She moved to escape. I made the reckless decision to grab her hand. She spun to slap, but I took that hand too, pulling her close.
Today, she smelled of lilacs. Another lock of ebony hair slipped from her pony tail and caressed her soft cheek. She fumed, practically shaking from anger, but the heat pooling in me transferred to her. I leaned in and lowered my lips to hers so that I might have whispered an apology or stolen another sin.
“A piece of paper says we’re family,” I said. “Just a stupid marriage license. You’re still you, I’m still me. We had a good time. Don’t ruin it with guilt.”
“I’m not guilty, I’m pissed.”
“Don’t be pissed either. We had fun.”
She didn’t believe me, but, Christ, did I want to prove it to her. It’d be too easy for me to haul her up, wrap her legs around my waist, and slam her against the wall.
And she’d love it. Beneath the anger? I recognized a girl more ashamed of her sexual inhibition than anything a marriage certificate dictated about our formal relationship. Her hint of shame—the embarrassment of a good girl who never went home with strangers, never let them kiss and lick and fuck her, never believed she’d have the night of her life grinding against a cock harder than steel—that drove me fucking wild.
I wanted that Shay back. I wanted the voracious, passionate, beautiful woman who wasn’t afraid to tell me where to touch, how hard to thrust, and how deep to push.
But she wasn’t playing.
“Let go of me.” Shay shook free of my grasp. “You can’t call it fun anymore. You can’t call it anything. What we did was wrong.” She shoved away before she leaned any closer to my lips. “What you did was wrong. You should have told me who you were.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“You stand to inherit half of my father’s fortune. Half, and I don’t even know you. You are a complete and total stranger to me, and, somehow, you managed to steal from me, from my family, and from the memory of my father. You’re a monster.”
“Not fair.”
“You’re right. It isn’t fair.” Shay returned to William’s desk and grabbed both sets of keys. She pocketed them both and scowled. “If you think you’re getting anything from me, you’re wrong. Enjoy the memory of that night, Zach, because the next time I fuck you over? You won’t like it so much.”
“At least there’ll be a next time,” I grinned.
“Not going to happen, Zach. This is the last time you ever see me.”
I wasn’t a betting man, but I’d stake all my newly inherited fortune on her being wrong. I’d give her the money, park the cars, and never set foot in the estate if it meant I’d have another shot to get back with her.
One night wasn’t enough. Sex with Shay was a religious conversion, and I was a zealot without a temple.
No need pissing her off. I surrendered, my hands in the air.
“You stay,” I said. “You and William probably have a lot to discuss.”
I winked at her, heading to the door. The attorney could email me whatever papers I had to initial. For a chance at Shay, I was prepared to sign my life, soul, and cock away.
Shay fumed, but I laughed, imagining those pouty lips used for something so much better than a frown.
“I’ll see you around, sis.”
Chapter Five – Shay
Thirty-five thousand square feet.
What in the hell was my father going to do with thirty-five thousand square feet of space in his house?
Two wings from the main house. Nine bedrooms.
Eleven freaking bathrooms.
I couldn’t begin to process how ridiculous it was to have eleven bathrooms. He had each room finished with a different imported Italian tile, showcasing bathtubs large enough for Olympic training. I half expected a synchronized swimming team to pop out of the Jacuzzi bubbles and start scrubbing the vanities.
This mansion was nothing like where we lived growing up. When company came over to Momma’s two bedroom apartment, we could only set out the good soap. The kind that smelled like mint-raspberry and was carved into ocean animals even though Momma never saw a starfish in her life.
Sure it was humble, but it was our life. While Momma was proud to provide premium toilet paper—triple ply with decals—for our visiting friends, my father painted the walls of his guest bathroom with flecks of real gold.
Even the camel trying to fit through the needle in Jerusalem would have taken a detour through the sauna attached to the master bath.
I toured through the house on tippy-toes, as if the real owner would follow me to the conservatory and knock me out for trespassing. They’d find me dead in the library, a candelabra to the head Professor Plum style. But no one murdered me while I explored the dining room behind the second sitting parlor. At least, it looked like a dining room—the kind from fancy story books and European castles and movies with Anne Hathaway.
This wasn’t a home. It was a maze. My father stuffed it full of relics and statues and overstuffed, Victorian furniture. It wasn’t me. Then again, college was more bean bags and body pillows, not wingbacks and pedestals.
What was he planning on doing with all of this?
I snuck into the grand foyer, his museum of marble staircases and crystal chandeliers. The house had a hundred places to sit in every material and comfort level imaginable—including a chair that looked too much like real zebra. I plunked down on the stairs instead.
This was ridiculous.
The house. The funeral. The almost-wedding. The secret marriage.
Zach.
I was used to being abandoned, but I was never used before. Did he have sex with me to get lucky, or had he deliberately indulged in something perverted to steal his inheritance?
Whatever his game, it wasn’t sexy. It was sad. Disturbing.
And it had felt so real.
Our night was passionate. It forged a solid, absolute connection that made the other two lovers I experienced seem like little more than a flick of my fingers. I never came like that. I never acted like that. I never thought I’d meet someone who made me feel so…desired.
What an ass, both of us. It served me right. I went looking for a quick and easy pleasure to muffle the guilt for not feeling miserable enough. What did I think would happen when I slept with a man who called himself Hard?
A clang echoed in the halls.
I jumped up. It wasn’t the air-conditioning or a bag of money thunking against the floor.
I pawed through my pockets for my cellphone and readied to dial.
Another thud. My heart stopped then tried to crack out of my ribs.
Who was in my house? How would someone even get in? We dismissed the serving staff while the estate settled, the community was gated, and I thought the alarm system was set.
Or maybe it wasn’t? The damn system went off the instant I walked inside, and the security company calling my cellphone was not happy that I didn’t know my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. Apparently My Dad ran out on me turn this freaking siren off haven’t I suffered enough! was not in their set of passwords.
I needed something to defend myself. Fortunately, whoever Dad hired to decorate the mansion loved tucking vases in arbitrary places. I snagged a crystal centerpiece on the way to the kitchen, raised it over my head, and braced for an attack.
I peeled the corner.
The vase ripped from my hands.
And Zach laughed.
Especially as the chrysanthemums exploded in a plume of white petals and showered me with blossoms and water.
I shrieked, mainly from terror but also because I couldn’t think of a profanity strong enough for my outrage.
“Easy there, sis.” Zach pushed the vase onto the counter. “Death by peonies is not a good obituary for a SEAL.”
I stared.
Didn’t mean to.
Couldn’t help it.
How the hell did Zach get into my house?
And where were his clothes?
Zach strutted in my kitchen wearing nothing but dripping-wet swim trunks. They clung to his trim and deliciously toned waist by virtue of his self-declared best feature. His body rippled hard, muscle over muscle. The scars shone over his skin, but whatever was once injured had been stitched back together. Something terrible happened to him. I knew better than to ask. Hell, I wasn’t even going to look.
No matter how badly I wanted to peek.
I turned, spinning from the magnificently sculpted form flexing his way to the fridge. He removed a Gatorade and chugged the bottle, crushing the plastic in his hand.
Why was he drinking from my fridge?
Wait...who even stocked the damn thing?
“What the hell are you doing?” I probably shouted too loudly.
“I’m thirsty.”
I had no response. I sputtered over too many questions and unreasonable demands. Zach didn’t care. I choked on my words and stewed in silence.
He tossed the empty bottle in the recycling. I glanced over him again. Scars upon scars. Just…everywhere. Not only that, he favored his left arm, even if he didn’t outwardly show it. Something nearly crippled and broke him.
He said he was on leave. I guessed I believed him, but why would a Navy SEAL want to live in a Versailles inspired mansion north of Atlanta when he could be out saving the world from extremists, dictators, and the computer nerds who hosted websites that pirated movies?
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
Zach caught me looking at him. He grinned. “Through the patio.”