His mouth came down on hers, swallowing her shuddering exhalation. The power of his unrestrained passion drove reason from her mind. With his lips and tongue, he demanded everything from her and, defenses obliterated, she gave it.
Hollowness bloomed in her chest, an aching, growing emptiness. She strained into him, chasing what he took from her. She realized, short of occupying the same space, she would never be able to get close enough. It was as if he held part of her captive, a piece she hadn’t known existed but desperately wanted returned.
He shifted his embrace subtly, holding her away from him and lifting his head. Desolate at the sudden, unexpected loss, she went up on her toes searching. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her with a strange determination.
“Tell me.”
“What? Tell you what?”
“Tell me you want me.”
She blinked several times, reason coming back in a cold surge. Horrified at how quickly and deeply he had drawn her into madness, she could find nothing to say.
“Oh, that’s too bad.” His smile had a bitter twist. “I already know, Lillian. It’s coming off you in waves.” He lowered his head to her neck and sniffed. “Fucking intoxicating waves,” he whispered against her skin. “But I need to hear you say it.”
As he spoke, he disentangled himself from her, bringing his hands to her shoulders then running them down the backs of her arms before letting them trail away from her elbows. He looked down between them and she followed his gaze, realizing she still had hold of his shirtfront. She uncurled her fingers and lowered her hands to his forearms before feeling steady enough to take a step back.
She wrapped her arms around herself before looking up at him. His handsome features warped by frustration and hard determination, he leaned in, his breath hot on her cheek.
“As much as I enjoy watching you torture yourself, we both know what I would find if I slid my hand between your thighs.” Her hands tightened around her upper arms at the provocative image, nails biting into the soft under skin. “Just like we both know how much you want me to do it.” A little sound of denial escaped her, making him chuckle humorlessly. “That makes three. I’m getting tired of you lying to me.”
She opened her mouth, a heated retort on her tongue.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Without another word, he turned and descended the stairs. He disappeared into the kitchen without a backward glance, leaving Lillian alone and wretched.
Chapter 11
Easy laughter rippled through the amicable conversation surrounding him, but Griffin found it impossible to participate. His thoughts lingered on his latest clash with Lillian. Three long days of restraint had left his nerves raw and twitching, and he had no idea how he’d managed to refrain from taking her on the stairs. Every part of him had wanted to lift her off her feet, press her up against the wall, rip the ridiculous wisp of fabric she thought passed for underwear from her body, and, at long last, plumb her depths.
He reached for his wineglass—his upturned fingers slipping under the crystal globe and bringing it close—and looked down the length of the table at the object of what he feared was becoming an uncontrollable obsession. He wondered if she regretted the decision to seat him at the opposite end of the table where he had an unobstructed view. She’d been pointedly avoiding his gaze. Currently, she had her hand on Dylan Drumlin’s forearm and appeared engrossed in their conversation.
Griffin looked into his glass, a wry smile twisting his lips. She could ignore him all she wanted; he knew her secret. The perverse sexual attraction between them affected her as much as it did him. So much so, she had been as powerless to defy his outrageous demand as he had been in making it. And, though he recognized navigating an affair with the stiletto-wearing, lover collecting, serial widow would be treacherous, he didn’t feel he had much choice in the matter. He had to have her.
Releasing a harsh breath through his nose, he shifted uneasily in his seat before bringing the rim of his wineglass to his lips. He closed his eyes to better appreciate the intertwined aromas trapped in the bulb before tipping the Pinot noir into his mouth and letting it coat his tongue. The wine bathed his taste buds, imparting its nuances. A satisfied grin curved his lips as he swallowed.
A hush fell over the room, bringing him out of his reverie. All eyes were on him except the emerald pair he immediately sought. Her chin tipped, Lillian appeared focused on the tines of the fork she held loosely in her fingers. Her expression was indecipherable, but her color seemed wrong. She looked…embarrassed. He hadn’t believed such a thing possible. Had she been watching him? Searching for some explanation, he turned questioning eyes to the lovely auburn haired woman sitting to his left, Drumlin’s wife, Morgan.
“You seem to be enjoying your wine,” she said lightly, setting off a chorus of titters and muffled chuckles around the table.
“It’s very good,” he answered her simply. “Don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid,” Dylan offered from his end of the table. “My dear wife has a singular taste when it comes to wine. She only drinks Shiraz.”
“Really?” Griffin turned back to Morgan, who blushed charmingly. “That can be an extremely complex variety.”
“Do you hear that, dear husband?” She smiled warmly at Griffin and put her hand on his forearm. “Griffin says I have extremely complex taste in wine.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what he said,” Dylan rejoined.
“Don’t listen to him, Sorella.” Griffin turned at the sound of Lillian’s voice, but she continued to avoid his gaze. “You have wonderful taste.” Surprised by the quick defense, he looked back at his dining companion with renewed interest.
“What does ‘sorella’ mean, Lillian?” asked Vickie Walters, the classically striking, blonde-haired wife of BDI’s chief executive.
“It is sister in Italian.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” Vickie nodded her approval as she reached for her wineglass.
“You’re Lillian’s sister?” Griffin could not keep the astonishment out of his voice.
“No.” Morgan laughed. “We’re just good friends.”
“I didn’t realize Lillian had any close friends.”
Unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, he watched with trepidation as Morgan’s smile disappeared. His growing irritation at being kept in the dark had been revealed.
“Have you tried this?” He attempted a distraction, tilting his glass in Morgan’s direction. “If you like Shiraz you might enjoy Pinots as well. They’re actually lighter and are generally considered a better compliment to food.”
“You seem to know a great deal about wine.”
Griffin turned to face the woman who had spoken. It was Janice Compton, the Chief Operations Officer of BDI. She was a soft-spoken, serious looking woman with dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Her tasteful black dress adorned simply with pearls and a pair of exceedingly sensible shoes. Her husband, Dr. Mark Compton, sat diagonally across from her. If Griffin remembered correctly from the memorial brunch, he was an oncologist at Brigham and Women’s. Beneath his salt and pepper hair, his face seemed trained in a perpetual expression of quiet compassion. The two were the very definition of “power couple.”
“It is an integral part of the family business,” Griffin reasoned.
“Yes, but you’ve been away from it for quite some time.”
He ignored the loaded comment. “I guess there are some things you don’t forget. My parents had wine with most dinners and they introduced me relatively early. I was probably about seven or eight when Mother discovered I had a sensitive sniffer.” He tapped his nose. “She made it a game.” He hadn’t thought about it in years, the two of them snuffling in their wineglasses, his father shaking his head indulgently. Distracted by the surprising warmth of the distant memory, he continued mechanically, “It didn’t take long before I was able to identify the more obvious tones of a bouquet. Later on.” He blinked away the remnants of senti
mentality. “I could differentiate between varieties. It remains an interest, a hobby, really.”
He hoped the stock explanation would be enough.
“What can you tell us about this?” Dr. Compton asked, lifting his glass and giving the rosy liquid a swirl.
“Well,” Griffin began, suppressing his sigh of frustration. He knew from experience, playing the parlor game and satisfying everyone’s curiosity was the easiest course. “If I’m not mistaken this is an Oregon Pinot from the Willamette Valley. I’d have to go with…” Griffin angled his glass into the light of the chandelier hanging over the table. “…a 2011 due to the light color and…” He stuck his nose deep into the bowl and sniffed. “…delicate fragrance. It was a challenging year for most vineyards. The quality here…” He took a sip, sloshing the contents noisily before swallowing. “It’s well balanced. The spicy start finishes strong with red cherry and raspberry lingering but without any heaviness. My best guess for the producer would be Bergström or Beaux Frères.”
Griffin deliberately set his glass next to his dinner plate. The room had, once again, lapsed into silence. But this time when he looked up, he anticipated the open stares and stunned expressions.
“A hobby?” Vickie Walters gave a short disbelieving laugh.
“I wouldn’t have thought you would have had much opportunity to practice that little trick while you were in the service.”
Griffin turned to face Vickie’s husband, Max, who sat on the opposite side of Morgan. “I didn’t. But I’ve been out of the military for some time now.”
“How long, exactly?”
Griffin rested his elbows on either side of his dinner plate. His forearms tented; his fingers laced lightly. The inquisition had begun.
“Nine years.”
“And you have your own business?”
“I have a partner, but yes, a small, commercial diving operation.”
“Not so small,” the company’s CFO, Tyler Harris, interjected. “You have an impressive reputation in the industry.”
“You’ll have to pardon him,” Tyler’s partner, Dennis Riley, explained from the other end of the table where he sat to Lillian’s right. “Ty just loves to Google people.”
Griffin looked between the two men, finding it increasingly difficult to keep the mild smile on his face while gnashing his molars. From the moment he’d learned his father intended to leave him controlling interest in BDI, he’d known he’d have to explain himself to these people. Furthermore, if he should actually be insane enough to go through with becoming chairman, he’d need to win them over.
“It’s okay. I get it. I’m sure you’re all curious. You want to know what I’m about, so let me lay it out for you.” He unclasped his fingers and reached for his glass before relaxing into his seat. “As you may or may not be aware, the day I turned eighteen I left home. I did not have my father’s blessing. He had other plans for my future. But like any typical, self-centered teenager, I had no respect for his wishes. I was interested in anything other than what he wanted for me.” He took two substantial, fortifying swigs of wine, willing the tension out of his shoulders. “The army had a slogan at the time, ‘Be all you can be.’ I had no idea what ‘all’ I was capable of, but the idea of doing something on my own—it was very attractive to me, so I enlisted. My recruiter saw from my paperwork I’d been a competitive swimmer in high school and suggested I look into becoming a civil engineer diver. The rest, as they say, is history.”
He set his glass on the edge of the table, nudging it forward with two fingers before angling back in his chair. “In ’05, my unit went to Louisiana after Katrina. As you can imagine, the storm did an enormous amount of damage to the underwater structures common in the area. My buddy, Josh Learner, and I knew the rebuilding effort would take years so, in ’06, we made the jump to civilian life. We’ve worked hard and been fortunate. You’re right, Tyler, it is successful. But Josh is the one with the business sense. My talents lie under the water, not behind a desk. The doubts you have about me are well founded.” He gave each member of the executive management team a cursory nod. “I have grave doubts too. That’s exactly why I’m not accepting Leonard’s bequest simply because it’s been made. I have no intention of inserting myself into BDI out of some misguided sense of familial responsibility. I…” The subtle shake of Lillian’s head drew Griffin’s attention, interrupting his train of thought.
“Do I understand correctly?” Max interjected into the ensuing silence. “Are you thinking about refusing? Disclaiming?”
“I thought you would have…” Griffin stared at Lillian, but she refused to meet his gaze. Reluctantly, he faced Max. “I apologize. I’d assumed you would have been…never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He straightened, pulling his chair tighter to the table and scanning the suddenly worried faces surrounding him. “Yes. I am giving serious consideration to refusing the inheritance.” The sucking silence had him rubbing his hand over his face. He didn’t know why he’d assumed Lillian had informed them of his intentions, but her negligence left him feeling betrayed. “I’m here strictly as Lillian’s guest while the will is in probate.”
“So you plan to sell?”
The blunt question was cognizant and reasonable coming from the company’s CFO, but it annoyed Griffin, nonetheless.
“I’m nowhere near making that decision,” he replied curtly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.” Tyler folded the napkin from his lap and placed it carefully near his plate.
“Well, then,” Vicky Walters spoke brightly into the ensuing void. “Griffin’s certainly given us a lot to consider, but that’s enough business talk. We wouldn’t want our hostess to think it was the only reason we came this evening.” She turned to Lillian. “I’ve got to say the food is amazing. This prime rib…” She placed a plump morsel in her mouth. “Mmm.”
Lillian gestured at the swinging door leading to the kitchen. “The credit is Chef Greyson’s. As you all know, I do not cook.”
“Our compliments to the chef, then.” Dylan raised his glass.
Half-heartedly, Griffin joined in toasting the temperamental man most likely fussing about dessert as the guests drank in his honor. Setting his glass down, Griffin took up his fork and knife and considered his plate. Between the hotel and the flu, he hadn’t had an actual meal in close to a week. He realized he was ravenous.
The food was as good as Vicky had claimed. The simple presentation of prime rib au jus, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots and shallots gave no indication of Chef Greyson’s immense talent. The buttery airiness of the mashed potatoes had an unexpected bite—Griffin suspected horseradish—which provided the perfect complement to the melt-in-your-mouth, unembellished choice beef. The baked sweetness of the vegetables completed the culinary tour de force.
Griffin cleaned his plate. With a satisfied smile, he leaned back in his chair, wineglass in hand.
“That was incredible,” he proclaimed to no one in particular.
Lillian, perhaps caught off guard by his spontaneous declaration, lifted her head and their gazes locked. The span of the table couldn’t obscure the abrupt transformation taking place in the green of her eyes. His body responded instinctually to the cue. Maybe it was the rare meat he’d recently devoured, but Griffin’s inner caveman emerged. He knew if he didn’t do something in the next two seconds to diffuse the situation, the dinner guests were going to be treated to the spectacle of him hauling Lillian out of her chair, tossing her over his shoulder, and taking her to bed.
“It’s hard to believe you found someone to rival Mrs. Jones,” he blurted, raising his voice over the clinking and jangling of silverware in action.
She started at his words, their charged connection broken.
“Yes. We were fortunate to find him.”
“How did you? Find him, that is.”
“He worked for a friend of Lenny’s, the late Mr. Charles Milton.”
Griffin nearly choked on the sip of wine he�
�d taken. Had Lillian just told him the family chef had worked formerly for her second husband? The heat of lust was replaced by cold calculation.
“Milton as in Gustave Milton Bennett?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Charles was my second husband.”
“So, really, Chef Greyson worked for you.”
“He had been Charles’ chef long before we were married.”
“I see.” He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table’s edge, keeping his attention on her. “I’m just curious. Did Mr. Milton, by any chance, introduce you to my father?”
“As I said, Charles and your father were friends.”
Her answer came readily enough, but the tightness in her voice had the room quieting around them. Without meaning to, he’d backed Lillian into a corner. Rebuffing his trifling questions would appear petty, answering meant revealing herself.
“Small world,” he remarked. “Milton didn’t know your first husband, did he? That would be—”
“He did,” she cut him off, her gaze boring into him as she raised her wineglass to her lips.
“That’s how it works.” He thought he’d said it beneath his breath, but Morgan’s sharp inhalation told him she, at least, had heard. Her indignation did nothing to minimize Griffin’s mounting rage, making it impossible for him to measure his next words before they emerged from his mouth, heated and accusing. “So who’s next? Which one of my father’s friends is the lucky groom?”
“That’s enough!” Dylan barked at him.
Griffin shot him a “fuck off” look before refocusing on Lillian.
The prim line of her mouth let him know she had no intention of answering. He hadn’t expected it. His objective had been for her to know he’d figured it out, he understood the game. As if in slow motion, he watched her return her glass to its place and then, palms down, draw her hands over the tablecloth and, presumably, into her lap. Before they disappeared out of sight, Griffin saw the slight tremor in her graceful fingers. The small sign of vulnerability drained the fight right out of him.
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