Tess

My back falls against the door. I stare into my open living room without really seeing it. Curran had what? Kissed me? Okay, not really—at least not technically, but I can’t deny it was a romantic gesture.

It was romantic, right?

I lift my hand and smile. For all his bluntness and inappropriate remarks, Curran can be sexy. My smile widens as I think about how soft his lips felt against my skin. He didn’t rush the moment, allowing me to feel everything: his warm breath, his loose yet claiming hold, and the roughness of his fingers.

His actions stole my breath and about ten years from my life. I rush to the window and push aside the sheer curtain, watching him march toward his patrol car, his heavy feet leaving prints in the freshly fallen snow and his arms swinging loosely against his sides. He appears relaxed, but that hand so close to his holster tells me he’s prepared to strike—

Holy shit. I’m totally ogling him.

I should be embarrassed. But I’m not, mostly because it feels good to feel good. So instead of starting on the briefs I have due the next day, I return my focus outside.

Curran pauses when he reaches the driver’s-side door and glances up. Like a complete moron, I duck. I slap my hand over my forehead, hoping he didn’t see me. God, why did I just do that?

If it weren’t for the phone ringing, I probably would have stayed there a moment longer. I stand and hurry to answer it. “Hello?”

“Did you just fall?” Curran asks me.

I freeze in place. “Ah, no.”

“Tess, I saw you.”

“Saw me fall?” I repeat, because I have nothing better.

“Fall, dive—I don’t know…something.” I hear him shut the door and shift in his seat. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asks. “Then why were you at the window?”

“I…was curious.”

“What were you curious about?” he muses.

“Whether you’d return to your vehicle or take patrol in the hall.”

I don’t have to see him then to know he’s smiling. “If that’s the case, why didn’t you open the door to the hall?”

“I meant the lobby.”

“No, you didn’t.” He pauses. “You were checking me out.”

My mouth pops open. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you were. Like what you see?”

“What? You—”

“Scoundrel?” he offers. “I don’t think you’ve used that one yet.”

“I’m hanging up the phone now.”

“Okay. But if you change your mind and want one last look before you go to bed, I could step out and—”

I hang up. My face so hot I could warm bread on it. What did I do? Better yet, what do I do now? I’m seeing him tomorrow—if not sooner. What if it’s sooner? I can’t admit that I was gawking at his bitable ass. I’m a professional—and I’m working for his brother—and I’m an almost lawyer!

The phone rings while it’s still clutched in my hand, making me jump. I punch the button to answer. “Look. I know you probably think you’re the hottest thing ever. But I’ll have you know I have no intention of—”

“Contessa. What in blazes are you talking about!”

My hand quivers, and my leg muscles turn to sand. Slowly, I lower myself to the couch before my knees give out. Father’s voice is so laced with rage my voice shakes as I speak. “I’m sorry, Father. A telemarketer called and she wouldn’t stop her relentless—”

“Don’t lie to me, Contessa.”

Anger rushes forward, washing away a bit of my fear. “I’m not lying,” I insist. “Who else would I speak to this way?”

He takes a moment, likely mulling over his response. He doesn’t believe me, but he also doesn’t have any evidence to the contrary. “Watch your tone,” he warns.

I give him a moment to calm, wishing I could simply disconnect both the call and him from my life. Six more months, I remind myself. Graduate, pass the bar, and move on. That light at the end of the desolate tunnel is within reach. I can’t ruin my chances now.

I soften my voice. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to offend you.” He doesn’t respond, probably because I haven’t groveled enough. But although I depend on him in every aspect of my life, my patience has worn thin following years of being berated. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Spencer Woodworth phoned me today,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge my apology. “He’s asked me to consider donating to his son’s campaign for mayor. You remember his son, young Spencer Woodworth the second, don’t you? He seemed quite taken with you.”

If “taken with me” involves groping and fondling me in his limousine, then I suppose he was. I rub my eyes, remembering how I had to walk seventeen blocks home when I refused to spend the night with him following an event I’d been forced to attend. Spencer-the-second was a douchebag, and I told Father as much. But either he didn’t care or didn’t believe me.

“Contessa, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Father.” Nausea claims my belly as I clutch the soft blanket my stepmother had given me. I know where this conversation is going, and it’s already making me sick.

My family is one of the last of the Pennsylvania blue bloods—posh members of society whose gene lines can be traced back to royalty. The men belonging to this so-called exquisite bloodline are few, and the women even fewer. I’m one of the youngest, and unfortunately, so is Spencer.

“Contessa, do you remember Spencer or not?”

“I remember him well,” I assure him.

He ignores the bite to my tone. “Good. I agreed to the donation in exchange for your presence at his son’s side.”

“I’m sure Spencer would prefer someone else. The last time we saw each other we had a terrible fight—”

“His campaign fundraiser is in three weeks,” he continues, unaffected. “Spencer senior seemed thrilled with the idea. Perhaps you can reignite the spark between you.”

My head falls against my hand. Don’t. Don’t do this to me again. “There’s no spark. I told you, he was horrible to me—”

“Then perhaps you should have been a little nicer,” he bites out. “Mallory shall escort you to a boutique one week before the event for a formal dress. Be ready at ten….”

“I can’t. I have exams coming up—and, and my duties at the DA’s office have become more demanding.”

“I’ve arranged a private showing,” he continues. If he bothered listening, he’d hear the tears and desperation in my voice.

“Please don’t make me do this,” I beg.

“Quit acting like a child, stop your whining, and do not disappoint me,” he snaps. “Your future depends on it.”

When he disconnects, it’s all I can do not to throw the stupid phone.

His comment about my future is meant as a warning so I don’t screw up his future.

My father is a wealthy man. His seemingly limitless funds have allowed him to hold prestigious positions and associate with the power elite. Yet it’s never enough. He needs to feel important—omnipotent even—someone people seek, admire, and tremble before. It’s sick how he obsessively craves it like a drug, and how little he cares who it hurts and what it costs someone else, especially when it pertains to me.

In this case, he’s dropping cash in exchange for future favors, and for the opportunity to have his daughter seen with a political juggernaut.

As I sit on the couch, the life Father has carefully devised for me plays out like a well-orchestrated movie script: I’ll graduate law school, only to marry some sleazy politician or renowned figure he selects for me. I’ll play the good wife, ignoring my husband’s indiscretions, raising our children with a plastic smile fixed on my face, only to be replaced by someone better and younger when I’m no longer of use. Precisely like my mother’s life had been.

Hmm. What’s that saying? Oh, yes. Fuck that.

Six more months, I remind myself. Just six more and you’re free.

That’s what I tell myself. But as I think about how little I fought and how easily he defeated me, I can no longer be sure. Jesus, will I ever be free of this man?