Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  “Your parents. That gods damned asshole of a fiancé.”

  “No one has done anything to me and after calling me a honey trap, you don’t get to pretend you care. Leave.” Her voice had risen and she jabbed at the door with an angry finger. “Out.”

  He grinned and chucked her under the chin gently with his fist. “That’s more like it. Night, little girl.”

  “Screw you!”

  “Tempting,” he said, then winked at her before closing the door behind him.

  SEVEN

  “What were you thinking, Marlowe?” her father asked as they rode to the fundraiser in the family limo. “You embarrassed Eric in front of some major donors.”

  She doubted he noticed she was gone, but knew better than to say as much. Luckily, her mother was ready to jump in with criticism of her own. “That dress. My gods, it’s so staid. You look like a nun.”

  The dress in question had a high neck and long sleeves, perfect for hiding the tattoos that continued to spread. Beckett had sent over a box of the makeup—and a hefty bill—but she didn’t want to waste it. She’d covered her face, her hands, and her neck and had a container full tucked in her purse. “It’s a Jocelyn Price, Mother.”

  Her mother sniffed. Jocelyn was her mother’s favorite designer, so she had to change tack. “Why are you wearing so much makeup? You look too worldly for a mayor’s wife.”

  Too worldly? That was a new one. Normally, she looked too virginal. Once, she looked too poor. She’d been wearing $1200 jeans.

  “I’m not discussing this with you, Mother.”

  Her mother blinked. Her father lowered his paper. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Beckett Glass. My dip in the Azazel River. Everything. “Nothing,” she said. As she watched their faces, as they struggled to deal with her sudden defiance—to them it was defiance, though she was barely pushing them—she realized that killing herself had been the first thing she’d ever done off-script. And they didn’t even know about that.

  “Mm. I hope this ... ‘nothing’ doesn’t affect you tonight. Zachariah Covington and Adelaide Park will be there and you how important their support will be to—”

  “What do you know about the Lightbournes’ shipping empire?”

  Her mother shot a pained look at her father. “Gavin.”

  He sighed and folded the paper as if it was the most burdensome thing he’d had to do in a long while. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to think about your future. The Lightbournes are extraordinarily wealthy. Eric’s uncle is running for president next year and he will win. Your marriage to Eric will practically guarantee that you will be the wife to a president in a decade.”

  “What happened to your driver? The assistant? Rhys? Glass, I think his last name was?”

  Her father paled.

  Her mother, oblivious, pulled a compact from her purse and patted her face lightly with the powder. “Why on earth are you asking about a driving assistant? Honestly, Marlowe, I think you’ve gone quite mad. Hasn’t she gone mad, Gavin?”

  The anger on her father’s face scared her, though he managed to keep most of it out of his voice. “That’s enough out of you, young lady.”

  Although she quailed inside, she lifted her chin and said, “I’m twenty-five years old. Not a child anymore.”

  “Then stop acting like one!” her father roared.

  She flinched.

  Her mother snapped shut her compact and put it away, deliberately not looking at either of them.

  The limo slowed to a stop, the silence inside oppressive. When the driver finally swung the door open, her father gave her one last glare before he exited, her mother following close behind. Marlowe stayed where she was for a moment longer, processing her father’s reaction. He knew something. Not only that, he was scared.

  Of who? Glass? Or the Lightbournes?

  She put her hand in the driver’s and he helped her from the car. When he released her, a small piece of paper rested in her palm.

  “Have a good evening, Ms. Montgomery.”

  She curled her fingers over the paper and stared up at him. “Thanks, George. You too.”

  He nodded, his expression grave.

  Her parents had waited for her—walking in without her would have looked bad—and together they entered the crush of the rich and famous.

  Despite the crowd, they managed to make their way through to the far back corner of the ballroom where Eric and his parents held court. Thank goodness for air kisses, she thought, as she greeted each in turn. When she got to Eric’s mother, she found herself genuinely smiling. Marlowe found it hard to believe the woman was part of a multi-million dollar criminal empire. She was the kind of person who attended charity pet adoptions and volunteered to muck out stalls at the local horse rescue. Down to earth, in other words.

  “How are you, dear? We missed you at the fundraiser.”

  “Better. I was feeling a little under the weather.” Hanging off the bridge. Telling Beckett Glass to fuck himself. Good times.

  “You still look a little peaky, but as always, you’re beautiful.” She reached out a well-manicured hand and tucked a stray hair behind Marlowe’s ear. The gentle touch made her want to cry.

  This was why she’d said yes to Eric, not that she’d ever admit it. Because of his mother’s kindness.

  “Thank you, Regina.”

  The woman smiled, warmth making her pretty eyes glow. “My son is here somewhere. He’s excited to see you.”

  Marlowe doubted it but did her best to look happy. “Me too,” she said lamely. “Will you all excuse me? I’m going to use the restroom.”

  “Really, Marlowe?” her mother said. “We just got here.”

  She ignored her and slipped away, the paper burning a hole in her palm.

  As soon as she was locked inside a very posh bathroom stall, she unfolded the paper. “He overheard something he wasn’t supposed to. Left with EL that night. Never saw him again. Be careful.” The last two words were underlined twice.

  She stared at the words, at the fear she thought she saw in them. George had worked for her father for years. He had a wife and kids. She supposed he hadn’t wanted to stir the waters by asking questions about a young man who’d disappeared and more than likely, someone had offered a reasonable explanation as to why he’d left.

  Also likely, George was afraid. Of who? Her father?

  No, not her father. EL. Eric Lightbourne.

  Why? Eric’s entire career depended on him being an upstanding citizen. He couldn’t be someone who made people disappear. He couldn’t be someone like Beckett, couldn’t be a criminal who threatened people to keep them quiet.

  Could he?

  Thousands of questions swirled through her head, but she didn’t see many answers on that tiny scrap of paper. She only saw the words of a man obviously afraid of a man who the city knew as a moral crusader. What did that say about Eric?

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Marlowe tore the note into tiny pieces and flushed it, then patted on a bit more of the magical makeup before reentering the fray.

  By the time she found the others again, Eric had joined her parents, as well as a couple Marlowe figured had to be Zachariah and Adelaide. They hadn’t seen her yet and she wondered what they would say if she just ducked out now.

  A hand on her elbow made her turn with a polite smile that quickly fell away when she saw who it was. “What are you doing here?”

  Beckett Glass held up a glass of sparkling wine. “We all have a stake in this election, rich and poor alike.”

  “It’s invitation only.”

  He leaned in close, his lips almost touching her ear, “Who do you think invited me?”

  She frowned but before she could ask, he was gone, weaving through the crowd. What was he insinuating? That Eric had invited him? Why?

  “Darling,” Eric called, “there you are.”

  Introductions went around, and for a while Marlowe slipp
ed back into character. Doing so was easy; it involved nothing more than smiling, nodding at the right times, and praising Eric when he cued her. It was a game, one she was good at—at least until she caught sight of Beckett watching her, a knowing smile on his lips.

  That smile flooded her with the memory of his kiss last night, the taste of him—salty and masculine, and the way he’d looked at her.

  Of course, he’d ruined it by accusing her of being a pawn in whatever rivalry existed between him and Eric. Asshole.

  “Marlowe, Adelaide asked you a question.” Her mother looked pissed—nothing new there—and Marlowe had to scramble to figure out what to say.

  “Sorry. Thought I saw someone I recognized.” And all at once, she knew if she had to stand there making small talk for one second longer, she would scream. “Will you excuse me?”

  Eric caught her elbow and though he was smiling, his fingers bit hard into her flesh. “Darling, I would be positively bereft without you.”

  Anger flooded her. Before she could stop herself, she yanked her arm from his grip. “That hurts.”

  The conversation around them died.

  Eric tried—and failed—to look apologetic.

  “Sorry,” she said, then cursed herself for it. Why was she sorry? He’d hurt her, not the other way around.

  “It’s no wonder. He was hanging onto you like he was afraid you’d get away,” Adelaide said, tittering as she lifted her glass to her lips.

  “I’d hang on tight too,” Zachariah said, his eyes crawling all over Marlowe as if he wanted to strip her naked right there.

  Eric laughed a little too loudly at this, then offered Marlowe a perfunctory apology. His arm went around her waist and she disappeared into his side piece again, his political prop. She sought out Beckett in the crowd, saw him talking with a skinny blonde in a short, tight dress. Marlowe curled her fingers into her palm. It didn’t matter who he talked with, she told herself. He wasn’t hers. He wasn’t anyone of consequence.

  So why did she want to smack him upside the head to keep him from looking at the woman any more?

  “He’s cute. Who is he?” Adelaide had pitched her voice low enough Eric wouldn’t be able to hear.

  Marlowe blinked and looked away in a hurry. “Him? No one.”

  “Sure he’s no one.” She studied Beckett with avid eyes, then turned back to Marlowe. “You know, Zach and I have a bargain. We fuck whoever we want as long as the other one approves. It keeps things fresh, you know?”

  Marlowe didn’t know and didn’t care to know. She didn’t particularly like Adelaide or her husband, lover, whatever-the-hell he was to her. She seemed like the type of woman who back-stabbed as part of her daily routine and Marlowe had no doubt she’d do the same to her, given the chance.

  “Are you two girls conspiring against us?” Zachariah said a little too loudly. On his other side, her father was looking sour, as if being near the guy made him sick. Zachariah continued in his smarmy, jokey way. “Nothing worse than women conspiring against us, eh Lightbourne? How about we do a little dancing before we make our bargains? I’m in the mood for some grinding.”

  Adelaide put a hand on his arm, pressing the side of her breast against him. “Not here, dear. You’d give some rich granny a heart attack. I’m sure Marlowe will give you a go later. A dance, of course,” she said slyly, but Marlowe knew that wasn’t what she meant. And from the look on Eric’s face, he knew it too. Knew it and didn’t find anything wrong with it.

  Her parents looked uncomfortable but didn’t step in and Marlowe knew right then she couldn’t live her life at their whim anymore.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But thank you anyway.”

  “Darling, you don’t mean it.” Eric’s grip tightened. “Zach and Adelaide want to take us out on the town tonight. A little dancing, a little drinking.”

  “Back to our place for some conversation about how we can help make you New Orion’s new mayor.” Zach’s eyes crawled over her.

  “No.”

  Astonished eyes blinked at her. Had she ever said no to any of them?

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you’re coming with us,” Eric snapped.

  She opened her mouth to tell him hell no, then remembered her bargain with Glass. She hadn’t found anything out about Rhys yet, had she? And if she pissed off Eric, she might not learn anything.

  Zachariah leaned in, the smell of alcohol on his breath strong. “Women like to be begged, Eric, didn’t you know that? Please, dear Marlowe, grace us with your presence.” There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice. He was smarm, through and through.

  “Mm, yes,” Adelaide said. “I’m sure it will convince us to donate generously to your fiancé’s campaign.”

  Hoping she wasn’t dooming herself to a night of fending off Zach’s octopus-like advances, she smiled tightly and said, “Then how could I possibly refuse?”

  EIGHT

  Eric insisted on taking her to her apartment himself, probably afraid she’d ditch him if he let her out of his sight. Once inside, she locked herself in her bedroom to change, then stared in despair at her closet. She had party clothes, sure, but they all exposed a tremendous amount of skin.

  She’d have to put makeup on her entire body and then reapply it if they stayed out too long—and she had a feeling Zach and Adelaide liked to party well into the morning.

  “What was up with you tonight?” Eric asked through the door.

  “Still not feeling well,” she said, then wished she hadn’t lied. She wanted to yell at him, wanted to yank open the door and punch him in the face for no other reason than he had pinched her elbow too fucking hard. She had bruises, damn him.

  She pulled a blue dress from the closet, then tossed it on the floor. Several more outfits followed. Finally, she yanked a pair of jeans from the back. Her mother hated jeans, called them low-brow, but her mother wouldn’t be there and frankly, Marlowe wanted to wear something she felt comfortable in.

  She pulled on the jeans, then layered a band tee over a long-sleeved shirt. It wouldn’t be what Eric liked, but fuck him. She liked it. After pulling her hair out of the tight chignon and tousling it with her fingers, she reapplied the makeup, pulled on boots, and spritzed on perfume.

  Eric’s lip curled when he saw her. “No. Go put something sexy on. Zach and Adelaide—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what Zach and Adelaide would have to say about what I’m wearing,” she snapped.

  His mouth fell open in shock.

  “You aren’t wearing that, are you?” She flipped his tie and then strode to the door, turning to stare at him when she got there. “Coming?”

  He fumed at her the entire way to his apartment and then to the club. He’d open his mouth, start to say something, and then go silent again. When they arrived, he said, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re jeopardizing everything we’ve worked for.”

  “What happened to Rhys, Eric? My father’s assistant driver. Someone said he drove you the night he disappeared.”

  “What?” His expression was comical. “Why are you asking about some servant?”

  “A driver. And he disappeared. The night of our engagement. Where did you have him take you, Eric? What happened that night?”

  He scoffed. “I don’t know why you’re asking about some driver, as if I’d even remember.” He got out and went around the car, yanking her door open with a sour expression. “Are you coming?”

  She took his hand and let him help her out, though she pulled her hand free of his before he could squeeze her fingers too tightly.

  The Proxy Club was the bottom floor of an old warehouse and exclusivity was its appeal to those who stood in line waiting to get in. Eric, of course, didn’t wait in line, tugging her to the front, where he used his fame and a couple crisp hundred dollar bills to get them in.

  The crowd was packed tight, tighter than the benefit earlier, and Marlowe was glad she wore jeans. It would be a grope-fest in there as it was
and if she’d been wearing a short skirt, she would have walked out with hand-shaped bruises on her ass. Eric got more uptight the further they got. The music wasn’t his jam. He liked classical or country—slow country—and hip hop gave him hives.

  “Remember,” he shouted before they got to the cordoned off area where Adelaide and Zach already waited, “we are here to convince them to fund my campaign. Get over whatever it is you’re dealing with because we can’t afford any screw-ups.”

  Rage filled her. It filled and filled her and she felt her skin crawl with it. She wanted to kick him, preferably in the nuts, but the backs of the knees would be satisfying too. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

  “What?”

  She glared at him but deflated almost immediately. He didn’t care. She wasn’t a person to him, only a step on his way to the top. Why the fuck had she agreed to go along with the engagement? Why had she said yes?

  She plunged into the crowd, forcing him to follow or get lost in it, and nodded to the bouncer when they got to the VIP section in the back, who lifted the velvet rope and let her by. She slowed when she saw that there was someone else in the booth with Adelaide and Zachariah.

  Beckett Glass.

  Eric froze.

  “Eric! Come, come. Our delightful new friend was telling us all about you.” Adelaide winked at Marlowe as if they were in on some sort of grand secret.

  “I don’t think he likes you,” Zachariah whispered loudly to Beckett.

  “He doesn’t,” the damned pesky criminal replied. His tattoos were on display, ‘Shattered’ taunting her. “Marlowe Montgomery.”

  “Beckett Glass.” She slid into the booth, scooting over to give Eric enough space to sit.

  “What are you doing here? Get up, Marlowe. I can’t be seen sitting with him. Apologies Adelaide, Zach.” He held out his hand to her, but Zach batted it away.

  “Oh, stop being a stick in the mud. Sit. Or don’t you want our support in the upcoming election?” Zachariah’s smile grew when Eric sat. “Good. What are you drinking?”

  “Water,” he said. “For both of us.”

  “I want a mojito,” Marlowe said, ignoring his sharp look, ignoring the knowing smile she knew was playing on Beckett’s face.