CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Gavriil

I STARE AT the storm-lashed beach from the driver’s seat of my convertible. Rain drums on the leather roof. It’s thin enough I can see the sea, steely gray waves churned white in places by nature’s fury.

My fingers tighten on the wheel. I know the feeling.

Why, of all places, my father decided to steal a house from a tour boat operator on the coast of Washington State is beyond me. The sand here is dark. Pine, fir and spruce trees cover the craggy mountains, casting shadows. As soon as I arrived in Seattle, I was met with rain.

That was nearly three hours ago.

My glance slides from the gloomy landscape to the house just beyond my car. It sits on a bluff with a good view of the ocean. Architecturally speaking, it’s beautiful. A Victorian manor painted dove gray with dramatic touches like a wraparound porch, tall arched windows on all three floors and at least two towers I can see from this angle. The lawn surrounding the house is lush green and trimmed.

I have a hard time believing Juliette would care for the house like this. She’s methodical in her work. But she’s also brash, bold. If the house was hers, I’d expect overflowing flowerpots with no rhyme or reason to the blooms, and the siding painted in a bright shade as if to let the whole world know she was there. Organized chaos.

Which leaves me with the ugly conclusion that Lucifer maintained the house to this level of immaculate perfection simply to taunt Juliette that it was no longer hers.

I breathe in. What I’m about to do could cement my future. Ensure Drakos Development survives while also taking care of one pesky reporter. All good things. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I’m about to sentence myself to hell.

Proposing to one’s sworn enemy tends to do that.

It was Juliette who gave me the idea. When she deserted me at the pool with lust pounding through me like a sledgehammer and the single bridesmaid—who I swear licked her lips as she batted her eyes at me—her last words had crawled under my skin.

I’m not the kind of girl a guy like him goes for. And , she’d added with that brazen smile I couldn’t get out of my head, vice versa .

I’d gone to my suite that night alone with the weight of Juliette’s insinuations pressing on my chest. That and a throbbing need to fill myself with her, to tug at the ties pulling back her hair and watch it tumble free around her shoulders before I buried my fingers in it. To taste her skin as I drove myself inside her. I’d stroked myself in the shower that night, and the morning after, to rid myself of the desire that had sunk its claws into me. Even after giving myself a release, it hadn’t fully taken the edge off.

So I’d changed my focus and turned to business. Starting with a thorough investigation into Juliette. I’d anticipated creating a stronger foundation for myself as I tried to figure out what hold she might have over me. I hadn’t foreseen the shocking ties she had to Lucifer, or how far back her connection to Drakos Development went.

I’d sat on my private balcony twenty-four hours after the press conference, golden sand just beyond the railing and rich blue ocean past that, with a brandy in one hand and my tablet in the other as I read through the report provided to me by the private investigator I kept on retainer. Knowing the deepest secrets of my business associates—and my enemies—had come in handy more than once.

As it had this time. Learning that Juliette’s first report on Lucifer had been based on a vendetta dating back to her childhood instead of the good girl persona she presented to the world had been deeply satisfying. She’d always struck me as black-and-white. But she had her own shades of gray layered beneath her confidence. A complexity I couldn’t help but find intriguing. Coupled with how much willpower it had taken not to kiss her in the spa, she had become something of an obsession. A threat, yes, but also a mystery to unravel.

My lips curl back from my teeth in a snarl. I have no need to know her on a deeper level. Don’t need the temptation that offers, especially when I’ve woken up the past three mornings with the scent of her filling my head and my fingers burning from the memory of her skin beneath my touch. Yes, she’s sexy and complex, more than just a damned moral crusader fighting against her so-called villains.

But I don’t care. I don’t care about her reasons. I don’t care about her backstory. The only thing that matters is getting her to agree to be my wife, stay married for a year, and then go on her merry way. The snarl smooths into a smirk as I think about how her name will forever be tied to mine, even after the divorce. Even if she chooses to target Drakos Development in the future, any stories will be easily dismissed as the bitter writings of an ex-wife.

I get out and walk quickly through the cold rain to the cover of the porch. I glance down at my watch. Thirty minutes until she’ll be here. I texted her last night requesting a meeting and included the address. Nearly an hour had passed before I received her one-word reply: Fine.

It had been deeply satisfying to picture her face, brows raised in shock, eyes narrowed in anger at me figuring everything out. I’d held on to that image throughout my trip, especially the long drive from civilization to the middle of nowhere.

I walk up and down the length of the porch. A quick glance into the windows confirms the rooms are devoid of furniture, but the flooring has recently been stained a dark gray. White trim gleams despite the shadow of the storm. I start to pull the key out of my pocket. The drumming of rain on the porch roof softens. I turn to see it abruptly give way to a light mist. Despite my preference for sun and warmth, the effect is not unpleasant.

Curiosity drives me down the steps and out onto the wet lawn. I circle around the house. There’s a veranda off the back that overlooks the ocean. Empty garden beds sprawl across the backyard, a defiant plant pushing up through the soil here and there.

In my mind’s eye, I can picture the house as it could be. Gardens lush with native plants that would thrive in the wet, cooler climate. The veranda dotted with cozy chairs and subtle lighting for the darker days. Still not my preferred setting. But it could be a nice one.

Still doesn’t answer the question of why. Why my father snatched this property away from one Simon Jones, father of Juliette Grey. Why he kept the house maintained, at least on the outside, but did absolutely nothing with it.

But Lucifer never did need a valid reason to indulge his cruel nature. It could be as simple as Simon bragged about his house and Lucifer decided he had to have it. Like a spoiled child who always wants what others have. Never satisfied.

I move past the gardens toward the cliff. A wooden fence runs the length of the property on the south side of the lawn, marked by a small gate. The plateau the house sits on slopes down at the fence line. The hill is fairly steep and falls out of sight. But I can still spy a glimpse of a roof at the bottom.

A roof of a cottage that, way back when, belonged to a gamekeeper back when Grey House presided over hundreds of acres. A cottage that now belongs to Juliette.

Not liking the sudden uptick in my heartbeat, I turn away from the sight of the cottage and focus on the ocean. No reason to be on edge. She had the upper hand back in Malibu. She knew it, and I can’t help but respect her for how she played it. But the tide has turned, and I’m back in control once more.

Satisfaction heats my blood despite the brisk wind pulling at my coat. Juliette is the key I need to move forward, to be free from Lucifer’s hold once and for all and ensure Drakos Development’s success for decades to come.

I won’t leave until my ring is on her finger.

I stop within a dozen feet of the cliff. The sea has settled, the waves still choppy and capped with white, but smoother, more graceful. The mix of pine and evergreen trees covering the slopes shift from craggy and peculiar to regal as the fog abates. Further down the coast to my right is the small town of Rêve Beach. A cluster of houses, shops, wineries, cafés and restaurants, with a luxury resort and a couple small hotels. Not my idea of a vacation enclave, but my research showed it did well enough.

It’s where Simon Jones ran a tour boat that had brought in a modest income until a year before my father bought Grey House. That was when his finances took a nosedive as the occasional sports bet had turned into reckless gambling. He took out a second mortgage on the house at an exorbitant rate, sold his business, and then finally sold the house.

Three months later, he was found dead in a rock-strewn cove near the north end of town.

I eye the edge of the cliff, the sharp drop-off. The dark beach lies sequestered at the bottom. The coroner’s report had included suspicions of suicide. But with witnesses testifying that Simon had imbibed far too much at a local bar before insisting he could walk home himself during a rainstorm, it had officially been ruled an accident. The life insurance, a mere twenty-five thousand dollars taken out four weeks before his death, had been bequeathed to his only child. A child who had disappeared off the face of the earth for the next four years, until she’d reappeared as Juliette Grey at a university in Missouri renowned for its journalism program.

When I first read the report, sympathy snuck in. I know what’s it like to lose a parent as a child. Juliette had been six years older than I was when my mother passed. But still a child, one who had lost a mother at the age of five and then her father less than a decade after that.

Had she gone to live with family? Been put into the foster system? I hadn’t dug too deep on that score. It had been irrelevant to my initial goals. But now the questions poked me. I’d learned so much about her in the past two days. The missing gaps added to the mystery of the woman who dared to spar with me, who had driven me to a level of sexual frustration I hadn’t experienced in...well, ever.

Yet there is still so much I don’t know. I had respected her for years as a reporter, then loathed her for the exact same reason. She is a paradox.

And that, I remind myself as I take one last look at the sea, is what I need to keep in mind. There’s nothing special about her. When she says yes to my proposal, we’ll spend time together as needed. But there will be no more intimate settings that threaten my control. No more near-kisses that torment me. Gradually, the mystery of Juliette will give way to familiarity, which will lead to indifference and apathy. The traditional cycle of many a relationship.

Awareness prickles over my skin. I glance to my left and she’s there at the gate. I wondered if she would show up early, perhaps even be lying in wait on the porch.

My thoughts dissipate as a gust of wind catches the long dark hair she normally wears in a bun and pulls tendrils over her face. She doesn’t brush them aside. No, she simply stands there, strong and impervious, watching me.

My gaze slides over her. It’s not just the hair that’s different. She’s wearing a dress underneath a tan shawl, a long-sleeved burgundy gown that hugs her slender torso. With a heart-shaped neckline and little buttons between her breasts, it softens her, makes her look both fierce and feminine.

A combination I respond to as my body tightens. A warning whispers in my mind. The attraction that surged between us in the grotto was unexpected. So, too, is this side of her I’ve never seen.

But then I remember the late-night call from a buyer after her article went live. The frantic flurry of emails from my public relations department. The sidelong glance cast my way by an investor. All of my hard work threatened by a few words from this woman.

My lips tilt up. Not only will my proposal solve multiple problems, it will also be incredibly satisfying. I can handle an aggravating attraction if it means her silence with a side of retribution.

“Good morning, Miss Grey,” I call out.

“It would be a better one if you weren’t here.”

I can’t help the smile that crosses my face.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

She cocks her head to one side. “You know.”

“I do.”

She doesn’t reply, simply watches me.

“Are you keeping your distance so you don’t give in to the urge to strangle me?”

“This is your land. I don’t want to trespass.”

She states it matter-of-factly. So succinctly I nearly miss the glint in her eyes, the edge to her words.

“It used to be yours.”

“Used to. Now it’s not.”

Her gaze shifts to the right. Longing flits across her face. Even as I experience the quick thrill of knowing my proposal will be an easy sell, I can’t dismiss the uncomfortable sensation of empathy. I know what it’s like to be within reach of what you want. To see it day after day, thinking that perhaps tomorrow you will finally have it within your grasp.

I can give Juliette what she wants. I’m good at giving people what they want. A talent born from being denied what I wanted for so long. I cling to that thought and dismiss the sliver of guilt that’s slipped beneath my skin and rests there, small but sharp.

“You went after my father because of what he did to yours.”

“Initially.” One eyebrow quirks up. “He provided more than enough reasons for me to keep an eye on him.”

Satisfied at hearing her confirm my suspicions, I move toward her with measured steps. She doesn’t back down. No, instead she squares her shoulders, her body tensing as if bracing for me to push her away from the gate.

“He set you on the path to becoming a reporter.”

Her face darkens.

“I became a reporter because it’s what I wanted to be.”

“Touché. And because you’re a good reporter, you know I am nothing like my father.”

She tilts her head as she regards me, a Mona Lisa smile touching her lips. “I know there’s no evidence of bribery, coercion or extortion.”

Some of my good humor evaporates, replaced by quiet anger.

“But?”

“But you’re still relentless. Borderline ruthless.”

“The same could be said of you.”

Darkness flares in her eyes, a sorrow that speaks to something deep inside me buried beneath years of pain. Then it’s gone and she raises her chin up in the air.

“Perhaps. But pair those qualities with astronomical wealth, good looks, and a silver tongue, and you have the conditions for a man who could be very dangerous.”

I smile. “You think I’m good-looking.”

That brow shoots up again. “You know you are.”

The wind kicks up over the edge of the cliff, gentler this time as the storm continues on its path just north of us. A stray lock of hair drifts across her cheek. I mentally curl my fingers back into my palm to stop my first inclination of reaching up to smooth the strand away.

“So you’re prejudiced against handsome, wealthy men.”

“Wary. Given my history, as you’ve discovered,” she says with a nod to the house behind me, “you can understand why.”

“I can understand why you had an aversion to my father.”

“Him. Damian Ruthford. Alfonso Adams. Peter Walter.”

She steps forward until she’s pressed against the gate. Damn it, I don’t want to like her. But my esteem for her climbs up as she says the names of the men she’s brought to their knees with the power of her pen.

“Yes, Mr. Drakos. I have an aversion. An aversion to men who abuse their wealth and power and leave nothing but suffering in their wake.”

I hear it, the slight catch in her voice.

“How did you suffer, Grey?”

Her throat moves as she swallows. Her eyes flick once more to the house, then back to me. All trace of yearning disappears as she meets my gaze.

“I didn’t suffer. I grew stronger.”

It’s not just respect that fills my chest. Not just lust that lurks in my veins. No, it’s recognition. Like me, Juliette faced down the impossible at a young age. We could have surrendered to our losses, our grief. But instead of letting it beat her, she fought back. We combatted instability, uncertainty, and rose to achieve our own forms of success. To carve out our places in the world and take pride in the roles we created.

I look back at the house. A few beams of watery sunlight break through the clouds to touch the fresh paint, making the railing of one of the second-floor balconies gleam white.

“You grew up here.”

“The house was in my mother’s family for five generations.”

“Grey House.” I glance around. “Aptly named.”

“Not everything has to be glittering gold.”

I turn back to see her look across the sea. Her face softens into a smile that makes my body tighten. These glimpses of the woman behind the reporter are unnerving. I can handle her determination, her confidence, even the attraction that sizzles between us, no matter how strong it may be.

But the softness...that’s a different beast. One that beckons, invites me to give in to that temptation to unravel the mystery of who this woman is, to get to know her better.

I don’t want that closeness. Not with her. Not with anyone.

“There’s beauty in everything.” She nods toward the retreating clouds. “Even storms.”

I think back to another storm, one where cold rain poured in through cracks around the window as I curled against my mother’s side, listening to the death rattle in her chest as she gasped for air between bursts of thunder.

“Not everything.”

Her head snaps back to me and the softness disappears, thank God.

“Did you just come to make conversation, or are you here for a reason?”

“I’m here to propose a mutually beneficial arrangement.” I smile at her again, the smile I wield before I offer people what they desire. “One that would include me signing over the deed to Grey House.”

Even the air seems to still as she stares at me. Then she inhales sharply and time resumes. Her lips part as her eyes move between the house and me.

“What price are you asking?”

“A reasonable and affordable one.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out a black velvet box. The confusion on her face would be amusing if so much didn’t hinge on her saying one specific word.

“What...”

Her voice trails off as I flip open the lid to reveal a ten-carat diamond set into a platinum band decorated with smaller, but no less fine, diamonds.

“Your hand in marriage.”