The Bastard Page 7

  Now his eyes were hard, too, but he didn’t lower his hand and he didn’t look away.

  “Jesus, you’re tough,” he said, almost a whisper. “I get that. I admire it.”

  “Stop it, Dylan.” Because that was a bullshit line. It had to be.

  “Okay,” he said, lowering his hand at last. “If you want it to be about business, then I’ll put it this way. I want you there with me to help me navigate this. I’m about to make some people unhappy by disinheriting them. I need you there to back me up.”

  “So you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t seen a reason to.”

  Don’t just talk to him. Convince him. I bit my lip, then released it when I realized what I was doing. “And what if the wedding itself changes your mind? What if you think differently of Clayton Rorick when you meet him?”

  “I don’t see that happening, but if it does, I need you to back me up on that, too. I’ve never had a lawyer before. Is that what lawyers do?”

  “Backing clients up at weddings isn’t in the job description, no. Usually we just provide legal help.”

  His dark eyes didn’t leave mine. “I’ll need your legal help if I decide to stop the wedding. There might be repercussions to that.”

  I felt my neck go stiff. “Stop the wedding?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I don’t know Clayton Rorick, and I don’t know what he’s up to. I do know that he sent me a letter a few months ago, offering me two and a half million dollars to stay in Panama and never come back. I don’t trust him with my father’s estate or with my half sister. If I have to call off the wedding and kick him to the curb, I’ll do it. But he might sue. That’s where you come in.”

  Shit. This was bad. “Listen, Dylan.”

  “I know,” he said. “You’re going to try and talk me out of it. But Ronnie is not marrying some dirtbag just because she needs the money for Sabrina and Bea. I’ll kick his ass out the door.”

  How was it possible to be an asshole and a hero at the same time? And how was it possible to be hot while doing it? I’d never met anyone like this man. “You can’t do that,” I said to him. “You can’t stop the wedding. You think you can, and your motives are—dare I say it—almost noble. But you can’t stop the wedding.”

  Dylan smiled at me. “Of course I can.”

  “No, I mean it isn’t actually possible.” Damn, I was going to have to tell him. I had no choice. “The thing is, Dylan, Ronnie and Clayton are already married.”

  11

  DYLAN

  The words didn’t sink in at first. “What do you mean, already married?”

  She winced. “No one is supposed to know. I only know because of my position as the estate’s lawyer. But Ronnie and Clayton eloped and got married already.”

  I took a step back. “They’re already married, and they’re having a wedding?”

  “I guess they wanted the big public ceremony,” Maddy said. “Or Clayton did. Something to do with the fact that their first wedding got called off. Don’t ask me why they’re doing it when they don’t need to. I’m not a big fan of weddings, myself.”

  I paced away from her, processing this. “I don’t get it. Does Ronnie think she’s in love with him?”

  “I’ve told you. She doesn’t think so. She is.” Maddy’s voice was low. “She says she always has been.”

  A love story, maybe. Or maybe a man who was manipulating my half sister’s feelings. How was I supposed to know which one it was? I turned and looked at Maddy. “You knew this, and you didn’t tell me?”

  Her lips pressed together. “Confidentiality, Dylan. I’m trusted with a lot of information, and I’m not in the habit of spilling it. I only told you because you were about to go charging into a wedding, thinking you can stop the marriage. You can’t.”

  “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

  “Probably,” she shot back. “Despite what you think, you’re not the be-all and end-all. Just because you’ve returned doesn’t mean I’ll roll over and jeopardize my career to tell you whatever you think it’s your right to know. I work for the estate, not you. Not yet.”

  I loosened my tie. Damn it, I was pissed. I hated the idea that Maddy had let me talk about this wedding as if it was an actual marriage. That she’d kept things from me. “I’m claiming the estate. Rorick may have worked his way into marrying my sister, but he doesn’t have everything. Not yet. I told you to draw up the paperwork.”

  “And I will,” she snapped. She picked up her purse. “But until that happens, I’ll act like the professional I am.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked her. “We’re not finished.”

  “Actually, we are. Here’s the deal, Dylan. I’m not going to the wedding. Not with you and not with anyone. I’ll draw up your paperwork, but that’s all. Just business. If I need a date, I’ll get one on Tinder like everyone else.”

  I glared at her. My back was up now. “You have a better offer?”

  “Any night of the week,” she snapped. “In fact, I think tonight I’ll get laid. I suggest you do the same. Maybe it’ll make you behave more politely.”

  “I am not getting laid,” I ground out.

  “Then that’s your problem.” She pushed the button for the penthouse elevator. “Personally, I find orgasms a very good tension relief. You should try it sometime.” The doors opened, she stepped in, and she was gone without another word.

  Leaving me standing in my million-dollar penthouse, in my expensive suit, my hands clenched at my sides, and my shoulders braced.

  Damn it.

  I tugged my tie off. My jacket followed. I tossed them on the back of a chair and started on the buttons of my shirt.

  The suit had served its purpose, but it wasn’t me.

  I think tonight I’ll get laid.

  Maddy White wasn’t going to win this round, even if she fought dirty. She was good—very good.

  But she was about to find out that I was better.

  Clayton Rorick was not a criminal.

  Hours later, I knew it for a fact. I’d used Eli’s laptop and done some digging—Rorick’s DMV records, his banking and property records, his criminal record—which was none—and even his medical records. Eli had access to things that made investigating someone a dream come true.

  And everything told me that Rorick was who he said he was. He came from dirt-poor roots, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of good people came from poverty. He was taking care of a father who’d had a stroke. He had no record and had started at my father’s firm and worked his way up. He had no marriages or divorces in his past, no illegitimate kids, no money scams, not even a missed credit card payment. He was even a good-looking bastard, too, if you liked his type.

  I took a shot of whiskey and started a new search. This one was for Garrett Pine, the sheriff who had supposedly saved Sabrina from her kidnapper. He was a straight arrow, too: no botched arrests, no messy personal life, no hints of corruption. A regular stand-up guy. His parents had retired and he had a ranch outside of Dusty Creek, which he maintained responsibly while working as sheriff. He had no need for ransom money, or any other money for that matter. He was even quarterback in high school. A fucking model citizen. And he was good-looking, too.

  I stood up and paced the penthouse for a minute. I was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, both rescued from my Panama bag. My boots were back on. I felt more like the Dylan King who had spent all those years in Special Ops, kicking ass when it was called for. Except instead of doing a night op in a war zone, I was sitting in front of a laptop, looking up two perfectly normal guys.

  I had one more search to do.

  You’re not going to do it, King. You’re not.

  But I was. I already knew I was.

  I think I’ll get laid tonight. You should try it sometime.

  It was a bad idea—very bad.

  But fuck it.

  I went back to the laptop and searched Madison White. She was a straight arrow�
��I already knew that. I was looking for information of a more personal kind.

  The information was there to see. She’d never been married; she had no kids. She had a law degree and a career that had gone straight to the top. She’d never been arrested—yeah, I checked. I snooped around until I found two pieces of information. One I’d expected, and one I hadn’t.

  The first piece was her address. I mapped it and found she lived in a condo in a gated community in San Marino—one of Los Angeles County’s more expensive neighborhoods, though she didn’t own one of the multimillion-dollar properties. It was the kind of place for a woman on the way up, who was biding her time until she could afford one of those places, because she fully expected to one day.

  Not bad, Maddy. Not bad.

  The second piece of information was surprising. It came up when I searched for an arrest record, because the record I found wasn’t for Madison White. It was for her father.

  Madison’s father, George White, had been arrested in one of LA’s dive neighborhoods for being drunk and disorderly. Maddy had bailed him out. That was only four months ago.

  When I switched to a records search for George White, I found a laundry list of minor arrests: fighting, public intoxication, drunk driving, then fighting again. There was a charge of public disturbance for a particularly loud screaming match he’d had with his wife, Annie, Madison’s mother. He hadn’t been accused of abuse, but both of them had been collared for yelling at each other loud enough to wake the neighbors.

  Madison’s mother had a similar list in her history, though she seemed to have one specialty: shoplifting. She’d been collared in malls, Targets, grocery stores, variety stores—anywhere she could try and slip something into her pocket. One report, from a mall, said that mall security had kicked her out a number of times before finally calling in the law. Annie had pleaded guilty to that one and served a suspended sentence, plus paid a fine. And, according to the records, she had been delinquent on the fine until two weeks ago—when Maddy paid it.

  So this was where the hotshot lawyer had come from. I thought of how steely she was, how determined, how she never let anything get in her way. Everyone she knew probably thought she was a bitch, yet not one of those people knew why she was the way she was. Because it was the only way to rise above her roots and make something of herself.

  I got that. I’d been born with money, but I’d still had shit parents who liked to fight and didn’t care about me. I’d joined the military and left the country to build something that was mine, come hell or high water, with both of my parents in my rearview mirror.

  So Maddy and I had a lot in common. Except I wasn’t supposed to know any of this—and she’d likely kill me if she knew I knew.

  It was a problem, but it wasn’t my main problem. Because when I looked at my phone, I saw that it was seven o’clock.

  I think I’ll get laid tonight, she’d said. It was a challenge, but fuck me, she’d meant it.

  Over my dead body.

  At least now I knew where she lived.

  12

  MADDY

  His name was Axel, he was a personal trainer, and we’d been screwing on and off for two months. He was perfect for me: he had a fantastic body, he was allergic to relationships, he liked no-strings sex any night of the week, and he barely talked. I knew full well that I was just one of the many women on his phone, and that was fine with me. As long as he used a condom every time, I didn’t give a damn.

  After my fight with Dylan, I was decided. I’d text Axel. I’d been thinking about it anyway. Dylan’s shitty attitude just cemented the decision. I liked sex with my own hand well enough, but I’d found over the years that the occasional session with a real live dick calmed me down and made me less irritable. So I arranged my life around scheduling said dick sessions when I needed them.

  I needed one tonight. So what if I’d be blanking Axel out of my brain while he was fucking me and picturing Dylan instead? Axel wouldn’t know, and even if he knew he wouldn’t care. I’d just pretend it was Dylan inside me while Axel worked me over, and then I’d be able to think straight again.

  I only worked until six, which was knocking off early for me. I fought my way home through traffic to my condo, which was silent and clean, just as I’d left it. I never made a mess in here, and I never let a man stay the night. My condo was my sanctuary.

  I toed off my heels, poured myself a glass of wine, and texted Axel. Meet me at Soho Bar in an hour.

  Working out, he replied. He was always working out. It was why I liked him.

  I’ll be wearing a thong, I wrote. He had a thing about thongs; they turned him on. Whatever did the deed.

  He replied with a thumbs-up emoji, which I took to be agreement. Sure, it isn’t ideal to offer sex and get an emoji in reply, but did I mention the working out? You accept limitations with a body like that. I sipped my wine and went into my bedroom to change.

  Axel was on time. I had put on a little black dress that was sexy but not too slutty. I had left off the bra—I was small enough on top that I could do that if my dress had a little bit of support—and I was wearing the promised thong. Black. With heels. I left my hair down, put on a little bit of makeup—I didn’t want to seem like I was too eager—and lip gloss, which was an aphrodisiac for every man I’d ever met. The entire look said I’m ready to be fucked, but you’ll have to work for it.

  The Soho Bar was only two blocks from my place, which was why I picked it. I didn’t want Axel to just come over; when I made arrangements with a fuck buddy, I always met in public first. It gave me an out in case he was rude, belligerent, or I simply changed my mind. There’s a delicate art to inviting a man for a simple fucking. In a way it’s a crude transaction, but it still requires a little politeness. If the man isn’t on the same page as me, I leave.

  I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a glass of wine—only my second, because I wouldn’t get too drunk. I sipped it and let the dim, quiet atmosphere of the bar relax me. This was a place for grownups, a place where people came to have expensive drinks and talk softly in low light. It wasn’t a family place or a rowdy frat bar. If Axel didn’t show, I knew from experience that I could pick up a different man—someone not bad-looking and reasonably rich, well-behaved, and likely married. But married men were a turnoff, and I much preferred men I had vetted beforehand.

  Dylan King floated into my mind—Dylan as I’d seen him at the airport, scruffy and wild, and Dylan in his expensive suit. Both versions made me shiver. For a second I fantasized that I’d never met him, and he slid onto the stool next to me, and we struck up a conversation…

  The man who slid onto the stool next to me was Axel. He was twenty-eight, six feet tall, muscled from head to toe. He’d showered after his workout and put on dress pants, a button-down shirt, and a wash of cologne. His brown hair was wrapped back in a man bun. The man bun wasn’t exactly to my taste, but I knew for a fact that Axel completely slayed with women. I was just one of them.

  “Hey, babe,” he said with a smile.

  I smiled back. I sometimes thought he called me babe because he couldn’t quite remember my name. “You showed,” I said.

  “A thong,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, I showed.”

  He ordered a drink, and I sipped my wine. A niggling doubt in the back of my mind was making me rethink things. I wasn’t sure I wanted this man’s hands on me or his cock in me. Usually I was fine with it, and this had been my idea, but now that I looked at him I wasn’t so sure.

  Axel sipped his drink. “I think I’ll tie you up tonight,” he said.

  My eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’ll be fun,” he said, giving me a look that I’m sure he thought was seductive. “Maybe a blindfold, too. Then I fuck you however I want and you can’t do anything about it. It’s like a control thing.”

  “I would very much not like that,” I said calmly.

  “You’ll like it when I do it,” he said, again with the
seductive look.

  Now I was starting to get annoyed. “Have you been watching the Fifty Shades of Grey movies or something?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t watch that shit. It’s just something I’ve been experimenting with. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

  I put my wine glass down. “You know, I don’t think I will. And I don’t think I’m going to find out.”

  Axel opened his mouth again, and I knew what was going to come out: he was going to argue with me. Then I was going to send him home. It was like I was psychic and could see the future with perfect clarity, my entire evening spinning out before me. I’d send Axel home with hurt pride, and I’d go home and take this damned thong off. Then I’d never hear from him again and I’d have to start over. It was exhausting just thinking about it, and he hadn’t even spoken.

  Behind Axel’s shoulder, the door swung open and Dylan King walked in.

  I froze with pure surprise. Dylan was literally the last person I’d expected to see—there was no way he could know I was here or what I was doing. And yet there was no way it was a coincidence. Especially since he came through the door and made a beeline straight for me.

  This wasn’t the Dylan from the jungle, and it wasn’t the Dylan in a suit. This was a third version, in jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt, showered and clean, his hair and beard neat. He didn’t look left or right but walked straight to me and put his arm lightly around my shoulders, his hand deftly and possessively on the back of my neck, beneath my hair. For a stunned second I thought he would kiss me. Instead, he turned and faced Axel.

  “She’s breaking up with you,” he said flatly. “Get out.”

  Axel was frowning, just as surprised, in his muddled way, as I was. “Hey, man,” he said. “What the hell?”

  Dylan’s voice was low and almost scary. “Go home and don’t call her again.”

  I could have moved. Dylan’s touch was light; I could have ducked out of it easily. I could have pushed him off, told him to go fuck himself, told Axel to ignore him. I could have slid off my stool and walked away. I could have done a thousand things—but I did none of them. I just sat there with Dylan’s hand on me, his arm brushing my shoulders, as my whole body thrummed and woke up, my skin tingling embarrassingly beneath my dress. I didn’t even twitch a muscle.