Undisclosed Desire (The Complete Box Set

by Falon Gold

  “Stop calling me sweetheart,” I spew. “Of course, you paid someone else to damage my finances for you. That’s what you do: get someone else to do your dirty work so you have time to get your hands and mouth filthy on the women you’ve met on the street. Or maybe they’re all call girls. I don’t know. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”

  “You’ve mentioned the other women a lot today, Amari. Are you jealous of them?”

  My mouth opens and closes, as I marvel at his nerve to ask me such a question when it has nothing to do with what he’s done. Eventually, I rediscover the function to speak. “Jealous! Are you out of your ever-loving mind? You are toxic, and you probably have every sexually transmitted disease known to man. A few they don’t know about.”

  He grins. “Then prove it.”

  “Prove what?” The abrupt change of subject is mind-boggling, and he better not be talking about what I think he is.

  “Prove you’re not jealous of the women I get my hands and mouth dirty on… no, you said filthy.” And there it is.

  My stomach begins to eat on itself. “Why? Obviously, you’re not really interested in me if you can sleep with others right under my nose. I’m definitely not interested in you for the same reason, so I have nothing to prove. Not to someone that stole from me.”

  “And I’ll give it back to you if you prove you’re not jealous of me spending time with other women.”

  I flinch. I don’t want to think about what he does with the other women at all. “Again, I ask what does that have to do with my money?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. I’m just a businessman seizing the opportunity to satisfy the insatiable monster you called me.”

  The verbal abuse is coming back to haunt me, but it’s the only defense I have in this clusterfuck, and I have many more derogatory names where those came from. “I don’t care what you want! You don’t count as a man whore in a Brooks Brothers suit to me, and this is all about what I want right now!”

  The clicking of his tongue, chastising me for the insult, grates on my nerves. I can’t help the rant filling up my chest and then tumbling out of my mouth. I have every right to be furious—I’ve been shanghaied and left penniless. Of course, he’ll never comprehend that. He’s a billionaire, the wall around his wealth undoubtedly like Fort Knox.

  “Amari, stop the name-calling, or our time together will be full of strife… for you,” he warns in a decadent tone, prompting thoughts of warm chocolate dripping off a ripe strawberry onto my flesh.

  I don’t even know what that feels like, so why the hell am I imaging it? Especially now of all times. Oh yes, it was so stupid to come here.

  “I’m calling the cops. I can’t prove what you’ve done, but I sure as hell can lead them in the right direction. Wait, what do mean by our time together? This is the last time I’ll ever be in the same room as you.”

  “The time you’ll spend showing me that you’re not jealous.”

  Disbelief plops down in my chest, forcing me to lean back to bear its weight.

  “Why on this earth would I do that? I. Hate. You.”

  I blink once and find my chin tilted against the silky material of his tie. He's conquered the pitiful three feet of my personal space so damn quickly someone should add more inches for my sake. His nearness is swallowing up my senses, compelling me to inhale the very essence of him. And fogging up my head.

  My mouth droops open. His hand lifts, fingering a curl flopping around my cheek. A tingling explodes under my skin. I forget to breathe, which is better than sucking in whatever chemical he's giving off, drowning me.

  Losing the ability to think clearly allows something else to take over. It wants me to get closer to him, as if that's possible. Well hell, I'm developing Stockholm syndrome, or something like it already, and he hasn't even told me what he plans to do with me next. Any minute now, I'll be drooling.

  Then you better get angry again.

  I snap my lips closed then take a step back. "Don't touch me, Mr. Powers."

  My hair slips from his fingers. He shoves them all in his pockets.

  "You know, Amari, I read somewhere that there's a thin line between love and hate."

  "It's a good thing I'm planted firmly on the side of hate, well away from the border, isn't it?" Now, I just need to convince him and my body of that. It’s betraying me for him.

  What is wrong with me?

  Hard up for…

  Don’t you dare.

  …sex.

  "Being firmly rooted on one side of that line may be good for you, Amari. Not at all for me, but I can work with that. Do you hate me enough to lose everything you've worked for?"

  "Losing and being taken from are two very different things."

  "Semantics, sweetheart, and you didn't answer my question."

  I point a finger in his face. "You wouldn't think the details didn't matter if it was your money that had been stolen."

  "Then take it back." He looks down at the digit almost poking him in the nose, and his eyes cross up.

  I’d laugh, but I’ve totally crossed the line over into looney-bin land, where humor is a distant memory. "How the hell am I going to do that? I don't know where you put it.”

  His gaze finds mine again. "In a safe place, like my home, where you'll live for three months to prove you'll never love me."

  My hand drops like a lead weight to my side.

  I gape at him dumbly. “Love you?” I thought this conversation was about my jealousy. I mean proving I’m not afflicted with it.

  You can't keep your own issues straight. How are you going to manage his in close quarters?

  I'm not, if I'm truly honest with myself, which means I can't guarantee I won't come out the other side of three months loving him fully… or that'll he won't break my heart during our time together. Shit!

  And you'll be knee-deep in it, whether you accept his deal or toss it back in his face.

  His home is the perfect place to isolate me, a breeding ground for brainwashing and spirit-breaking. No good comes from loving a man who likes variety. I'll be a fool to let him sequester me anywhere where everything I feel for him will blossom, especially when he'll get tired of me. I'll be broken. The money just isn't worth the damage he'll do. Besides, I can always make more money.

  Somewhere.

  "You can go to hell by yourself on Blanchard Row, Mr. Powers. I'm not moving there to prove anything to your toddler-sized brain. Why would I when you’ve already demonstrated how much of a cad you are to me and everyone else you’ve dated?"

  His lips crook at one corner and eyelashes wilt, creating half-moons on his cheekbones. "Then your parent's money will go the same route as yours. Poof. Gone."

  He's done his homework and found my weakest spots. I'm not going to outsmart him when I don’t have the details of his life or the power he wields. Therefore, no threat I use will be big enough. I’m caught on his hook, dangling, helpless.

  My nails bite into the heels of my hand. Every ounce of strength I have is used to bottle up the frustration rising like a tidal wave and the urge to scream and cry, leaving me with no energy to speak coherently. Even insulting him won't make me feel any better at this rate. But there is one thing I can do.

  "Don't do this," I beg, willing to get down on my knees if it’ll help my case. "Please! My father is sick."

  He swallows deeply. "I know he has congenital heart failure. With the right doctors, he could have the experimental surgery that could correct it, but he won't because he and your mother are on fixed income. Even if she went back to being a general manager at the local power plant and return to coaching college football, her and his salary combined won't cover a million-dollar hospital stay. No bank will ever loan them that amount of money. Do you have any idea what the minimum payment on a million dollars is even at the lowest interest rate? I do."

  I’ve done my own legwork on my father’s condition too. And why isn’t Mr. Powers taking the opportunity to be smug about having the advantage? H
e’s got me bent backwards, but he actually seems sorry for me.

  "Yes, I know how much,” I say quietly, and start to pace in a tiny circle. “I have every intention of getting the money, as soon as I start my own business."

  Tuning him out, I think hard but come up with nothing to undo his sham.

  "Can your niece or nephew on the way wait to eat while you get a business off the ground with no capital of your own?"

  Even Brandon’s family isn’t safe from him.

  "You're coming after everyone I love," I state needlessly.

  He nods. "You have a grandparent still alive on both sides too, but I won't go after anyone if you move to Blanchard Row and prove to the toddler-sized brain inside this insatiable monster that you'll never love me."

  “You'll just come after me. I feel so much better now." No, the sarcasm maligning my tone isn't helping my predicament, but it's either express myself in some way or spontaneously combust from all the emotions tangling together, manufacturing a time-sensitive bomb inside me.

  That’s when I will punch him.

  "Yes, Amari. Just you. You said I didn’t have enough money to buy your ethics, so I took your money instead, but I'll put it back and undo the fraudulent claim. I won't even make you work here. Although, I'll miss your eyerolling before you disappear into the copier room."

  I whirl around to him. "You knew I hated watching you with other women, and yet you kept bringing them in here anyway?”

  “Is that a confession of your jealousy, Amari?”

  He’s confessed everything finally too. Would’ve been helpful if you’d recorded it for evidence against him.

  Not having proof of everything he’s done to me is the least of my worries. The nauseousness flopping around my midsection is amplifying. I grab for my throat where it’s building. Need to leave, but I can’t go without everything I’ve worked for and stopped him from robbing my family blind too.

  “No, it’s not a confession, but I think I’m going to be sick, so let’s cut to the chase. People like you want what they can’t have very badly. So, if it’s sex you want from me, it’s done. Right here. Right now. Want to molest me in front of other people? Done. Call someone. I’ll wait. Want me to watch you molest someone else? Done. Call anyone. Everyone you know is fine. I’ll even come back to work. Just leave my family out of this.”

  “No. No. No. No. And no.”

  I’m completely thrown by his intense refusal. “Jesus! Even the insatiable finds gratification at some point, and I have nothing else to give you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’ll tell you in time.”

  “You can tell me now.”

  “No.”

  My surrender, it’s all he wants and will take. All I have left.

  “Fine. I’ll move with you on Blanchard Row.”

  I have no real clue of what I’m signing up. It’s best if he doesn’t tell me until the last minute, because backing out of whatever deal he’s building up to will be a solution that I’ll take.

  He inhales deeply then just stares. I don’t get a contented smile from his lips or even a triumphant expression in his eyes like I expect now that he’s gotten his way.

  That’s because he’s still unhappy.

  I open my hands wide on each side of me. “What more do you want from me? If you’re still allowed to sleep with other women, why aren’t you happy about it?”

  His thick eyebrows pull inward. “This is not about sleeping with other women. It’s about you, only you… and me, and meeting your family as your man.”

  He grows two heads, or at least that’s how I’m looking at him as if he has.

  “You didn’t say anything about meeting my family. You’re asking me to lie to them about us. Why would you want to go anywhere near them?”

  “Because I want to, and I can, and I haven’t told you everything I want.”

  He’ll get it all as long as he has what doesn’t belong to him, and he’s knows it. Now, he’s grinning, but my family will be this deal’s undoing.

  “They’ll see right through you, Mr. Powers. Right to what you’re making me do.” The words grind through my teeth clamped shut to keep my fury contained.

  “You won’t tell them anything but what I approve for you to say, Amari. You’ll act as my woman to the best of your abilities at every moment of the day.”

  What the hell? Nuh huh! Not happening.

  “Approve? Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t bother to answer. I’ll tell you who you are. Someone who will never know my love after this. Anything I ever felt for you just went right out the damn window.”

  There’s no actual window in here, so it must be on the floor.

  Shut. Up. Conscience.

  Mr. Powers pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you done? Can we talk terms now? Or you can leave without your money and your good name?”

  I loathe how he casually offers up what is rightfully mine to me. “How do I know at the end of the three months I still won’t end up in jail for your stupid machinations of my credit?”

  “You won’t get arrested because as soon as you sign the contract—”

  “Contract!” I screech. “You had this planned all along!” How far is he willing to go to own me lock, stock, and barrel that he’s got me spread-eagle over?

  You’re about to find out.

  “…that I had drawn up, I’ll have your money put back in both of your bank accounts and your credit restored,” he finishes as if I never interrupted him. “But you won’t have access to any of it. You’ll give up your identity for real and be solely my girlfriend, dependent on me. You’ll do everything I say, when I say, however. I. Say.”

  Breaking down, that’s what I do with each word that he utters. I’m back to being his employee, only there’s a goddamn contract involved now. Shrewd businessman in everything he does, legit and underhanded.

  “And if I refuse you anything you ask even if it’s beyond the reasonable?” I know the answer, just procrastinating, trying to decide if what he has in mind for me is worse than being the reason those I love are rendered bankrupt.

  It isn’t, but whatever he does will be humiliating, degrading, and the systematic splintering of my soul as long as I’m at his mercy, which he doesn’t have. At least not for me, but I’ll protect my heart at all costs.

  “Refuse me, and the deal is null and void. Your money disappears along with your family’s.”

  I look away from the bane of my existence in front of me. My emotions tornado within. Then my knees buckle. I’m going down. I stumble backwards then slump to the ground, determined not to even graze his sleeve on the way down. And then, the tears come, wave after wave racking my body. He squats down. I can’t see him through the sheen of waterworks but can sense his every move like there’s a link materializing between us. More like a ball and chain.

  A hand glides down my arm, shocking me. I lunge sideways from the live wire, because his touch almost hurts. I should be dodging it because I’m repulsed by him. Well, I’m not, and I detest myself for it. How can my body want him even when we both know he’s just on this side of depraved?

  “Don’t touch me,” I croak.

  “Amari, I’ll do a lot of touching of you over the next three months.”

  “Not until I’ve signed the contract.”

  “We can do that right now. But remember, if your family even suspects this deal between us, you lose everything.”

  “This feels like a backwards prenup, except I’ll get my own money back before the relationship starts.”

  “Yes, and this contract is tight and binding, so you need to adhere to its every term or face the consequences.”

  A wail seeps out of my throat before I start mopping at my face. “I think it’s too late for the consequences. They started when I started working here, but I get the feeling that the trauma is only just beginning.” Then I get to my feet. “Can I use your bathroom?”

 
; Might as well clean myself up and start as I mean to go on… emotionless. My feelings are traitors around him.

  He drills into the top of my head for what seems like hours with a penetrating stare, possibly waiting for me to look up. I can’t face him, don’t want to plummet again from being on the wrong end of his ruthlessness. Dragged back into his world only hours into the journey of rediscovering happy Amari that’s already being rerouted by none other than Camron Powers, my self-appointed tormentor.

  “You know where it is, Amari.”

  Of course, I do. I’ve had countless cleaning services restore it and the bedroom to their former glory. I didn’t work today, so I don’t know what I’m going to find when I press the button behind the brass statue on the custom-built bookshelf.

  The wall slides away, and the nausea morphs into self-stacking Lego blocks. I really don’t want to go in here, but I sincerely hope that the bathroom has been cleaned enough for me to vomit in.

  The office door opens in my side view before I step over the threshold of the hidden bedroom. Lance Armstrong, one of several Powers Enterprises’ lawyers, enters. I glare at the custom, king-sized bed with leather headboard in the oversized space, his home away from home that’s seen more action than a Michael Jai White movie. My insides stir, sickness doubling in strength. I’ll ask myself why that’s happening after I’m done racing over the iron-gray carpet to the darkened doorway on my left.

  The rising bile floods my throat, taking my breath away. I slap a hand over my mouth, feet pounding the walkway between the his-and-her sinks and jacuzzi. Then I fall down to my knees in from of the porcelain God being lorded over by the state-of-the-art shower stall. Fortunately, I don’t have to lift the seat up to part with last night’s dinner. I wouldn’t have risked touching it.

  At some point, I’m going to have to sit down and have a good talk with myself. I need to face head-on all the questions I left unanswered for years… mainly the one that pertains to wanting to hurl every time I encounter evidence of Mr. Powers’ liaisons. It’s not normal. Yes, he undeniably sickens me. But enough to make me actually sick?