by Skye Warren
My heart squeezes. “Of course, but I—I can’t—”
The understanding in his eyes twists the knife. “You don’t need to worry about that, Ms. James.”
“But I—well, yes I do. You see, right now—”
“Mr. Miller has taken care of the matter.”
I know that Gabriel is paying for my father’s care here, but what if he stops? I don’t have access to the money from the auction yet, still in trust before the thirty days end. My father could be out on the street. In his condition it would be a death sentence.
Mr. Stewart steps closer, putting his hand on mine where it rests on the arm of the chair. “Please, let me put your mind at ease. Mr. Miller has made a generous donation to our foundation. The only stipulation is that your father will have our support for as long as he needs it. So, you see, there’s no reason for you to worry about that. Only focus on your father’s health.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. The cost of living here is astronomical. I checked out every home in the city when my father was attacked, when he became bedridden. At the time I couldn’t afford even the shoddiest bed, much less a place like this. And Gabriel Miller had paid even more than that, so much that my father was secure here for the rest of his life.
Mr. Stewart gives me a quizzical smile. “You look almost more worried, dear.”
Words expand in my throat, too thick to be spoken. Confusion. Gratitude. Dread. I despise that last one, but I can’t help wondering what will be required in return.
“Mr. Miller isn’t family,” I manage.
He isn’t even a friend. No, he’s an enemy. The man who broke my father, who turned information over to the prosecutor in retaliation for stealing from him. The man who purchased my virginity in a calloused transaction. Why would he help us? He wouldn’t. Which means he’s only biding his time. Keeping my father alive so that he can hurt him again. Keeping me close so that he can ruin me again.
“I see,” Mr. Stewart says, and I can tell that he does. Someone who’s around this much family money must see some cruel things, even when they’re disguised as kindness. He nods toward the book in my hands. “I heard you just now, reading to your father. That’s lovely.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he can hear me.”
“Perhaps not, but kindness isn’t only for the recipient. Sometimes it’s for the giver.”
“Are you saying that Gabriel Miller needed to do something kind? Why? Because he caused my father’s downfall?”
A small smile. “Perhaps. But I was more interested in the subject matter. You wield more power than you think, Ms. James.”
Chapter Four
In Greek mythology Helen of Troy was the most beautiful woman in the world. There are countless depictions of her in medieval and Renaissance art, each according to the artist’s own interpretation of beauty. Maybe every little girl thinks her mother is the most beautiful, but I have no problem imagining my mother in a flowing gown, looking out over a glittering green sea.
That’s my Helen James, a woman with multiple men vying for her hand in marriage. A woman who married a king. A woman completely unlike me.
So far I’ve dropped out of college, lost the family home, and sold my virginity. Not exactly anything I want told in myths years from now.
And whatever else Gabriel Miller might be, he’s not royalty.
Even so I can’t deny the grandeur of the glinting building slicing through the sun. In the lobby of Miller Industries, chandeliers made of a thousand shards shine light on a carved statue of Atlas. The earth is made of some kind of metal, its curved surface corrosive and yet somehow beautiful.
“Mr. Miller is not available,” the receptionist says, eyes a pretty blank blue behind steel-rimmed spectacles.
“I know,” I say, apologetic. “And I know this is unusual. But he knows who I am, I swear. We have a…personal connection. If you could just call up to him—”
She flicks a few keystrokes on her keyboard, managing to do her job while being a brick wall. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. Mr. Miller is—”
“Not available,” I finish, because she’s said it a half-dozen times already.
She’s determined to send me away, and I’m just as determined to stay. Whether or not Gabriel Miller intended to be kind with the donation to the nursing home, he still owns my family home. I have a slip of paper from the city proving that much.
“You can speak with the business manager assigned to your house.”
Part of me knew that Gabriel might refuse to see me, but as far as I can tell, he doesn’t even know I’m here. Frustration churns in my stomach, acidic and hot. He did this on purpose, sending me away just as I found out he’d taken my family’s house, making sure I’d have nowhere left to turn.
“All right,” I say, hollowed out.
A random employee won’t be able to help me. He won’t know anything about the illicit auction for my virginity or Gabriel’s role in my father’s downfall.
Except the person who comes to greet me isn’t a man. It’s a woman, her navy-blue suit accentuating a narrow waist and long, dark legs. Younger than I would have expected for a person in charge of accounts this size, only a couple years older than me.
“Ms. James,” she says, her voice almost sympathetic. “I’m Charlotte Thomas. Please, let me take you upstairs. We can discuss your case.”
“Oh, thank you,” I manage, dimly aware of her shepherding me toward the bank of gleaming elevators. I hadn’t expected to be greeted so warmly by anyone here, especially not someone who has knowledge of my family’s situation.
She directs me to the elevator at the end and swipes her key card to make it open. “After you.”
I step into the gilded box, acutely aware of my plain clothes. My image is reflected back at me as the doors slide shut, a scared little girl instead of the woman I wanted to become.
“Ms. Thomas—”
“Call me Charlotte, please. Ms. Thomas is my mother.” She gives a delicate shudder, mischief sparkling in her twilight eyes. “A shark of a woman.”
I blink, awareness seeping over me. “Wait. Nina Thomas?”
A wide grin, beautiful but somewhat reminiscent of a shark herself. “That’s her.”
“She was friends with my mother,” I say, at once charmed. I met Nina Thomas only a few times at society events, but she’d given me a genuine hug each time and told me I looked just like Helen James. And she’d been the maid of honor at my parents’ wedding.
“I know,” Charlotte says, cheerful. “Mom says they were best friends. And considering she only tolerates most people, that’s saying something.”
It strikes me then that Charlotte works for Gabriel Miller, the man who tore down my father with ruthless calculation, the man who bought my virginity. The man who stole my mother’s house. My throat tightens with grief, the strange relief that my mother’s not here to see what’s happened.
Dismay must show on my face, because Charlotte touches my hand. “I know your case has…special circumstances. And I’m going to do everything I can to help.”
“Does that include giving my house back?”
“No, but I’ll explain the process to you and walk you through it. Mr. Miller is—”
She breaks off as the elevator dings. Doors slide open to reveal a broad expanse of carpet framed by deep mahogany walls. The art consists of two large canvases on either side, white with bold slashes of color, more texture than covering, a visual gauntlet.
“Mr. Miller is…?” I prompt her.
She glances back. “He’s a hard man to understand, but he’s fair.”
Fair. That’s one word to describe the way he purchased me, the way he fucked me.
My head spins from the new surroundings, the dim lighting. I felt small in the elevator, but it’s nothing compared to this hallway. I’m Alice in Wonderland, having eaten the cake that makes me small. Everything feels oversize and dark. I’m falling, falling.
In contrast C
harlotte walks brusquely across the heavy pile. “Don’t be afraid,” she says.
Which isn’t exactly comforting.
But I follow her anyway, working to keep my head held high, fighting the strange oppressive weight of all this space. We reach a wood panel with no doorknob. The faint outline of a rectangle in the wood is the only hint that there’s something here. Charlotte touches the wood, which lights up in a keyboard beneath her fingertips, some kind of glowing installation. High-tech security disguised as old-money luxury. The panel swings open, revealing an even larger office.
She leads me inside, her movements full of grace.
I feel like an unsteady colt following her, newborn and naive.
There are two wide leather chairs sitting in front of a desk the size of a car. I perch on the end of one, knees pressed together, hands squeezed between them. The hard press of denim against my skin grounds me. I’m not really falling. Or if I am, I’ll have to land soon.
Charlotte perches on the edge of the desk, only a few feet away. “Your house is in a kind of financial staging area, owned by a temporary holding company pending its auction to collect debts owed.”
My hands wring together. “I don’t understand how the house left my trust. It wasn’t owned by my father. It shouldn’t have been responsible for the judgments against him.”
And a dark part of me whispered that my mother had known something like this might happen, that she’d put it into my trust to protect me no matter what my father might do.
What secrets had she known?
“I’m not sure about the trust,” Charlotte says, expression apologetic. “All I know is what happened after the court seizure and subsequent placement with Miller Industries.”
I know my next step needs to be visiting Uncle Landon. He’s been the administrator for my trust ever since my mother died. And he told me the house was safe. But the last time I saw him was at the auction, when he called me a whore. When he told me I’d disgraced my mother’s memory.
Deep breath. “Is there any way to stop the auction? What if I can pay the debt owed?”
Gabriel Miller paid one million dollars for my virginity. He put the money into escrow after the auction, but I can only collect it after a month. That means in two weeks I could pay the taxes and whatever else.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. An auction is the only way it can leave our possession, due to the strict regulations that define our role as a holding company.”
I bite my lip. “Could I bid on the house?”
“You could,” she says slowly.
“How much will it go for?”
“The bidding will start at a nominal two hundred thousand dollars. How far it goes after that…” Her slender shoulder lifts. “The house is worth several million dollars on the regular market, but in an auction houses are often sold for a fraction of their worth.”
A fraction, like one million dollars? Because that’s all I have. “When is the auction?”
She hesitates. “That’s why I’ve been calling you.”
I couldn’t afford my cell phone anymore. “Why?”
“The auction is in two days.”
Definitely falling. “No. I can’t have the money by then. Why is it so soon?”
“Auctions are usually conducted with reasonable speed, so the debts are paid quickly and interest doesn’t grow.”
“Two days!” God, the trial and judgment for my father’s case took six months.
Her pretty brown eyes don’t meet mine. “Your case has been especially fast.”
Heat stings my eyes, but I refuse to cry in front of her. My hands tighten into fists, fighting the wave of emotion. “Is there any way to delay the auction?”
“You could file for an extension,” she says slowly. “A lawyer could help you do that. But…”
A low voice comes from behind me. “But no judge in this city will grant the motion.”
I jump to my feet and turn around, facing Gabriel Miller for the first time since he took my virginity. I had been naked that night, skin pale, a streak of red on the sheet. For all that I had been vulnerable then, I’d also worn makeup. And I had known what I was there to do, what he’d paid me to do.
My jeans and Smith College T-shirt cover me now—small comfort when I feel like a child.
“You,” I say, voice shaking.
“You,” he repeats, his mocking tone ringing through my bones. “Who else would be in my office?”
Charlotte hops off the desk. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have plenty to discuss.”
“Thank you, Ms. Thomas,” Gabriel says, an undercurrent of danger threading the words.
Wide brown eyes meet mine briefly—and I’m not sure what message she’s sending. Caution? Hope? It looks like she wasn’t supposed to bring me to his office. Part of me wants to thank her. The other part of me wonders if I haven’t just wandered between the jaws of a lion.
Then she’s gone, and it’s only the two of us in the dark cavernous space.
Gabriel stands in the shadows, a tall and looming presence. I can’t see his face clearly, but his presence wraps around me like a hard embrace. And his gaze—God, I feel it like lava pouring down my body. A heavy heartbeat starts up, a rhythm that he drove into me, thrust after thrust, a visceral memory I’m not sure I’ll ever quite shake.
“You stole my house,” I say, my voice echoing in the wide office.
He prowls closer, light stretching over his face. And I’m shocked anew at the metallic glint to his pale brown eyes, the way they seem to glow with some incipient earthly heat. “Miller Industries took possession of the house at the request of the court. Surely you don’t think I’m responsible for the entire judicial system.”
His dry tone makes me want to scream. Of course he orchestrated this. “I’m going to get that extension. I’ll hire a lawyer—”
“And how will you pay the retainer?” he asks, all solicitousness.
We both know I can’t touch the escrow account until after the auction. “You’re a horrible person.”
“I’m paying for your father’s medical care. I would have thought you’d be grateful.”
“Grateful? He only needs it because of you!”
The accusation isn’t entirely fair. Gabriel set into motion my father’s downfall, which resulted in a plea deal for information. The men my father ratted out retaliated by beating him almost to death. He’s been bedridden ever since.
Of course Gabriel only did that because my father cheated him.
He wanders closer, examining me from the side, forcing me to turn and face him. “I meant what I said before,” he says softly. “No judge would grant the motion.”
“Because they’re in your pocket.”
A small nod of acknowledgment. “Maybe so. Or maybe your family name doesn’t hold any weight in this city since he was indicted for fraud.”
I absorb the blow without any outward sign. My hopes and dreams may lie in ribbons on the ridiculously thick carpet, but he’ll never see me flinch. “Yes, my father did those things. I didn’t cheat you.”
“Didn’t you? I seem to recall paying for a full month of your services.”
My cheeks heat. “You sent me away.”
“And if I want you again?”
Too late. That’s what I want to tell him, but I can’t afford to lose the escrow. Not when there’s a chance I can buy back my mother’s house. “My mother never did anything to you.”
“What does Helen James have to do with this?”
I narrow my eyes at the sound of her name on his lips. “That was my mother’s house. She gave it to me. Not my father. Me. It was in my trust. And I don’t know how you stole it—”
He makes a tsk sound. “Steal is such a strong word. Especially when you don’t have any proof.”
“And even if I did have proof, no one would care. Because my family is the black sheep of this entire city now. We’re nothing and no one.”
He takes a s
tep closer, only one foot away. Close enough to see the striations of deep bronze in his eyes, to see the short dusting of hair on his jaw. “Oh no, Avery. You’re someone. The toast of the whole fucking town. The girl who captivated Gabriel Miller with her pretty little hymen.”
And then I do flinch.
It should hurt the most that he ruined my father, that he took my mother’s house. But I can’t deny the searing shame inside that he sent me away only minutes after taking my virginity.
Bitterness spikes my voice. “I don’t have anything left to captivate you with now, do I? I have to beg at the secretary’s desk like some stranger off the street. And then have her turn me away.”
“And yet here you are.” Silk on top of steel.
“You can’t get mad at Charlotte for that.”
“Still giving orders, little virgin? Is that something you’re born with in the James family, or did they teach you that along with your ABCs?”
Rage tightens a knot in my stomach. “I’m not a virgin.”
“No?” he asks, lifting a hand to my face.
I stand very still as he captures my chin between his thumb and forefinger, torn between wanting to wrench away and wanting him to kiss me. How can he make me feel alive when I’ve been sleepwalking for months, years? What sick twist of fate let the hands of this man bring me pleasure?
“You made sure of that.” I mean the words to come out cold, unhurt. Instead I sound breathless and somehow inviting. The white carpet may as well be streaked with red. We’re both back in his bedroom, both flushed and sated and ripped to shreds from what he’s just done.
He lifts my face, almost tender. “I put my cock into your warm little hole. Pushed right through that thin hymen to do it. It felt like fucking heaven to break you open.”
I’m a tuning fork in his hands, and the sound I make is pure arousal. “I despise you.”
“You were so wet,” he says, almost thoughtful. “But some of it was blood, wasn’t it?”
“I’m going to find a way to get my house back.”
He bends his head slightly, enough that our lips are an inch away, the words a tickle of breath against my lips. “I got off on the slide of your blood on my cock. I came that way, spilling salt into the fresh open wound.”