Caged(136)

"I didn't see him with anyone besides Presley. Was she at any of the events?"

"No. She didn't get a pass and she was pissed off about it. Big, ugly fucking scene." His eyes narrowed. "Presley didn't tell you about it?"

"Presley and I don't tell each other everything."

"Thank fuck for that. Anyway, I saw Maddox and Presley sucking face. So did Alicia. I figured it was part of that PR thing you guys came up with to stick it to his ex."

Come to think of it, both Presley and Maddox had acted weird on the way back to Denver. But asking Deacon to further speculate what might've happened . . . He hated gossip.

Deacon stalked forward and grabbed her hand. "Let's go. The faster we get this over with, the quicker we can come back here and make up for lost time."

"What lost time?" she said as he towed her out of the hotel room.

He poked the down button at the elevator before he crowded her against the wall. "The alone time we're losing in our hotel room with all furniture I wanna spread you out on and bend you over."

Liquid heat flowed from the burning brand of his lips on her neck in a straight line between her legs.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. 

She set her hands on his pecs and pushed him. "We'll pick this up later."

He kept a hand on her in the elevator. And in the rental car. The tension she expected from him was strangely absent. Rather than ask why he wasn't wound tight, she tried to mimic his "it's cool" attitude. She'd started to congratulate herself on handling her nerves so well when they pulled up to what looked like a security checkpoint outside a residential area.

Deacon rolled down the window.

"ID please," the guard said.

He pulled out his wallet and passed over his driver's license. "We're guests of the Westermans."

The guard scrutinized his ID. "You've been here before?"

"Only twice."

That surprised her.

"You know where you're going, then. Have a good evening, Mr. McConnell."

"Thanks."

Deacon turned into a driveway hidden between a row of shrubs and scraggly bushes that looked out of place in such a pristinely landscaped environment. Once the tree tunnel opened up, her mouth fell open. A stone, glass, and brick mansion rose before them like a monolith.

He parked in the circular drive, his rental car out of place with the Lexuses, Mercedes, Audis, and Range Rovers-until she reminded herself that Deacon did, in fact, own two vehicles that would blend in here. He glanced up at the structure and shook his head. "Can't believe Dad agreed to this monstrosity."

"You've only been here twice?"

"They moved here after I left home. I crashed in the guest room for a few days before Granddad's funeral. Then, when the shit went down with my aunt Suzette, I stuck around only because Dad was a mess and Julianne was worthless." His gaze was heavy with disgust. "I hate this place."

Molly had wondered if Deacon had been invited to stay with his folks and he'd declined. "Why?"

"It ain't home to me, and it never will be."

She reached for his hand on the console. "So we're both without a place to call home."

Deacon started to say something but changed his mind. Instead he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.

She waited until Deacon came around to help her out of the car. He kept his left hand around the back of her neck-an obvious sign of propriety, but the heavy weight of his hand reassured her.

After he rang the doorbell, she tensed up. He pressed his lips to her temple. "Babe, gotta remember to breathe. Only time I want you breathless is when I touch you."

The door swung inward, cutting off her retort.

Molly half expected a tuxedoed butler. But the man in the doorway wore gray trousers, a gray and white pin-striped shirt, and a big smile. Molly noticed a resemblance between him and Deacon, but the man foiled her scrutiny by forcing a hug on Deacon.

"Son. Good to have you here."

No positive response from Deacon.

He disentangled himself and brought Molly forward. "Dad, this is Molly Calloway. Molly, my father, Bing Westerman."

Molly offered her hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westerman."

"Call me Bing. Please." He clasped Molly's hand in both of his and held on. He studied her more intently than she'd anticipated, and she found herself leaning away, into Deacon. Bing caught himself and retreated. "Come in. Everyone has gathered in the lounge before dinner."

Of course this house had a lounge. Probably the butler did double duty as the bartender.

Molly didn't have time to check out the foyer beyond seeing the marble floor beneath her feet, the enormous sparkling chandelier above her head, and the two grand staircases that curved up to the second story. Her initial impression? This kind of wealth meant never stepping foot in IKEA.