Might.” I tear off part of a croissant and pop it into my mouth just to give me something to still my nerves. I’ve never been very good at lying.

  “I had the night to think about what you said, Ms. Watson, and I’ve come to one indisputable conclusion.” He fixes a rather unnerving stare on me. “You’re not speaking the truth.”

  I almost choke on the croissant. “What exactly am I supposed to be lying about?”

  “The paternity of the child. When my sister discovered you were pregnant, she asked you if I was the father. You didn’t hesitate. On the contrary, you readily admitted it, while revealing you hadn’t told me yet. So the question becomes why would you lie about something which can be proved so easily? All it takes is one test of my DNA and your blood, and my paternity can be established with a 99% accuracy.”

  With my words revealed as the lies they are, I latch on to the one thing I can contest. “What makes you think I would volunteer for a blood test?”

&nb
sp; “The court order I will serve upon you if you fail to see reason. But I won’t have to go that far, will I? One phone call to Thomas Carrey should do the trick. I’ll simply intimate I’m the father of your child, but you’re refusing to take a simple blood test.”

  “You wouldn’t!” If he tells Carrey, I’ll lose his patronage. And the Smith Cannon attorney is the only partner giving me meaningful assignments. Might as well kiss my career goodbye.

  “On the contrary, Ms. Watson. I most certainly would.” He’s damn serious, but then he hasn’t become a billionaire without playing hard ball.

  Maybe we have more present issues to discuss, but right now, I’ve had enough of being called by my last name. “Ms. Watson? Really? After everything we’ve done, you won’t call me by my first name?”

  That pompous brow of his goes on the rise. “My apologies. Liz.”

  Liz? What happened to Elizabeth? The word he invoked with such heat and fervor it melted me every single time he breathed my name.

  “What’s wrong? Would you prefer I call you something else?”

  Yes, I do, but I’m not going to clue you in. Figure it out on your own. “Liz is fine. Go on.” I snap off another piece of the croissant, jam it into my mouth.

  He rises, grabs the entire plate of croissants from the dining table, brings it to the coffee table, and places it in front of me.

  “No, really, I shouldn’t.” Those things have to be a gazillion calories each.

  “Eat.”

  I shiver at the command. Why do I love the way he orders me around when I won’t stand the same from another man?

  “Thank you.” I lay another flaky roll on the empty plate and bring it to my lap. “Even if you were the father, and I’m not saying you are—”

  He grunts with disapproval.

  “—I’m not looking for help from you. I’m doing fine on my own.”

  Without taking his gaze from me, he rests back against his seat. “Are you familiar with peer hereditary laws?”

  Where did that come from? “Yes, of course.” We’d discussed it, among many other things, that weekend at the castle.