He checked his reflection out now. Tall, stately, with dark hair shot through with silver at the temples, he knew his handsome face was his ticket to getting what he wanted and had always used it. His patented ‘aw-shucks’ charm worked on the voting public as well as it did with his bed partners.
There was only one part of his life – as yet, a private part – that he reflected on with anger and resentment. The time in London, the time he’d seen her and felt his whole world shift. That dark, thick wavy hair, those large chocolate-brown eyes, that full mouth. Destry Papps had pursued Anoushka Taylor with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and even his closest advisors had been scared by his passion for the girl. She was thirty years the Senator’s junior, a grad student, and an unknown quantity.
What Destry knew and no one else did was that Anoushka – his Noosh – had resisted his charms at first, had expressed doubts over their relationship. At least, she did until he wore her down, first by love-bombing her, promising her that he would give it all up for her, and then when she showed signs of independence from him, he’d shown her in an entirely different way that had nothing to do with love.
She’d escaped him, finally, disappearing from London entirely. He’d tracked her down, though, to a cottage in the north of England. Destry had made sure Noosh knew how angry he was.
He thought of her now, how she’d cringed away from his rage, and he smiled. He could still feel her skin under his fingertips, her mouth on his as he took her. He’d told her then, “If you ever leave me again, I’ll kill you.” And he had meant it.
Then Noosh did the unthinkable and tried to commit suicide. Her parents, those seemingly weak fools, had spirited her away from the hospital in the middle of the night, and Noosh had disappeared – for real, this time. But she was there, out in the world somewhere and ready to use his behavior against him at the most critical moment. That couldn’t be happen, obviously.
Which is why he had sent his best men out to scour the globe for her. There had been sightings – in London, in Mumbai, where her mother hailed from, in Sydney. Destry’s gut instinct told him that she was somewhere in plain sight, but it frustrated him that she was so well hidden.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Destry closed the door to his office and flicked on his computer. He ignored the hundreds of emails and instead clicked on his private folder. Photo after photo of her, always with that haunted look in her eyes. Broken. Beautiful. He traced the outline of her face and sighed. “I can’t let you live, my darling. Not without me. Never without me.” He closed his eyes, imagining his hands around her throat, squeezing, or driving a knife deep into her gut as she begged for her life. His dick hardened, and he wondered if he could risk jerking off before his assistant got into the office. He heard someone moving in the outer office and sighed, closing the folder. “Another time, my love.”
He picked up the phone and called his Head of Security. “Any news?”
“No, Destry. We haven’t found anything on where she might be,”
“Jesus…she’s just one woman, for fuck’s sake. How hard can it be?”
His employee apologized. “I promise we’ll find her, it just may take some time.”
“I’m announcing my candidacy in two weeks. I don’t want anything spoiling that moment. Find her. That’s all I ask of you. When you do, I’ll take care of her.”
“Boss, if I find her, I’ll end her. There’s no need for you…”
“No,” Destry said, interrupting him. “I’ll be the one to kill Anoushka. Me. Just tell me where to find her.”
He hung up the phone and smiled to himself. He could hardly wait.
Chapter Two
Christo pushed his food around his plate, not hungry. He was all too aware of the brooding figure of his father at the end of the dining table. His father’s business associates, some of Christo’s uncles and cousins, and Bertie too, were all there as well, but Christo could feel his father’s scrutiny. He met his father’s gaze with a question in his eyes. Fogliano had been quiet all throughout the meal, but now he tapped his fork on his glass, asking for their attention.
“Friends, family, thank you for coming this evening, on what, to my surprise, is quite an auspicious night.”
Christo’s back stiffened, and Bertie shot him a warning look. Let your father say his piece. Christo sighed. He had no idea what his father would tell the others and so had no defense prepared.
Fogliano smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “My son, my only child, came to me today and told me he didn’t want my business.”
“And here we go,” breathed Bertie under his breath. Christo’s gaze never left his father’s.
“Now,” Fogliano continued, “I have always been proud of my son, proud of what he has achieved, of how much he has given me, and so the fact he wants to make his own way in the world is pleasing to me.”
Christo’s eyes widened slightly, and he relaxed a little. Fogliano smiled a little. “And do you know what my son, my Harvard-educated lawyer son, wants to do with his life now that he no longer wishes to be part of our working life?”
Christo’s hope faded. Nope, this wasn’t going to be a rousing speech singing his praises. He knew the look in his father’s eyes – he was about to be roasted, broiled alive, mocked mercilessly. Well, bring it, Pa. I can handle it.
“He wants to make furniture!” Fogliano spat triumphantly. “Furniture! Like some damn hipster fool in the Village, can you believe it? I’m so glad I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on your education, son, so that you can prance around with your bespoke hand-crafted side tables and rocking chairs. Such a privilege to be able to say that my son, who I raised as my heir to the business I have given my life to create…wants nothing to do with it. How is it I have raised such an ungrateful child?”
The room was silent, the atmosphere thick and unsettling as Fogliano got up and moved down the table to his son. Christo gritted his teeth. This was going to be one of Fogliano’s rants, clearly. I should have known, Christo thought, I should have known he wouldn’t take it well, that he was waiting to humiliate me in front of everyone. He caught Bertie’s eyes. Bertie’s expression was angry but watchful. Christo shook his head – he knew Bertie would stand up to his father in defense of his friend, but Christo felt numb. So be it, he thought, bring it on, Dad. Do your worst.
The anger that had been building inside him for years now was almost at its peak. As Fogliano bore down on his son, Christo got to his feet. “What’s up, Dad? Can’t bear the thought of someone making an honest buck for a change?”
Fogliano stopped. “An honest buck? I’ve had just about enough of your moralizing, boy. My money was good enough to feed you, clothe you, put you through college and now you’re too good for it?”
Christo squared up to his father. “No, Pa. I’m not good. I’ll never be good, but I can try to redress the balance. For Mom, as well as myself.”
He knew mentioning Ornella would set his father off, but Christo didn’t care. He wanted to push Fogliano, wanted that fight to happen so he could feel good about making the break. He didn’t have to wait long. Fogliano cold-cocked him, and he slammed into the table, crashing against the plates and cutlery. The men around the table shot to their feet as Fogliano hauled his son up and hit him again. Bertie lunged forward, but Christo shouted for him to stop. Fogliano beat his son again until Christo’s nose poured with blood. The room was silent as Fogliano let Christo go, his own breath ragged.
“Get out of my house,” he growled, his face a mask of pure rage. Christo got unsteadily to his feet and looked his father in the eyes.
“My fucking pleasure.”
He let Bertie steer him out of the mansion and into Bertie’s car. Christo gazed up at the house as Bertie drove him away from it, knowing he would never see it again. He was free.
“Dude, let’s get to the club,” he said, wiping the blood from his face. “I need a drink…or seven.”
It wasn’t until, very drun
k, he went home to his apartment that night, that Christo let himself break.
Two weeks later and Noosh still hadn’t summoned the courage to go to the sex club. She had quietly pushed her story aside and helped out with Allison’s punishing schedule, hoping her boss would simply forget about it, but then, one Thursday night as they shared pizza late in the evening, Allison studied her. “So?”
Noosh feigned ignorance. “So, what?”
Allison rolled her eyes. “Noosh.”
Noosh sighed. “So…it’s on hold.”
“Until?”
“Until I can persuade myself to go to the club. I mean, you’re right. I need to experience it, it’s just…I’m not sure BDSM is my thing.”
“Do you suppose journalists who go to war-torn countries like what they have to see? The story’s the thing, not your personal preferences. Besides, I never said you had to try out any of that stuff.” Allison shoved a piece of pizza into her mouth and studied Noosh. “When was the last time you got laid, anyway?”
Noosh laughed, half-shocked, although it was exactly the kind of thing Allison would come out with. “A while,” Noosh answered honestly, then grinned at her boss. “And you?”
“Last night. A delectable lawyer from mid-town. Nice guy. Big cock.”
Noosh almost spat her soda out, laughing. She shook her head at her boss. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And satisfied. God, Noosh, have you looked in the mirror? You could have any man you wanted, you know that, right?”
Noosh felt the cold hand close over her heart – the way it had ever since him. “I don’t want a man. I’m fine the way I am.”
Allison harrumphed, unconvinced, but was distracted by her phone beeping. “Oh, here we go. Senator Papps has announced. Thought that might be coming.”
Noosh wondered if her shock was visible on her face. “Destry Papps?”
“Yup. Mr. Smooth is running for President, and the way I hear it, he has a pretty good shot.”
Noosh felt sick but covered her distress by tidying up their dinner things. “That’s not something we’ll cover though, right? I mean, politics isn’t really in our remit.”
Allison brushed crumbs off her pants. “Not directly, but Papps is popular with women. Good-looking guy.”
Noosh felt her face burn. “Not my type.”
Allison, missing Noosh’s red face, chuckled. “Well, he’s a bit too polished for my taste too, but each to their own. Hey, are you okay?”
Finally, she had noticed that Noosh was looking sick. Noosh nodded. “Just tired.”
“Well, let’s get you a cab – god, it’s way past eleven, Noosh, why didn’t you say? You must think me a real taskmaster.” She smiled at her young friend. “Sweetheart, take tomorrow off, and Monday. Have a long weekend, and get some rest. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much work you put in here – it is very much appreciated. I don’t often say this, but these last few months you really have made me excited about this job again.”
As she sat in the backseat of her cab on the way to her apartment, Noosh concentrated on Allison’s compliments. It felt so good to hear her heroine, her idol, her mentor say those things to her, but still, the evening had been tarnished by the thought of Destry.
God…
Noosh felt like throwing up, imagining him as President. Of course, if anyone could stop that, it would be her. She could tell a thousand stories of his hateful, vicious personality. His violence…his threats to kill her.
But even if anyone actually believed her, going to the press or the police would be as good as signing her own death warrant.
As she trudged into her apartment, making sure the deadbolt was on, she realized a hard truth. If Destry ever found her…she had no doubt she would be dead. Why the hell had she come to America? To his home? Was it spite? Was it to hide in plain sight?
No. Fuck him. It was to pursue her dream of being a radio journalist – to work with Allison – to have something for herself. She had already lost so much because of him… Seeing her parents, for one. She missed them so much and lived for the phone calls to the burner phones she replaced every week. Her friends back in London, her extended family in Mumbai. All of them were out of bounds now, because of the chance Destry might use them to find her. Even at work she used a pseudonym for her writing credits – Sarah Marsh. Something completely unconnected with her real name.
Noosh lay on her bed, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. To live under a death threat was still unreal and yet all too real to her. It made her angry, and full of sorrow.
She rolled onto her side. You know what? I will go the club, and maybe I will fuck some random guy there…because I can Destry. It’ll be my choice. Screw you and your political ambitions. If I hear one – just one story – of you treating another woman like me, I’ll go public, and hang the consequences.
I will bring your house of cards down, even if it costs me my own life.
Chapter Three
Bertie glanced over at his friend. Christo was drinking steadily now, his handsome face set in anger. He had been like this ever since that terrible night at his father’s house, and Bertie was worried. Christo had never been a big drinker, and to see him throw back expensive whiskey as if it were soda was wrong somehow. Between the two of them, Christo was usually the down-to-earth one, the one who would prop up Bertie after a night out, the one who would stop drinking before the hangover set in.
Now, though, his friend was on a knife’s edge, and Bertie didn’t know how the hell to pull him back from it. He sat up as Christo lurched from the bar stool and staggered towards the door. “Dude, where the hell are you going?”
“To get laid.” Christo shot back darkly, and Bertie sighed. That was the other thing. Endless women – a different one every night for the last few weeks. Christo waking up in a stranger’s house every time, from which Bertie had to pick him up.
“Christo, I’m flying to LA in the morning. I won’t be there to pick you up.”
Christo stopped at the door, turning to gave his friend a sad smile. “You’ve been picking me up too many times, my friend. It’s time you let me fall where I need to, even if it’s the gutter.”
Bertie was surprised at how lucid, if depressed, his friend sounded. He got up and went to him. “Come on, Christo, let me take you home instead. Get some rest.”
Christo considered but then shook his head. “It’s okay, Bertie. I’ll go to my club…they know how to put me in a cab. I need to fuck, Bertie. I need to get this rage out somehow, and fucking is the least destructive way I can think of.”
Bertie sighed. “The women are okay with that?”
“They just want to fuck too.” Christo, his green eyes sad, looked away from his friend’s scrutiny. “Let me go, Bert. I need to do this my way. I’ll come out of it, I promise.”
Bertie watched helplessly as Christo walked out of the bar and hailed a cab. Christo was right – the only person who could pull him out of this slump was himself. Bertie almost couldn’t believe this was the result of Christo finally freeing himself from his father. He was so sure that his friend would be celebratory, not depressed. He’d gotten what he wanted, right? So why was he so self-destructive? Had his father’s beating really fucked with his head that much?
Bertie shook his head and went back to collect his jacket. One thing he knew for sure was this: Christo was right – Bertie had to let him fall before he could begin to help him get back on his feet.
He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.
Noosh was debating whether to walk into the club confidently, or to simply just throw up. She shivered in the night air despite it being very warm, and then smoothed her dress down for the fourteenth time. “Option one,” she told herself, and lifted her chin, stepping into the club’s entrance. The security man at the door nodded politely to her and opened the door. Noosh thanked him, making sure her voice didn’t shake before walking in.
A wash of music came over her, and as she walked into t
he bar area, a thousand different thoughts invaded her mind. Her vision was bombarded by the sights to her left, where a small stage showed people writhing and dancing, all naked and sweaty.
Okay, she told herself, you expected this. Don’t freak out. Don’t look like a rookie.
She walked steadily to the bar and sat down. The bartender greeted her – everyone was so polite – and she ordered a cosmopolitan. Sipping her drink, she took her time to look around.
At a table in the corner, a woman dressed entirely in latex was blindfolding a man, who was stripped down to his jeans. When he couldn’t see, the woman picked up a candle and dripped hot wax onto his chest – slowly – smiling as he groaned. Other people watched them, but the connection between the two of them was so palpable that Noosh couldn’t look away. The dominatrix caught her eye and smiled. Noosh smiled back.
The atmosphere of the club surprised her. Unlike the sweaty, handsy feel of the usual Friday night clubs, here was a relaxed, open atmosphere that astonished her. After an hour, she was even enjoying watching what was going, which seemed to be okay by everyone, even if she didn’t join in.
Noosh had to admit that the overtly open atmosphere was erotic, and when a beautiful woman came up to order a drink at the bar and turned to her, surprising her with a soft kiss on the mouth, Noosh went with it.
“You’re beautiful,” the woman said, stroking her hands up Noosh’s thighs, “but overdressed. First time?”
Noosh nodded shyly. The woman, a gorgeous, voluptuous blonde, nodded her head towards the opposite side of the bar, grinning. “There’s a man who has been gazing at you and you alone for an hour. He’s sensational. Go, enjoy.”
Noosh looked over to where the blonde nodded, and her stomach gave a strange lurch of pure desire. ‘Sensational’ didn’t begin to cover it.
No Promises: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Page 2