A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  “I hope you plan on being judicious when you say ‘get a hold of me when you need to’,” I warned. Looking at the screen, I scrolled through the contacts.

  Your Highness…iPhone

  Your Highness…Email

  Your Highness…Office

  I didn’t fight the smile growing on my face. Then he held up his phone. My gaze swept over the screen and there, in bright, shiny letters––

  Her Majesty…iPhone

  Her Majesty…Email

  He caught me by the waist and wrapped me in his arms. He sprinkled teasing kisses on my throat, my temple, my nose while I laughed at his playfulness. Sighing happily, I pulled back and gazed into his warm eyes––where adoration gave way to awe. It was still new, seeing his emotions shining openly there. I wrapped my hands around his cherished face and ran my thumbs lightly over the planes of his features, committing every subtle nuance to memory.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” It rushed out of me. It didn’t often; I still felt the heavy burden of my past, of what I hadn’t told him. I abhorred dishonesty and it troubled me that I was as guilty of it as a thief at confession. He said it freely though. Unencumbered by shame or secrets, once he had spoken the words, he couldn’t say it enough.

  He pushed me up onto his desk and stepped in between my legs. His warm hands spread on my knees and skimmed wickedly over my stockings, up my thighs. When I cupped his erection, his hips hitched up, pressing harder into my hand.

  “I love you more,” he crooned between unhurried kisses. “I need you.”

  The heat in the room turned up by a hundred degrees. In short order, he had me panting and writhing, begging for him. I stepped back, outside of myself, and watched the scene from a distance. The woman with legs spread apart invitingly, the one gripping the edge of the desk for leverage with her head thrown back in abandon…that woman wasn’t me. I didn’t recognize her. Anybody could have walked in. When had I become so reckless? The day you met him whispered that tiny voice of reason. This is who I was now. He had irrevocably changed me. That realization was hard to accept because it only begged the question––who was I going to be after him?

  His restless hands ruched up the skirt of my uniform and discovered the lacy tops of my new thigh high stockings. The question mark in his eyes turned into a playful smirk.

  “You destroyed four pairs of perfectly good hose last week alone. I thought these might work better if you’re going to keep accosting me in dark corners.”

  His smile opened up into one of his mind numbing, thousand watt stunners. “Are you being sexually harassed in the workplace, Miss Sava?”

  My head fell back to give him better access to my neck. I grabbed the hard globes of his beautiful derrière and pulled him closer. “Yes, thank God.”

  The pleasant sound of his laughter filled the room before he returned to skillfully seducing me.

  Chapter Thirty

  “This event is really important.”

  I glanced up and watched a crease appear between his brows, disrupting the flawlessness of his face. It only succeeded in highlighting his spectacular looks, made him real, not a figment of my imagination.

  Casually, I asked, “It’s seven, shouldn’t you be on your way to the office?” The determined look on his face warned me that something was brewing.

  He was wearing one of his pale grey gabardine suits; the narrow one that made him look impossibly tall and broad shouldered. Standing in front of the French doors of his bedroom with his hands on his hips and a halo of soft morning light glowing around him, he looked like an irritable archangel sent down from the heavens to remind me just how mortal and flawed I was.

  My desire for him was raging out of control, growing stronger each day. So much for the theory that we could slake this lust and be done with it. I concentrated on making his bed. It was my only defense.

  “Most of the important bank clients will be attending. It’s my father’s foundation. I have to be there.”

  Trying to stave off a potential argument, I avoided his perceptive gaze and folded the Pratesi sheets back so that the intricate scrollwork on the edge faced up.

  “What kind of charitable work does the foundation support?”

  “It funds a number of programs in Africa.” My gaze locked onto the graceful movement of his long fingers as he went down the list. “Sustainable farming, clean water, literacy.”

  “How wonderful. Do you run it?” I asked distractedly, my attention still focused on those skilled fingers, fingers that had done unspeakably wonderful things to me the night before.

  “Partly, I also have some great people working for me.” His hands came to rest on his hips again, two fingers tapping anxiously. “I need you with me.” I looked up and found his expression resolute, tense. His jaw twitched. Need was waging war with his vaunted self-control––and need was winning. I tucked the silk blanket neatly under the mattress.

  “You know that’s impossible,” I replied, tilting my head to scan the open bedroom door.

  He raked the silky hair that had fallen over his eye back in an exasperated gesture. “No, it’s not fucking impossible,” he snapped. Glancing at his Rolex, he added, “I have to go, but this discussion is far from over.”

  Out of prudence, I didn’t respond. His patience with the situation was unraveling by the day. It was wearing on him and I didn’t blame him. It must have been difficult for a man who was used to getting his way, without question, be denied something he seemed to want badly. But we were at an impasse. He was chivalrous to a fault. I couldn’t confide in him about my past because he would insist on getting involved. And I couldn’t risk that. He was too high profile a person. It could hurt him in a million different ways that I wasn’t even certain of, and I would have rather faced the vultures in Tirana alone than cause him a moment of trouble. I was just as fiercely protective of him, as he was of me.

  Isabelle stepped into the bedroom as I was fluffing up the last of the pillows. It was obvious she was on a mission to catch us in a compromising position. I almost laughed when a disappointed frown appeared on her face.

  “Mr. Horn, Mrs. Arnaud would like to know if you’ll be here for dinner this evening, or if you’re staying in town?”

  He pinned her with one of his lethal stares. Okay, he was in a really bad mood. “I’ll be here this evening––like I have been for the past few weeks. Tell Marianne to cook whatever she wants,” he said curtly and departed.

  “What’s his problem?” Isabelle asked as she watched him disappear down the hall.

  “He must be in one of his moods again,” I replied with a smirk, and left her standing alone in the bedroom.

  He made love to me passionately that night, withholding his own release until I was begging him to stop from exhaustion, having climaxed enough times to actually make me sore. My hair was soaked in sweat, plastered to my throat and face. Barely able to lift my arms, I made a feeble attempt to push the hair aside.

  “I think you’re trying to kill me with sex,” I said, panting and wheezing.

  I looked over and found his arm lying over his eyes, his nostril flaring, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips didn’t move. He wasn’t amused by my attempt to lighten the mood. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.

  “It’s two. I should get back to my room.”

  He lowered his arm and scowled at me. “It doesn’t bother you that we can’t sleep in the same bed? That you can’t wake up in my arms?”

  I knew that tone. He was angry and itching for a fight. “Of course it does, I love you. Every minute that you’re not with me, I miss you.” His face softened. He turned on his side and caressed my face, running his thumb over my kiss-swollen lips. “But this is how it has to be,” I added.

  His face hardened instantly. “Tell me what it is that you think I can’t handle. And don’t you fucking lie to me and tell me it’s about Marianne because I will fucking wake the whole damn house up if you do.”

  My
blood froze. I was no match for him in a battle of wills.

  “I can’t. Don’t ask me to, please, I beg you. You’re right, it’s not about Marianne anymore, in the beginning it was, but that was before––”

  “Before what?” he interrupted gruffly.

  “Before I realized how much I love you.”

  While he searched my face, his anger didn’t abate, his eyes remaining confidently cool. “When I get back from London, I’m going to tell anybody that will listen that we’re in love.”

  “Darling––” My plea was tentative. I knew him too well by now to pose anything that resembled a challenge.

  Speaking over me, his voice grew louder. “That gives you three days to acclimate yourself to the idea. Whatever it is that you won’t tell me––I don’t give a hot shit about it. I don’t care if you were on the grassy knoll and murdered John F. Kennedy. I love you. I want to share my life with you and no amount of bullshit will prevent me from doing that.”

  I swallowed hard. This man never threatened, he promised and followed through. Nothing I could say or do would dissuade him. I walked back to my room in a state of silent panic. Three days to make a decision. Three days to decide to stay or flee… flee? I couldn’t do it. I had fashioned this prison with my own hands. I was trapped, bound to him by silken manacles of love. A sense of inevitability swept through me, filling me with dread. I had only three days to come up with a plan. And it had to be a good one.

  * * *

  He departed at dawn the next morning with Gideon and Bear, leaving me in the tender care of Mr. Bored and Unflappable, Justin Luck. I got an earful about keeping my phone on me at all times. He repeated and repeated it until he was certain I understood not to ‘disobey’ direct orders. I kissed him hard and told him I would miss him, because it was the truth. I would miss him desperately. It was the first time we would be apart since we started sleeping together. Not that we ever actually slept together. That was the bone of contention, and he planned on getting his way.

  Ben Winters had recently returned after a short trip home. I was in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast, when Ben entered after one of his early morning workouts. Soaked in sweat, his grey t-shirt stuck to his muscular torso like he had just won a wet t-shirt contest. He was quite a specimen.

  “Let me make you an omelet.” I reached into the basket of freshly laid eggs and began counting. “How many eggs?”

  “Twelve.”

  My eyebrows rose up my forehead. I glance up at him and he shrugged, an optic white smile taking up half of his face. Ben took a seat at the kitchen counter and drank his water while I began to crack the eggs and beat them. He scanned the kitchen to make sure we were alone before speaking.

  “How come you didn’t go to London with Sebastian?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I shook my head. “It’s complicated,” I dissembled. Avoiding eye contact, I stared at the blue flecks on the cracked eggshells.

  “Looks pretty simple from where I’m standing. Vera, I haven’t seen him like this––ever.”

  My gaze lifted swiftly to his and found the indisputable truth of his words. An unspoken understanding passed between us. Ben loved Sebastian as much as I did. I didn’t fault him for not wanting to see his best friend hurt.

  “Where’s home?”

  Deflect and redirect, I had become remarkably good at it. I resumed chopping the baby spinach for the omelet.

  “Colorado, for now.”

  I diced baby heirloom tomatoes and dumped them in the bowl with the eggs and the spinach.

  “Do you like it? I’ve seen pictures. It looks very beautiful.”

  “My business is based there.”

  I sprinkled a few pieces of fresh mozzarella cheese in the bowl, added the mushrooms, and poured the contents onto the hot skillet, infusing the room with the perfume of fresh garden vegetables.

  “That smells amazing.” His stomach agreed with a growl.

  “Why is your business based there?” I asked curiously as I flipped the golden fan onto a porcelain dish and placed it in front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the aroma wafting up from the plate, then dug into the omelet with enthusiasm.

  “With the new marijuana laws on the books, businesses can sell it but can’t deposit the profits in banks, they have to store the money elsewhere. My guys protect the money as it’s being transferred from location to location. We’re talkin’ hundreds of thousands so you can imagine how tempting it would be to anyone skilled in armed robbery.”

  “So basically you’re a drug dealer?” Charlotte’s clipped British voice rang out as she entered the kitchen. I noticed the brief stiffening of Ben’s body. His eyes narrowed as his head swung around to meet Charlotte’s smug expression.

  “Charlotte, be nice,” I warned in a motherly tone.

  “I’m a businessman, Miz Beckwith. I provide a needed service and my guys happen to be the best.”

  “At being thugs for the drug trade?” Her voice was sticky sweet, without an ounce of remorse.

  “Charlotte!”

  Ben’s charming demeanor vanished. His jaw pulsed with pent up emotion. “Are you a lesbian, Beckwith?”

  “Ben!” I shouted.

  Charlotte’s eyes were as round as dinner plates, an angry twitch visible at the corner of her pursed mouth. But he didn’t stop there. “Is it all men you find repulsive, or just me?”

  Thankfully, as things were spiraling out of control, Mrs. Arnaud entered the kitchen in her usual jovial mood.

  “Good morning, Ben. I see that Vera has already taken very good care of you.”

  “Mornin’, ma’am. Yes, she has. Thanks, Vera, this was…amazing. You’re amazing.”

  A deep flush the color of beets rose up my neck at his high praise. I looked over and found a quirky smile playing on Marianne’s lips, and Charlotte…well, Charlotte looked like she was about to spontaneously combust. Her face was turning from shades of pink to purple. The vein in between her brows was throbbing. I could see it from a distance as he continued to talk.

  “Kind, beautiful, can cook, knows how to treat a man,” he said in his low, sexy baritone. “Not a man hatin’, shit talkin’, lesbian with a grudge,” he muttered.

  What the hell happened between these two to inspire such animosity? Just then Isabelle walked into the kitchen. It was enough to disrupt the uncomfortable moment.

  She waved a newspaper in the air.

  “Guess what I have,” she practically sang, a pernicious smile on her lips.

  She walked over to the counter and slapped the tabloid paper down in the middle. On the front page, for everyone to see, was Sebastian with his arm hooked around the waist of a stunning young woman. He was kissing her cheek as she smiled into the camera. They made a striking couple, his golden magnificence complementing her dark elegance. He looked relaxed, happy.

  My heart sank.

  “Is that Joan Smalls?”

  Charlotte’s voice sounded underwater, dampened by the rush of blood in my ears. I tried to remain as still as possible, careful not to give anything away, but my stomach was churning.

  “No, that’s the new Ethiopian model everyone’s talking about. Don’t they make a spectacular couple?” That was Isabelle’s voice. I was sure of it.

  “You’re such a bitch, Isabelle. They’re not together. It’s probably just for publicity,” Charlotte argued.

  “She’s very beautiful,” a remote voice interjected. I don’t know who made my jaw work and pushed the sound up my throat, even though I knew it was me that had spoken. Thick silence. No one said a word. “I need to check on the laundry.”

  I started moving before anyone could stop me and marched to the far end of the manor with Mr. Luck tagging closely behind. When I looked over my shoulder, he stopped and leaned against the wall, too lazy to remain standing under his own power.

  “Are you planning on doing this all day?”

  “Yes, ma’am.
”

  I skewered him with an annoyed glare and the side of his mouth curved up in amusement. “Strict orders, ma’am.”

  Breathing an exasperated sigh, I continued to the laundry room. The iPhone rang. I took it out and stared at the screen while tears blurred my vision. Never one to succumb to crying spells in the past, it seemed I was on a hair trigger now and it bugged me. It made me feel overemotional and immature––two traits I detested.

  ‘I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here,’ the text read.

  In the laundry room, I folded and refolded the same towel three times. My emotions raced to the worst possible conclusion while my intellect tried to reason with them. There’s a perfectly good explanation. The mantra played on repeat in my head in the hope that it would sink into my subconscious and I would begin to believe it.

  An irrational stain of jealousy spread in my chest. Not once in my entire life could I recall ever feeling like this. I didn’t know what to do with it.

  Somewhere in the dark recess of my soul, I knew this would happen––eventually. It was so easy to get wrapped up in romantic notions inside the bubble we had created, but life couldn’t exist solely between these walls. The outside had finally caught up to us, remembered that a poor immigrant and a wealthy playboy did not belong together in this unforgiving world.

  As I lay in bed that night, contemplating the ceiling, my phone rang about thirty times. It was hard to breathe, tears constantly on the edge of my fragile emotions. I turned to look at it, finally got up, and shut it off.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I overslept the next morning. The extra hour of sleep seemed to have the opposite effect. I was uncommonly irritable and moody. I even snapped at François when he asked if I had anything to do with his salary being doubled.

  “How could I possibly have anything to do with that?”

  He was taken aback by my thorny response. “I don’t know…I thought, maybe––”