Storm Redemption

by Magda Alexander

  But I’ll be damned if I’ll be cowed by him. Now that no one can see us, the kid’s gloves come off. “Make it quick. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Now is that any way to talk to a business associate?” He steps closer to my desk. “I only wanted to talk to you alone. You made it very difficult to do so at the gym.”

  “I prefer we keep our conversation to business and nothing else. What do you want to know about the project?”

  “I don’t have any questions. Trevor Howard covered everything pretty thoroughly.” He picks up the framed photo of Andrew on my desk and frowns before he puts it back where he found it.

  I open a desk drawer, grab the frame and stash it inside. Crossing my arms against my chest, I ask again, “What do you want, Brian?”

  “I suggested you as my contact person, explaining we knew each other from your Smith Cannon days. Your boss, of course, did not see an objection.” He accompanies that statement with the pleasant smile he uses in public, quite different from the predatory one he pins on me.

  Understandable Trevor wouldn’t object. After all, Brian and I are business acquaintances. However much I’m a team player, though, I can’t allow this intimidation. “Say what you need to say and get out.”

  “Liz. I need to make you understand.” He rounds the corner of my desk and reaches for me.

  I back up against the wall. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

  A wrinkle mars his brow. “Why do you keep avoiding me? Are you afraid I’ll hurt you. I would never hurt you. I love you.” His voice goes soft when he says that, but his eyes? Oh, God, his eyes take on a maniacal glint. The man’s obsessed with me. Why haven’t I seen this before? Probably because I’d had so much on my mind the last time I saw him.

  In an attempt to get him to see reason, I explain, “I’m married, Brian. You know that.”

  His face turns dark. “To Gabriel Storm.”

  “Yes.”

  Chameleonlike, his expression changes from a glower to a smirk. “That won’t last.”

  “Why not?”

  “The bloom’s off the rose by now, isn’t it? I grew up in England so I know a thing or two about how the upper crust thinks. With your American mutt pedigree, you haven’t a prayer, love.” He speaks the last sentence with a British accent rather than his usual American one. “In the eyes of the peerage, you’re not good enough to assume the role of a countess. You’ll never measure up. By now, he probably regrets marrying you.”

  “That’s not true. He doesn’t.”

  “They why are you sleeping in separate beds?”

  “How—? What—?”

  “It’s all over the gossip rags, love. You really should pick one up once in a while. Amazing what a fountain of information they are.”

  “My marriage is none of your business, Brian. I will not discuss it with you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  When he reaches out to stroke my cheek, I burrow deeper into the corner of the room. “My guard sits outside my door. You touch me and I’ll scream.”

  That nasty grin pops up on his face. “Your guard is stationed outside the building at a cafe down the street. You think I don’t know?”

  The notion he knows that much about my security detail chills my blood. I scoot around him and put my finger on the red button on my phone. The one that summons Charlie. “I’ll call my assistant and tell her to fetch security.”

  For a second, his lips twist into a grimace. But then quick as lightning, he adopts that nonthreatening smile. “No need. I’m leaving.”

  When he gets to the door and puts his hand on the knob, I breathe an easy sigh.

  But before he twists it open, he turns back and fires one last salvo. “Your marriage to Gabriel Storm will end. Soon. When it does, I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll be together. Forever.” And then, with that chameleonlike ability of his, he morphs into milquetoast Brian and walks out the door.

  Chapter 19

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  WE’RE SEATED IN THE LIVING ROOM watching The Inspector Lynley Mysteries, something about the Oxford-educated fictional detective helps Gabriel unwind at the end of the day. Since our bowling date and the hospital scare with Andrew, we’ve drawn closer. Although we still sleep in separate beds, I now remain up here after dinner. We talk or watch tv. Nothing like a crisis over a child to draw two parents together.

  I usually enjoy figuring out the tv mystery, but tonight my mind’s on what happened at work today. And, of course, Gabriel, being so attuned to me, notices.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Give over, love. Your mind’s a million miles away.”

  One of the things we’ve agreed upon is to be more forthcoming with the truth. But given Gabriel’s temper and what happened with Sebastian when he made an innocuous remark at Edward’s dinner, I hesitate to share today’s event with him. “If I tell you, will you promise to reign in your temper?”

  His eyes flash blue fire. “What happened?”

  “That reaction is exactly why I hesitate to tell you.”

  “What reaction?”

  “The steam coming out of your ears. And I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “What happened, Elizabeth?” His lips form a white slash.

  “I’m not going to tell you. Not until you promise.”

  “Fine. I promise to stay calm.”

  “And you will not go after him?”

  “Did Ravensworth try anything?” He spits out.

  “No. He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

  “Then who?”

  “I won’t tell you until you promise.”

  “Fine. I promise not to go after the bastard, whoever he is. Now tell me, who is it?”

  “Brian Sullivan. Smith Cannon’s been hired as outside counsel to work on a project for Payne Industries, and he will head their team. Today, we had a meeting to explain Smith Cannon’s role on the proposed acquisition. Afterward, he insisted on coming into my office, ostensibly to talk about the project, but . . .”

  “What the bloody hell did he do? Did he hurt you?”

  “No! He didn’t even touch me. It’s just. He said things.”

  “Things. What things?”

  I fiddle with the cranberry robe I’m wearing, the one Gabriel gave me for Christmas and one of my favorites. “You have to understand. Even though I never gave him the time of day, the man’s rather obsessed with me. He believes our marriage will end, and I will turn to him.”

  He squeezes my hand. “That’s not going to happen, darling.”

  “He seems quite maniacal about it.”

  His hand clenches around mine. “Much as I want to teach him a lesson about hitting on my wife, you just exacted a promise I wouldn’t go after him.”

  “I can handle him. No need for you to get involved.”

  “Then what would you like from me?” He brings my hand to his lips, kisses the knuckles.

  I definitely don’t want things to get physical between him and Brian. We don’t need any more notoriety in the press. But I do need something from him. “He said . . . things.”

  “What things?”

  “He questioned my ability to fulfill the role of a peer’s wife.” Before I married Gabriel, I never gave a second thought to the position because I thought our marriage would be short lived. But since Gabriel intends our marriage to be permanent, I find myself in the uncomfortable situation of playing a role I’m neither suited for, nor have a desire to take on—that of a countess. I may be aces in a business setting, but I’m lost in the role of the Countess of Winterleagh.

  He scrunches his brows. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gabriel, you have to admit. Not only do I know next to nothing about the British aristocracy, but I’m an American, not Brit born. People look askance at me just because of that, never mind the lack of blue blood running through my veins. I’ll never be a proper countess.”


  “And that has you worried?” He smiles and his eyes take on a soft glow. “Fine. Let’s talk about it. What’s a proper countess?”

  “I don’t know.” I wave my hands about. “Somebody who knows the rules, how to behave.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve never paid much attention to rules.”

  Glancing down, I fiddle with my rings. “But they are there, Gabriel, and they need to be observed. If you’re invited to a formal event with other peers and their wives, I’ll be expected to act in a certain way. And when I don’t, they’ll laugh at me—the American with dubious parentage.”

  A fierce glare from him. “They won’t dare laugh.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if they do, they’ll have to deal with me, that’s why.”

  “You can’t be there to fight every battle for me, nor would I want you to. I want to stand on my own two feet.”

  “Then learn whatever you need. Heaven knows there are plenty of etiquette books on that subject. Or hire somebody to teach you.”

  “And then there’s the media—”

  “Bugger the media.” He spits out.

  “I wish I could, but I can’t.” I don’t know why I allow the tabloid articles to bother me, but they do. I don’t like being in the limelight, and yet, it seems sometimes we’re all they talk about. Somehow they found about our separation, and they’re claiming I’m not satisfied with the money Gabriel settled on me. As if twenty million pounds wasn’t enough. “They keep saying I’m nothing special, that I’m a mongrel with no class.” The last word comes out in a whimper. God, I hate feeling this way.

  Rising, he holds out his hand. “Come.”

  When I put my palm in his, he leads me to the nursery where Andrew lies sleeping. For a moment we stand next to the crib and take him in.

  He’s sleeping so peacefully, with his mouth shaped into a delicate bow. He’s perspiring a little, so I curl back the blanket from his neck hoping it will cool him off. The powdery, lotiony baby scent of his reaches inside of me, and a wealth of love pours out.

  “Do you think he’s nothing special?”

  How can he say such a thing? “No! He’s beautiful and strong.”

  “How could you have created such a beautiful and strong being if you were nothing special?”

  “He got it from you.”

  His mouth quirks into a grin. “How could that be, love? He looks exactly like you.” He threads our hands together, pulls me into him. “The truth is he got it from both of us. From his beautiful, smart mother and his strong, handsome father.”

  “Modest much?”

  “Not when it comes to our son, I’m not. Would you like for me to show you how special you are to me?”

  I peek up at him through my eyelashes. “I might need a reassurance or two.”

  “Witch. Have you had your bath?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let me draw one for you.” He leads me to the bathroom where he lights the candles surrounding the jacuzzi and adjusts the water jets to the way I like them. With the remote control he finds some soft music, jazz of some kind, and then he dims the lights. A moment later he slips off my robe. I’m wearing nothing underneath.

  “So beautiful.”

  He holds my hand as I step into the tub. “May I join you?”

  “Please.”

  After losing his clothes, he slides behind me, his long legs alongside mine. Leaning against him, I relish the strength of him at my back.

  “There’s no other woman that could fulfill the role of countess as well as you,” he whispers in my ear. “You are perfect just the way you are, and I would not change a single thing about you.”

  I take a deep breath, let it out. Dropping my head against his shoulder, I surrender to his ministrations. I’m so tired of fighting. Let him do what he will.

  As if he senses my capitulation, he’s gentle with me. Sliding his arms around my arms, he grabs the gardenia-scented body wash and pours the liquid into the loofah sponge. He cleans me from the top of my shoulders down my flanks to my midriff, my hips my legs. Turning me so I’m facing him, he brushes the loofah down my legs, behind my knees down to my piggies.

  When he licks the sole of my foot and suckles each of my toes, a streak of lightning races up to my groin. My pussy clenches and my nipples tighten into nubs. “Oh, my.”

  His hand kneads my calf, my thigh, higher up, until it finds my hot button. By this time I’ve gone totally liquid but he has more than my surrender in mind. My breath stutters as he slips one finger and another into me while keeping up the pulsing motion on my pearl. The whole thing has my hips jerking. “Aaaah, Storm, you’re killing me.”

  “The French call an orgasm La Petite Mort.”

  The little death. Rightfully so. “Fuck me, Gabriel.”

  “In a moment, love.”

  Why do I even bother to ask? When small tremors build within, he increases his speed. His fingers jam in and out of me; his thumb circles my clit, faster and faster it goes. Everything in me tightens; my hips pump double quick. “Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god. Please.” I gulp and come in one long, pulsing screaming rush.

  Before I float down from my high, he curls me over the edge of the Jacuzzi so my back’s to him, and enters me from behind. He’s big and hard and strong.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” I go off again as he pumps, taking my orgasm to a new height. How does he do that?

  Curling over me he pounds his hips against my ass. “So good. So bloody good.”

  My breasts scrape the smooth tile adding an additional friction which shoots me even higher. He slides one hand over my nipple and squeezes. With the other he turns my head so he can ravish my mouth.

  Trapped as I am between him and the edge of the tub, there’s little I can do, but I reach back and squeeze his balls.

  “Bloody hell.”

  He turns me, maneuvers me until I’m straddling him. He sucks the tip of one breast into his mouth, love bites it. One hand curls around my ass, and he squeezes my flesh. Buried as he is deep inside of me, the gesture does something which makes him jerk inside of me.

  “Oh, sweet lord.”

  His other hand clamps around my hip, and he sets a punishing rhythm surging, pounding into me hard. Once, twice, three times. And he cums in one glorious spurt inside of me.

  With all the strength gone, I drop against him while he collapses back against the tub. La Petite Mort indeed.

  Chapter 20

  ______________

  Gabriel

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, rather than leave at my usual time, I wait until she’s ready and join her in the elevator.

  Stepping into me, she nibbles my lip, smooths down my tie. “You’re going in late.”

  “I’m driving to work with you.”

  “Why? Not that I mind.”

  “Can you blame me? After last night, I can’t bear to let you out of my sight.” After our intimate bath, I’d carried her to bed where we’d fucked like bunnies late into the night. Making love to her has never been as sweet, as loving. This morning I found myself unable to let her go to work alone. Once I drop her off, I’ll count the hours until we can be together again. And she doubts her role as my wife? Christ. Doesn’t she realize how crazy in love with her I am? I shake my head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I raise her hand to my lips, kiss the knuckles. “How about we go out on another date? We did not get to finish the last one.”

  Her eyes light up. She knows exactly what I mean. We still need to play the sex slave game. “Where?”

  “The theater. You mentioned you’d liked to see a play. What’s your pleasure—drama, comedy, musical?”

  As she ponders her choices, she bites down on her lip, and I grow hard. But then every little thing she does makes me hard.

  “Musical.”

  “How about The Jersey Boys? American music.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun.”

  “We’ll have din
ner out first. After the theater, we can come home and play.”

  Her lips form a moue. “You cheated at the bowling alley. I wanted to be your sex slave.”

  “We can take turns, love. I can grant your every wish and then you can grant mine.”

  She giggles. “Somehow I think our wishes will end up being the same.”

  I love seeing her so happy. “More than likely. But how we get there will be half the fun. We’ll go to the theater during the week. Less crowded.” And easier to arrange the security I need. Regardless of what she wants, I’m not about to leave her exposed where anybody could hurt her. Samuel is doing the best that he can, but our failure to find Bernard Simmons sticks in my craw.

  “We’re here, Mr. Storm.” Travis’s voice announces through the car intercom.

  Sliding out, I hold the door open for her. and she scoots out. But before she has a chance to disappear into her building, I hold her close to me.

  She trembles in my arms. “Gabriel. Somebody will see.”

  “So. Let them see.”

  Whoever followed us from The Brighton jumps out. I give him enough time to point the camera at us before I haul Elizabeth into me and kiss her the way I’ve wanted to during the ride. The click click click of cameras flurry around us. For once I’m glad we’re tabloid bait. I want everyone to see how much I love my wife, how much I treasure her, but most of all, I want to make sure she understands her value to me. For good measure, I kiss her hand before I reluctantly let her go.

  Head shaking, she drifts into her building. But not before I catch a smile of pure contentment on her lips.

  I arrive at work to find my eleven o’clock appointment waiting for me, and it’s only ten thirty. I’ve been interviewing candidates for the position of cultural expert for Royce. Most of the candidates have been men, but today’s interviewee is a woman, Dr. Cataleya Wilkinson, who obtained her degree in Anthropology from Oxford University. She wrote her dissertation on tribes of South America.

  Easily the most qualified candidate, still I hesitate to send her out on the field with my brother. One would think he would be happy to have anyone alongside him who knows the tribe’s language and customs, but I have my doubts. How will he react to having a woman as his guide, as the expert on the tribe? Not only that, she’s beautiful. Bronze-skinned, big brown eyes, raven hair and a figure honed by exercise. His tastes have always run to the exotic which she certainly is. Would he spend his time trying to seduce her instead of using her expertise?