Grant

The following morning, Grant went into his penthouse office and closed the door. He knew there was one person who wouldn’t be pleased about his engagement to Blaire and he’d rather that someone found out from him before the news broke.

Sighing heavily, he thumbed the number to call his sister.

The phone rang and rang.

“Dammit, Val, pick up,” he muttered. He wanted to get this over and done with and he’d be damned before he left her a message.

Just when he thought the call was going to voicemail, his sister answered the phone. “Hello?”

She was breathless.

“Hey, sis. Catch you at a bad time?”

“Nah, it’s good. Just came back from my run. Heard Dad and Mom went to see you last night.”

“Did they mention anything?”

“Is there anything else I should know besides your girlfriend is a mafia princess?”

“Val,” Grant sighed in irritation. “You should know better than to believe that garbage.”

His sister snorted a derisive laugh. “It’s kind of funny. I like it when Gus gets all huffy and puffy.”

If there was one thing he and his sister shared, it was their dislike for the senator’s political advisor.

“One would think Dad is the King of England,” Val continued. “And everyone in the family needs to fall in line to some royal protocol.”

“Gus is probably setting the stage for a possible White House bid.”

“That’s kind of presumptuous, isn’t it?” Val said. “Dad has yet to win his reelection to the senate. Does he even want the presidency?”

“I don’t think he does, but there’s pressure from the party,” Grant speculated. “But knowing Dad, he’s going to consider how this is going to affect Mom and us.”

“Well,” Val snorted. “I should be thankful that you’re dating a woman with questionable background. Takes the heat off of me.”

Grant bristled at his sister’s barb, but she provided him with the perfect opening. “Well, sis, you’ll be happy to know I’ll be making Blaire an honest woman.”

A gouging silence, and then, “Please tell me I misunderstood you and you’re not marrying her.”

“I plan to have the company’s publicist announce our engagement today.”

“I can’t believe you’re bringing that criminal and gold digger into the family! Are you out of your fucking mind?”

His fingers almost crushed his phone. “I couldn’t be more clear-headed about this.”

“What does she give you, Grant? Sex? You can get that anywhere.”

“I actually feel sorry that you think that way. Maybe if you stop dating losers, you’ll figure it out.” No way in hell was he discussing with his sister how fucking hot sex was when you were crazy in love.

“At least I’m not blind to their faults and can dispatch them when I want to,” Val sneered.

“This conversation is going nowhere,” Grant muttered. “Consider yourself informed and don’t go crying to Mom that I didn’t tell you—”

“Yeah, Blaire would look great in orange by the way—”

“Dammit, Val,” he snapped. “The next time you call Blaire a criminal or a gold digger, you can lose my number.”

“You’re picking that bitch over me?”

“You’re the bitch, sis.” It twisted his heart to say that, but he’d had enough. “I love Blaire, she’s going to be my wife, and if you can’t get onboard with that, it’s your problem, not mine.”

Val hung up.

* * *

The days following the announcement of their engagement were a whirlwind of interviews and social appearances. Much to everyone’s miscalculation, the interest in Blaire and him didn’t die down. Instead, it skyrocketed. Mostly from the female demographic who wanted to romanticize his fiancée’s background as a mafia princess and Grant was the knight in shining armor billionaire who rescued her. What baffled his publicist was there was thirty percent who wanted an Italian mafia prince paired with Blaire.

Heather was chuckling when she handed him the latest report from the PR agency. “Looks like you have competition for Blaire’s affections.”

“What are you talking about?” Grant scowled. The mere idea of someone else vying for his woman’s affections made him furious enough to bend a crowbar.

“Luca Morelli just tweeted to his followers for suggestions on how to court Blaire.”

“That fucker,” Grant growled. Luca Morelli was the head of Mediterranean Shipping Lines, a legitimate enterprise owned by the Morelli crime family. To his knowledge, the man’s nose was clean, but everyone knew his brothers ran the Italian mafia.

“Do you want me to tell your publicist to draft a response on your official twitter account?” Heather asked.

“No, I’ll handle it myself.” He had some past dealings with Morelli and had the man’s private number, so Grant called him and told him to fuck off.

Just as Grant suspected, the mafia prince wasn’t really serious, but was just a limelight hog with a big ego and apologized for using Grant’s engagement to Blaire as a social media stunt.

Other than the thirty percent of women not approving of Grant for Blaire, the rest were enthralled with their love affair. Because of the interest in their relationship, Gus sent Andy to Manhattan to temporarily work out of Grant’s office so he’d be available to advise the couple on political etiquette should the need arise, especially since they’d received several dinner invitations from New York politicians like the governor and mayor.

Even if he knew Andy was acting in an official capacity, he didn’t like it when he came home to the penthouse to find him spending time with Blaire. He heard their laughter just when the elevator doors opened. Tyler was sitting at the bar, Blaire and Andy were busy pouring over a newspaper.

“Are you sure that’s not gossip, Andy?” Blaire laughed.

“It’s actually true. That’s why there’s tension in city hall right now.”

His fiancée’s eyes lit on Grant and he was gratified to see her jump up from her comfy seating with Andy and greet him at the foyer.

“What are you two gossiping about?” Grant murmured, kissing her on the lips.

“Andy is giving me the inside scoop on city hall,” Blaire said. “It’s rumored that the mayor’s mistress is the city council speaker. He’s giving me pointers on how to tactfully navigate the sticky situation for The Prestige exhibit.”

“We can just scrap them from the guest list,” Grant suggested.

Andy gave a choking sound.

“The mayor is at the top of Jeff’s list,” Blaire protested.

“Yes, but the art in the exhibit is mine,” he said. “I’m not going to have anyone ruin the evening for you. You’ve been working so hard assisting Jeff in restoring the paintings.” The exhibit was six weeks away and Blaire had been helping out in the gallery amidst her therapy visits and meetings with Grant’s publicist. She lamented she didn’t have enough time for her own art. Grant was pleased that Blaire had shown interest in painting again. She’d been like a ghost finding joy in nothing after her experience at Orlov’s hands. Both of them hoped the interest in their engagement would die down enough to cut back on the demands from the publicist.

Andy jumped up from the sofa. “I guess I should be going.”

“Are you driving to Boston to see Val?” Blaire asked.

“No, but I’m seeing her Saturday evening.”

Blaire inclined her head, a sadness flitted over her face. Grant could curse his sister for her stubbornness. He had not spoken to Val since he issued his ultimatum and it looked like his sister followed his advice to lose his number.

* * *

That Saturday, ten days after declaring their engagement, his woman begged him for a weekend lazing around the penthouse. Everyone from politicians to fashion houses wanted a piece of Blaire. At first she was excited, but the thrill faded after the first few nights of endless cocktail and dinner parties. Sometimes they had to squeeze in two events in one evening but that soon got old for his fiancée. Grant was used to the fast-paced nightlife because he usually did it for business, although rarely for pleasure.

“I’m tired of smiling when my feet hurt,” Blaire whined as she plopped in front of the kitchen counter and welcomed the mug of coffee Grant set in front of her. “And it’s ridiculous the amount of clothes these designers send me. They’re sending me size zeros. Do I look like a size zero to you?”

Grant rounded the kitchen counter and hugged her from behind, kissing her temple. “You’re a size sexy-as-fuck.”

Blaire giggled. “Great answer. Have these people seen my ass?”

“It’s a very nice ass.”

“Thank you. I’m a six and on my off days I could be an eight. Maybe it’s my skinny legs that make me look like a zero.”

Grant nipped her ear. “Your legs aren’t skinny, they fit around my hips perfectly with enough meat for my fingers to grip.” As I nail you to the wall.

“Meat?” Blaire cast him a dubious sideways glance. “That’s not a sexy description.”

He kissed her exposed shoulder. She was wearing a robe, belted loosely over her sleeping tank and shorts. “Hmmm … did I ruin my chances for morning sex?”

“Grant Thorne, shame on you,” Blaire said in mock rebuke. “You woke me at four this morning.”

“That was a pre-dawn fuck.”

“Not to mention how you fucked me right by the elevators when we arrived at the penthouse last night,” his woman grumbled.

“That was a make-up fuck.” Grant smiled against her skin.

The night prior, they had a fight. It started with a disagreement regarding the wedding date before they left for the Harvest Gala. The barbs continued on the way to the event, and when they arrived, Grant wanted nothing more than to bundle Blaire back into the vehicle so they could continue their discussion. Instead, his frustration grew and smiling became a chore, so he quit forcing one.

“Would you please try to smile,” Blaire whispered, annoyance drawing her brows together. “One would think you’re facing a death sentence instead of having just gotten engaged.”

Grant bared his teeth. “Better?”

Blaire’s jaw turned mulish. “December is too soon. What’s wrong with waiting until May?”

“Are your feelings going to change between now and May?” he challenged. “Mine won’t.”

“That’s an unfair question.”

“I get the feeling you’re hedging—that you’re unsure about something.”

Blaire looked away uncomfortably.

Grant suppressed the urge to drag her into a deserted hallway and kiss her into submission. He needed a drink. “I’m going to the bar. Want me to get you a glass of cabernet?”

Her expression softened as she glanced at him. “That would be nice.”

He gave her a chaste peck on the lips and nodded to the silent auction table. “Why don’t you find something for us?”

Grant took that opportunity to give them both a breather, resisting the instinct to glance back and check on her. There was no reason for him to act paranoid. The Diplomatic Security Service was in charge of safeguarding the event because there were several high-profile foreign dignitaries in attendance. Blaire was as safe as she could get.

As he waited his turn at the bar, he mulled over the real reason why he was pushing for a December wedding. It wasn’t the date itself, but a tactic to find out what she wasn’t telling him. But unlike the uncertainty that hounded him in the beginning of their relationship, he felt an openness in communicating his thoughts without the fear of sending her running. Blaire changed him in a fundamental way as the instinct to shutdown when he got pissed had diminished. Elation expanded in his chest with this self-discovery. His eyes sought her in the room. His gaze narrowed. Well, something else hadn’t changed.

His possessiveness.

A man was busy chatting up his fiancée by the auction table. Grant recognized him as an upstate NY state representative who had recently grabbed the headlines. Abandoning the quest for drinks, he made his way back to his woman.

“You were a total caveman,” Blaire sighed, bringing his attention back to the present. It took Grant a moment to register that she was referring to the elevator sex. Her eyes flashed as she pushed against his chest. “Oh … oh… and I had to stop you from going all alpha male at the auction table. You’re lucky I saved you from getting hauled off by the Secret Service.”

“That punk-ass congressman had his hand on your back. He had no reason to touch you,” Grant shot back. “And it’s the DSS, baby. The Secret Service protects—”

“Stop,” Blaire cut in dryly. “I don’t need a lecture on federal security agencies. If I need to know, I’ll Google it. My point is I could have handled the situation. I was about to move away when you swooped in like some knight about to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“My job is to protect you,” he growled. “Besides, all I wanted was to talk to him.”

Blaire eyed him dubiously. “Somehow I have a feeling that chat would end up with me bailing you out of jail this morning.” She patted his cheek. “Aren’t you glad I saved our weekend?” Her eyes twinkled merrily. “We argued about this ad nauseam on the way home last night. Are you plotting another makeup-sex session?”

Grant grinned crookedly and scratched the scruff at his jaw. “Is it working?”

She laughed and went on tiptoes to kiss him. “Thanks for defending my honor.”

“Anytime.”

“Love you, Mr. Thorne,” Blaire said softly as a tender look crossed her face. “Glad you didn’t freeze me out despite looking like you were about to lose your mind.”

“I’ll never shut you out again,” Grant promised. “Especially since the make-up sex is so good.” His hand slipped inside her robe and stroked her breast.

“Be serious, Grant.”

“I am, baby,” he said. “I’ve made huge mistakes in our relationship that caused you so much pain, both physically and mentally—”

“Never blame yourself for what Orlov did.”

“It’s not about the blame, Angel,” he said quietly. “It’s about learning from that experience and making sure it doesn’t happen again. I was afraid to hurt you with words and yet it was my silence that almost caused me to lose you. This past month, when you were busy finding yourself, fixing yourself, I was doing the same thing,” he said. “I was unworthy of you.” Blaire opened her mouth to protest but Grant put a finger on her lips. “Let me get this out.” When she nodded, he continued, “I’m too selfish to let you go. Val nearly dying fucked me up, but I shouldn’t let it define how I dealt with my anger. I’m a grown-ass man. No excuse not to control my temper or the words coming from my mouth around the people I love. Last night, I realized I haven’t had the instinct to shut down in a while—”

“A half day.”

“What?” His brows drew together.

“When you get angry you have half a day to process your anger, but that’s all I’m giving you,” Blaire declared. “We talk about the issue no matter how much we want to strangle each other.”

He smirked. “Somehow my desire to wring your pretty neck always ends up with me wanting to fuck you.”

“That’s a problem?” A delicate eyebrow rose.

“That sassy mouth,” Grant lowered his head, murmuring against her lips. “Needs to be wrapped around my cock.”

She pushed away from his chest to stare up at him. “Agreed?”

“Half a day it is, Angel.” He wouldn’t need that time. Like he said earlier, Grant had learned his lesson. “Can I ask you something?”

She cast him a wary look.

“I know December was pushing it, but something was bugging me about your aversion to that date.”

Blaire muttered under her breath. Something about taking “communication too far.”

Grant chuckled. “It goes both ways, baby.”

“It’s just that I’m still in therapy,” she mumbled. “I’m afraid the stress of preparing for a wedding might set me back. And I really, really want to be perfect for you.”

Something tugged at the muscles of his chest. “Oh, Blaire, you’re nothing but perfect for me,” he whispered. “But I understand,” he added. “I’ll defer to you to set the wedding date, but I’m not waiting longer than May.”

She nodded, but was staring at his chest, tracing the lines of the design on his shirt. Her feather-light touch was a direct stimulant to his groin.

“Anything else?” he cleared his throat.

Blaire glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “Maybe you can come with me to my last sessions with Dr. Jones?”

“Name the time. I’ll be there,” Grant replied without hesitation. He’d been wanting in on some of her therapy appointments, but she hadn’t been ready. He was pleased she’d initiated the idea from her end.

“Thank you.”

“Blaire?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to fuck you.”

Without waiting for her response, he leaned forward and grasped the back of her legs, lifting her and moving forward to where the counter was clear. He set her on top and wedged himself between her thighs.

“Grant …” Blaire whispered, her hazel eyes heavy-lidded. Oh yeah, she was ready for him.

“Sexy as fuck,” he purred. He freed his cock, moved her sleeping shorts to the side and thrust up into her. Mouth, tongue, hands, and cock, he was all over her. He made her come quickly, and not long after, he poured his release into her.

And that was how that weekend went. They talked, ate, fucked, and, when they weren’t doing any of those things, Blaire caught up with this zombie apocalypse series she was hooked on.

He once thought he’d be happy living a hedonistic lifestyle with Blaire, but he knew that, just like him, she would need balance and time away from him. He could easily smother her with his insatiable need for her and it was fortunate that his business commitments forced him to leave the house. But ever since Blaire’s abduction, fear of letting her out of his sight had gotten into the mix. Maybe he needed to talk to a therapist himself because the fear wasn’t fading and had only gotten worse.

Grant would think back to this time and realize his psyche was giving him a premonition.

The call came late Sunday evening. Blaire was already sleeping and Grant was in his office finishing up a call with his Hong Kong office.

“Grant.” His name on his father’s gruff, tormented voice was enough to send the blood draining from his face. He held the phone tight.

“What’s wrong?” Shit, he hoped Mom was fine.

“It’s Valerie.”

Grant sighed, relief briefly taking over. “What did she do now?”

“Grant, they took her!”

“What? Who took her?”

“Andy went over to see her and she wasn’t at her house. He thought she was just mad at your engagement and took off without telling anyone.”

“How do you know someone took her?” Grant asked. “You know Val has a habit of going off on her own when she’s upset. And where the hell was her security?”

“They called with their demands,” his father’s voice grew hoarse. “Her two bodyguards were found dead inside the house.”

“Jesus Christ. Do we know who they are? Is it one of those white supremacist groups?”

“No, Grant. It’s the people who took the paintings.”

Dread unlike any gripped his lungs in a strangle hold, and he knew, just fucking knew, what those fuckers wanted.

Or who.

“They want Blaire for Val,” the senator said raggedly.