The Bastard Page 10

  That was not going to happen.

  “So I give up millions of dollars,” Dylan said, “and I delete other women from my phone. And in return, you will probably consent to sleep with me for seven days.”

  I held his gaze. Damn, he had gorgeous eyes. No wonder women fell into his bed. “You want me,” I said. “I know you do. This way, we both get what we want.”

  “You want me, too,” Dylan said. “Since I can still taste you, don’t try to deny it.”

  I felt myself flush hot. I wanted to put my hand over his mouth, shut him up. I hadn’t built my career, brick by brick, without being careful. And even though we were in a private office with the door closed, I lived in terror of my employees or coworkers overhearing that kind of thing.

  But I bit back the reaction and schooled my expression. “I was in the mood,” I said. “Since you tossed my date out the door, it was acceptable.”

  That made him laugh softly, the sound vibrating between my legs. “Maddy, you were screaming my name.”

  “Like I said, I was in the mood. But without this deal, it will never happen again. That will be the only time.”

  Liar, liar.

  If he put his hands on me right now, in my office in the middle of the day, I wasn’t sure I’d resist. He watched my face, and I hoped to God the words weren’t showing on my forehead like a neon light. Liar, liar.

  There was a long beat of silence.

  “Give me the paperwork,” Dylan said.

  There was a rush in my blood—excitement, triumph. Fear. I reached behind me to my desk and picked up an envelope. “We can sign it right now if you want.”

  Dylan tutted and pulled back, standing straight, putting distance between us. “You work fast,” he said, taking the envelope from me. “You were pretty confident I would agree. I notice you weren’t so fast to draw up the paperwork for me to take over, like I asked.”

  “I drew up both,” I said. “I’m very good at what I do.” I pointed to the envelope in his hand. “Sign that one.”

  “I’ll read it over,” Dylan said. “God knows what it says. I want to make sure I’m not signing over my balls along with the right to millions of dollars.”

  “I told you, I only bust balls when the situation calls for it.”

  “Right. The rest of the time, you just turn them blue.”

  I shrugged.

  “I’ll let you know,” Dylan said. He left my office, closing the door softly behind him.

  I exhaled a breath and sat there for a minute, gathering my strength. My dignity.

  I’d just gone a round in the ring with a tiger. And I might have won.

  Maybe he thought I was a coldhearted bitch. That was fine—it was the image I wanted him to have. For now.

  Because the fact was, I knew what it entailed to run King Industries, and Dylan didn’t. It was offices and spreadsheets and endless meetings. It was schmoozing and networking, golf games and cocktail parties with rich snobs. It was taxes and budgets and projections and capital gains. For a man of action like Dylan, it would be hell. He’d be bored within days, miserable within weeks. If he took over King Industries, it would be the biggest mistake he’d ever make.

  But if I’d told him I was worried about his happiness, he’d never listen to me. It was better this way—a straightforward deal. No confusion and no messy emotions. We’d both get what we wanted—he didn’t have to know about the pressure from the other partners. And if he thought less of me, so be it. At least he’d be making the right choice in the end.

  As long as he signed the papers.

  There was a soft knock at my office door. I knew it was my assistant, Amanda, who had seen Dylan leaving and knew my meeting was over. She was coming in for her usual between-meetings briefing, in which I gave her actions from the last meeting and she gave me the details I needed for the next one. My life was endless meetings, not special operations to take out terrorists. And I could sit here and moon, but the day would soldier on.

  I stood and walked around my desk. This was what I did; this was who I was. Dylan or no Dylan.

  “Come in,” I said.

  16

  DYLAN

  I read the papers. Though, I admit it, I knocked back a shot of whiskey first.

  I didn’t feel like going back to Hank’s dark, lonely penthouse, so I sat in Grand Park, watching the crazies and the skaters and the other LA riffraff go by and reading the contract Maddy had given me.

  It didn’t mention sex. That part, it turns out, she wasn’t willing to commit to paper—it would be a verbal agreement between her and me. Maybe, if I was lucky, we’d shake on it.

  The rest of it was clear, as contracts go. I renounce all claim to King Industries as outlined in Hank’s will. In writing. Forever. No loopholes, no takebacks. The inheritance I never wanted disappearing forever if I signed on the dotted line.

  I didn’t want to run King Industries. I didn’t want an office job. I was already itching to get out of the suit I’d put on to meet with Maddy. I didn’t know what I wanted long term yet, but in the short term I wanted Maddy. Naked, in my bed. I wanted that badly—more than I’d ever wanted anything, certainly any other woman. And she’d just offered me what I wanted, in return for doing something I should probably do anyway.

  Except I still had my reasons for taking over, and my doubts were far from alleviated. Giving everything my family had built over to Clayton Rorick wasn’t something I could do lightly. If at all, Maddy or no Maddy.

  I was still puzzling through the pages—I’ll be honest, I had to Google a lot of word definitions on my phone—when I got another call. Another number I didn’t recognize. Not Sabrina this time. Who else had Maddy given my number to?

  “Dylan King,” I said when I answered.

  “Dylan, it’s me.”

  I went still for a second. “Ronnie.”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I heard her take a deep breath. “Surprise, huh? Sabrina gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.”

  I sat up straighter on the bench. “Of course it’s okay. It’s fine.” I tried to make light of it. “Am I getting a call from Bea next?”

  “Yeah, no,” Ronnie said with an edge of humor in her voice. “I already asked her. She says if you want to talk to her badly enough, you can call her.”

  I smiled. Bea had never been short on backbone. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I told her honestly.

  “You could have heard it anytime in the last decade, you know.”

  I winced.

  “Forget I said that,” Ronnie said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t be bitchy when I called you. So that’s the only bitchy thing I’ll say.”

  “It isn’t bitchy. It’s true,” I admitted. “I’ve been a shitty brother.” I looked down at the papers in my lap—the ones that would give me everything over her. “I don’t know how not to be a shitty brother right now, to be honest. I don’t know what would make any of it right.”

  Ronnie sighed. “Do you remember the summer we all spent together all those years ago?”

  I remembered. The summer I was fourteen, when Hank had somehow won an argument with my mother and had me at The King’s Land. The only summer I ever had with Ronnie, Sabrina, and Bea. “Yeah, of course I do.”

  “You were so cool,” Ronnie said. “Really, you were the coolest guy any of had ever seen. Even Bea. Sabrina was only eight, and she can recall every detail of that summer like it was yesterday. She thought you hung the moon.”

  Sabrina had been sweet at eight. She was pudgy and funny and full of life. Even with my snotty teenager’s attitude, I’d been charmed by Sabrina. It had been a good summer, actually, despite the fact that we were all offspring from Hank’s various wives and mistresses, tossed together and expected to get along while Hank ignored us. “I remember,” I said.

  “That’s all we wanted,” Ronnie said. “A brother like the one we had that summer. That’s how things would have been right. It’s all you ever had to do.”

  I clos
ed my eyes. “I bailed on you. On all of you. I know I did. But I’m back now, Ronnie. I can help you. This thing with the will, with Clayton—”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Ronnie said. “I know you think you can help, Dylan, but you can’t.”

  “Sure I can,” I said. “You don’t have to marry Rorick if you don’t want to.”

  She laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Dylan, I’m already married to Clayton. And I’ve wanted to marry him for the past five years. I’ve wanted nothing else.”

  I was quiet. I hadn’t known that she’d wanted to marry him for so long. I hadn’t known anything. And the only person at fault for that was me.

  “Ronnie,” I said, “if I get everything, I’ll take care of you. All of you. I promise you that.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, “but the time I needed to hear that was right after the funeral, when we heard what was in the will. But you deleted your email address instead. So we went ahead and took care of ourselves.”

  I swallowed. I was going to make up for my mistakes, even the big ones. Especially the big ones. She was going to see. “Ronnie, what are you saying?”

  “I’m telling you to do what you want,” she said. “Do what’s right, Dylan. For you, for all of us. You have all that training, all those instincts. Do what your gut tells you to do.”

  I looked down at the papers in my lap. Ronnie didn’t know about the deal, obviously. No one did. The deal was between me and Maddy.

  Ronnie could tell me to follow my gut, but it didn’t change the fact that there was more than just me who mattered here. It had never really been about me at all.

  “I’ll see you at the wedding,” I told her.

  I had a decision to make.

  17

  MADDY

  Dylan didn’t contact me for the rest of that day. Or that night.

  Or the next day, either.

  I tried not to think about it. The wedding was now in four days, which he was well aware of. If he wasn’t going to sign the papers, he wasn’t going to have a date.

  And I wasn’t going to call him.

  I worked late—to make up for the night I’d left early, to keep my mind busy and off of Dylan King. Work was my solace, my groove, and usually my happy place. Except now I wasn’t taking as much joy in it because I was distracted. Just another thing I could blame Dylan for.

  At nine o’clock I finally powered off my laptop and left the office. My feet ached in their heels and my head throbbed, but I’d only stopped working because I had to, because to keep going would mean making mistakes. I’d worked until midnight plenty of times in my career, but I was going on so little sleep that I couldn’t do it tonight. Or maybe at nearly thirty I was just getting old.

  I was getting old for a lot of things, I thought grimly as I got in my convertible and drove home. All-nighters. Partying. Marriage and babies. My mother had had me at sixteen, and the shining example of her and my father had ensured I never wanted to get married and have kids. I kept waiting for my so-called biological clock to go off, but year after year passed and it didn’t happen. I was pretty sure now that it never would. Whether I was made this way or whether I’d been permanently damaged by my parents, I would never know. I only knew that in this, as in a lot of things, I wasn’t like most other women. It didn’t make me better than them. It just made me lonely.

  At least Dylan wouldn’t have to worry that I’d get myself knocked up. That is, if he even agreed to our seven days together.

  I’d offered him two weeks, and he’d only taken one. As if two weeks with me would be too long. As if he’d be bored and ready to move on by then. It had stung, but only for a minute. I’d get over it, and I’d get what I wanted: the future of King Industries, the future of my firm, and Dylan. If he didn’t sign the contract—no, I’d make him sign it. I’d find a way.

  At my condo, I got out of my convertible, taking in the sweet, warm night air. I liked California. I was born here, and I didn’t want to live anywhere else. It was beautiful and hot, jammed with traffic and freeways, full of assholes, and regularly featured smog, Santa Ana winds, earthquakes, and wildfires. LA was a bitch, just like me, which was why I understood her. She had bad moods and you had to live with it if you wanted to be in the best place in the world. She was worth it.

  In my building, I nodded at the night doorman and got in the quiet elevator. There was no one else around this late; my building was mostly professionals who worked nonstop, like I did. At my floor I got out of the silent elevator and walked down the hall to my door. I swiped my keycard and opened it, stepping inside.

  There was an envelope on my kitchen counter.

  I hadn’t left it there. I stopped, startled. I took out my phone and wondered if I should call security or 911. But what kind of intruder left an envelope?

  Then I recognized it. It was the envelope of papers I had given Dylan King yesterday morning.

  “Dylan,” I said out loud, in case he was here. There was no answer.

  Damn him. I should call 911; it would serve him right. Instead, pressing my lips together in annoyance, I walked into the kitchen and picked the envelope up. It was unsealed, and I spilled the papers out onto the counter. For a second I stopped breathing.

  He had signed the papers.

  I won.

  They were even witnessed, everything in line. The witness was someone named Eli MacLean. I made a mental note to find out who that was.

  And, quickly on the heels of that, How the hell did Dylan get into my apartment?

  There was something else in the envelope with the papers. A first-class plane ticket to Dallas for the day of the wedding with my name on it, with a handwritten note.

  I read the bold, masculine scrawl: Where am I?

  Damn it. “Dylan,” I said loudly. “I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t have time for games.”

  No answer. I walked into the living room, the bedroom. My place wasn’t that big. I felt some trepidation walking into the bedroom—what if Dylan was sprawled out naked on my bed, waiting for me? What would I do? I was half terrified, half anticipating it. But he wasn’t there.

  He wasn’t in the bathroom, either. I thought about looking in the closets—what the hell kind of game was this?—and then I got the answer.

  I walked back out to the living room and looked through my blinds. He was there on the balcony, sprawled on one of my outdoor chairs, his back to me as he looked over the city. He had helped himself to a glass of wine from my fridge.

  I slid open the glass door and stepped outside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Dylan took a drink of wine. “You say that to me a lot.”

  “You’re in my apartment,” I said. “I pay hefty monthly fees here, and they’re supposed to cover security. Yet here you are. How the hell did you get in without setting off the alarms?”

  The look he gave me said that my question was a stupid one. “Honestly, Maddy. What do you think I’ve been doing for twelve years?”

  “I have no idea, because it’s classified.”

  “True. Let’s just say I’ve planted listening devices in embassies without being detected. Your LA condo security team isn’t exactly a challenge.”

  I gritted my teeth and stood there like an idiot. I couldn’t decide if I was angry or disgusted or intensely turned on. I had a feeling I knew what the answer was. Also, there was a second chair next to the one he was sitting on, and my feet were killing me. I wanted to sit down, but I was too proud and pissed off. So I said, “If you’re finished giving me that little display of testosterone, can we discuss the papers you left on my counter?”

  “Sit down,” Dylan said, as if reading my mind. “Your balcony is actually quite nice.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.”

  “Yes, you do. You said you were fucking exhausted. I heard it from here.” He tapped the chair. “So sit down.”

  I felt brittle as glass, and suddenly I was aware of the cracks running
through me, up my chest and down my spine, along my neck and my shoulders. I felt like I was breaking apart. I couldn’t do this anymore—not tonight. I moved to the chair and sat, biting back a groan. Dylan reached next to his chair and handed me my own glass of wine.

  He looked as beautiful as ever, his face half lit from the light in my apartment, half in shadow of the night outside. He was wearing jeans, boots, a gray T-shirt. He was clean, his hair brushed back from his forehead and almost tamed, his beard trim against his jaw. I wanted to run my tongue along that jaw, over the line of his mouth, taste every inch of him. I also wanted to punch him, and I still had no idea which side would win out.

  Still, I took the glass of wine and downed half of it. It was even chilled. That bastard.

  “Give me your feet,” he said.

  “Fuck you, Dylan.”

  “In good time, but not tonight. Give me your feet.”

  And I did it. I slipped my feet out of their heels and lifted them, careful to keep my knees together so he wouldn’t see up my skirt. Which was stupid, because he’d already had his face in my pussy. And I was an idiot, because I’d never forget that as long as I lived.

  He took my feet in his hands, his gaze lowered as if this was serious business. He set them gently in his lap and put his big palms on my left foot, one pressing into the arch, his other palm pushing down over the toes. I made a little sound in my throat despite myself. I’d been expecting a fight—I always expected a fight—and instead I got a seat on a lovely night with this gorgeous, infuriating man, sipping wine and getting a heavenly foot rub. I was suddenly near tears, and I blinked them fiercely back. I was pathetic.

  We were quiet for a long minute as he rubbed my feet and I tried not to sob. I didn’t even know why I had two chairs out here—I’d never invited anyone to sit here before. I only bought two because it was nearly impossible to find a balcony chair set for one, as if the default was that you’d be sitting with at least one other person. Not determinedly alone, like I was.