Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth
I settle onto a long couch in one of the sitting rooms and roll my head this way and that.
Exhaustion descends upon me, worsening the mild headache that’s been throbbing between my eyebrows since I discovered a mishap with one of the guests at the dinner. I rub the spot where a small hollowness has settled in underneath my breastbone, telling myself I’m worried about my sister-in-law, who took a tumble down one of the staircases.
But that’s a lie. I’ve been feeling the void since ten years ago, and it’s only gotten worse since I spotted Dominic in the crowd.
God. He’s gotten even more absurdly perfect.
His beloved face. Those stunning blue eyes. The proud and slightly arrogant bearing.
When our gazes locked, I felt like every cell in my body was waking up after a decade’s hibernation. My vision became clearer, colors more vivid. My heart beat a little bit faster, a little bit harder. Blood flowed a little bit louder, a little bit hotter.
Is this love—or just extreme sexual attraction?
How can I still feel it?
No. I’ve felt attraction before. But nothing like this. What I feel for Dominic now—what I felt ten years ago—makes every other man seem insignificant and colorless.
Even before he achieved his success, Dominic shone like a supernova in the night sky. Now he’s like a demigod—a dark, vengeful demigod who’s set his sights on me.
I thought my heart would burst when he draped his jacket over me on the balcony, enveloping me in his body heat and scent—that hint of malt, spices and soap.
I liked the way our scents mingled way too much, more than the warmth his jacket provided. As long as I held on to it, I could take his angry words. I knew he’d say them when we finally faced each other anyway…even though hearing them cut so much deeper than I imagined, and it was all I could do to pretend I wasn’t hurting.
It took all my willpower to return the garment before going back inside. If it were up to me, I’d keep it forever just so I could smell him over and over again.
Dominic hasn’t forgiven me for what happened ten years ago. I thought once he had what he wanted—dazzling financial success—he’d be able to move on. But instead, he seems more driven than ever to even the score.
On the other hand, the guilt I carry for my deception still lingers in the back of my mind, even after a decade. So maybe it’s only right his anger hasn’t simply…dissipated.
One day I’ll take away what matters the most to you so you’ll experience what it’s like to have your heart ripped to pieces.
He never had to wait for that day. Whether he knows it or not, he shredded my soul that night.
I start to reach for the vodka bottle on the glass-top table, but stop when a large, male hand wraps around the neck first.
Nate.
Immediately, I push away all signs of fatigue and replace them with warmth in my eyes, a friendly smile on my lips. They’re the armor I’ve perfected over the last ten years. Only then do I tilt my head and look up at him.
The younger brother to the new head of the Sterling & Wilson fortune, he enjoys all the benefits of the wealth and influence without the heavy responsibilities of overseeing the family business. He’s also even-tempered and honorable, and one of the very few people I trust.
He’s in a tailored Armani tux, his dark hair slightly tousled. Although I grew up with some of the most handsome men in the world, I appreciate his looks—the high forehead, wide-set brown eyes keen with intelligence and the full lips generally curved in good humor. He’s lean, slightly on the lanky side, although his shoulders are broad.
After pouring us some vodka, he sits next to me. “You all right?”
I nod, taking a sip of the drink. It glides down smoothly, just a hint of honey aftertaste lingering in my mouth. “A little tired.” The semi-honest words slip before I can stop them. I cringe inwardly. I must be more exhausted than I thought. “I should be used to hosting dinners like this by now, but every event feels different.”
“Because it is. Besides, isn’t this your first time raising money for inner-city kids?”
“Yes.” I used to raise funds for orphans and the poor overseas, but I’m slowly turning my focus to domestic poverty. Grandma Shirley’s been gone for three years, so I’m expanding the Pryce Family Foundation’s mission to help our own people as well.
Nate takes a sip of the vodka. His eyebrows rise. “Nice stuff.”
I grin a little at his reaction. “Of course it is. You paid for it.”
The Bay Area mansion where the dinner took place belongs to his family. They okayed it because I asked, and because Nate said they should. I can’t thank him enough for that.
The fact that this event has the Sterling family’s backing moved even more people to donate. Even if they don’t care about inner-city kids, they want to ingratiate themselves with some of the most powerful movers and shakers in the country.
Nate drains his glass, puts it on the table, then gently turns me so I have my back to him. His fingers dig into my tense shoulders, and I let out a soft groan.
“It’s like you have a grave full of golf balls here,” he says.
I laugh. “A grave full of golf balls?”
“You know what I mean.”
I open my mouth to say something snappy, but end up sighing when he starts working on the knots where my neck meets my shoulders.
“That’s cheating,” I say.
“It’s called catching two birds with one net.”
“Two?”
“I get to shut you up, and you get the massage.”
I’m not arguing with that logic.
“Hey, look…I’m not good at this, so I’m just going to come right out,” he says.
“Go ahead. I’m willing to listen to whatever you’re going to throw at me…so long as you keep massaging my neck.”
He chortles. “I’m not that bad. And I’m not letting you derail me.” He sobers. “Anyway, I heard about Julian.”
My good mood dissipates somewhat. “What about him?”
“Come on, you don’t have to play dumb. The paintings? The marriage stuff?”
I pause, doing my best to hide my shock and dismay and wondering how Nate found out.
“He told you and your brothers the only way you’re getting your grandfather’s portraits is if you all marry within six months. And stay married for a year.”
Julian. I close my eyes briefly. My petty, petty father. He imposed those conditions purely out of spite, mad because we missed his sixth wedding. Actually, I think his new bride was in a snit that my movie star brother Ryder didn’t show, and Dad decided to use the opportunity to make us dance to his tune.
Most of the time, he fails. We’re too successful, too set in our ways. Whatever strings he can pull, we can too.
But Grandpa’s paintings are another matter.
Grandpa Thomas was the only one who cared about us while we were growing up. Our parents dumped us in European boarding schools as soon as possible, ostensibly to give us the best education money could buy. During the breaks, they had endless reasons why we shouldn’t come home to America. So we were foisted on our grandfather in Tuscany. He lived there with his second wife, working on his art.
Unlike our parents, he kept in touch, calling us at least once a week, making sure we were doing all right. The schools started to call him instead of our mothers or fathers because they soon understood our parents weren’t interested in anything beyond wiring tuition payments. As a matter of fact, it outright annoyed them if the schools even contacted them to say we were doing well. To them, it was the schools’ job to educate us as they saw fit without requiring parental input. If instructors were incapable of that, what good were they?
My brothers and I adored Grandpa. I always felt like I stood in a spotlight of benevolence when I was with him. And the paintings in question are the portraits he did of us as we turned eighteen. He captured all our youthful potential on the canvas. And I have a special longing for my portrait because it almost didn’t get done, what with Shirley having been so unwilling to let me travel to Tuscany to sit for it. The only reason she finally allowed it was that things would have looked very strange if everyone had gotten theirs done except me. She cared a great deal about appearances.
Those paintings should’ve come directly to us when Grandpa died. But instead they ended up with Dad due to a poorly worded will. Dad swore he’d piss on them and set them on fire if we didn’t do as he demanded. It’s appalling, but there’s really no choice.
Still, that doesn’t mean I want the fact that I more or less have to get married to become public. I have my share of admirers and stalkers, and I don’t want to be even more of a target. I certainly don’t want to have to hire an army of bodyguards to keep the freaks away. I tried that once, and it was a horribly cumbersome and embarrassing experience. With those men tagging along everywhere, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without drawing attention.
“Nonsense,” I say, pasting on my best “are you kidding?” smile. “Who told you such a crazy story?”
“Justin.”
“He must have gotten something confused. I’m sure he has a lot on his plate, what with being the new head of Sterling & Wilson and all.” He also happens to be my cousin’s husband and a font of gossip and news.
“My brother isn’t usually wrong,” Nate says matter-of-factly. “He has his sources.”
Of course. All the sycophants who jockey and snivel for any favor they can curry with his family. Mine has them too.
“So you’re claiming Ryder and Elliot married for the paintings?” I ask, my tone light and incredulous.
“Didn’t they?”
I laugh. “We’re talking the Ryder Reed here. International playboy? Maybe the world’s biggest movie star? And Elliot? A guy with a billion dollars who makes homemade porn?” I had the misfortune of seeing a few clips because they were all over social media. “Come on. Nobody can make any of my brothers do anything.”
“That isn’t what I heard.”
Damn it. Nate isn’t buying my lies. He may say and do ridiculous things at times, but he can sniff out bullshit from the real deal.
“What I’m saying is,” Nate continues, “I can help.”
My mouth dries. I don’t want to hear what’s coming. To distract him, I move my shoulders a little in silent suggestion that he keep massaging.
He presses his lips to the back of my neck. My heart thunders. Oh, no.
“Marry me.”