Chapter 14

"I think we can come to some agreement," Charlize says as our plates are cleared. "We're family after all."

I know what she's doing and it won't wash with me.

Was I going to let her punish me forever?I don't think so. She has no clue who she's dealing with, clearly. I was still wet behind the ears when she and her mother came into my life. We both wanted our inheritances, and both our family's stipulated marriage. My parents thought the union was legitimate, and looking back now, I was a douche for lying to them. I'm close to them now, but back then I was rebellious with a giant chip on my shoulder. This was a way out.

I lived my life and Abigail lived hers, and it worked. At least for a while.

Until it all came tumbling down.

When Charlize finally removes her foot from my lap, I internally breathe a sigh of relief. I know her main game is trying to push my buttons, but as time goes on, the less guilty I feel about anything to do with last night.

I get that she's pissed. I get she's mad at the world. But I was only in the picture for a short time. There was no love lost between me and the Prescott family, but that doesn't mean that I didn't care about Abigail.

"Sounds like you're holding all the cards?" Do I really think Charlize can work for me? There is absolutely no way. I grimace at the very idea.

It's not just the fact that she's a knockout; no doubt all the men in my office will be asking who she is — I don't like the idea of her working. End of story.

I don't need to rack my brain to think about what job she could do in my office, it's a well-oiled machine already. As long as she's away from that élégance place, I'll feel a whole lot better about everything. She may be a grown woman, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to let her screw around and be somebody's whore. Over my dead body.

She's not yours.I tell myself over and over. She's a ghost of the past.

"No, but I am a realist, and it's a sad state of affairs when I'd rather be working for you than working for crumbs in a bar."

I stifle my smile with my fist. She thinks she has me on the hook. And it's amusing that I even let myself entertain the idea. But for her, I will.

I'll play this little game for as long as I have to. And then I'll do what I usually do; write a cheque and be done with it. Get this maddening woman out of my life for good. Hell, she's only been in it for five minutes, and I'm already feeling the heat.

"How can you say that when you have no idea what I'd be like to work for?"

She scoffs. "I'm sure I could have a pretty good stab at it."

"Yeah? Do your worst." I can't wait for this.

She starts tucking into her lobster, and I watch with amusement as she makes oohs and ahhs when she tastes the cheesy sauce. She certainly went to town ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. I think it's hilarious. She can have ten fucking lobsters if she wants.

Once again, that feeling of contentment washes over me. I like spending money on her. In fact, I like her spending my money. I wonder why that is. I'm not opposed to buying women lavish gifts — not that it happens all that often, unless it's my mother or my sister, which is sad in itself. But the idea of Charlize maxing out my credit card because she's being a brat, turns me the fuck on.

Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis.

I wonder what would happen if I gave her my Amex. I wonder if she'd do the type of damage I know she's capable of. Or would she be a little reserved? She said she's not hung up on money, but only people who don't have any say that.

I have a lot of it and she's welcome to fucking spend it. In fact, I'd like nothing more.

"The type of guy that gets up at five am to work out, and picks out the most absurdly expensive suit to wear for the day with some abhorrent coloured tie. You probably have some of those cartoon ties, hiding in the back of your wardrobe that you thought was a good idea at the time. You'll stand in the mirror — while your breakfast is being prepared by some poor foreign immigrant — while trimming your beard to perfection, wondering if that two-hundred-pound hair-cut was worth it." She doesn't even take a goddamn breath. "Like all good millionaire CEOs, you arrive to work early because you're a workaholic, trawling through your online diary that your underpaid assistant laid out for you the week before that you didn't get time to look at… how am I doing so far?"

I smirk. "Surprisingly accurate. Except for the foreign immigrant comment; my housekeeper is originally from Doncaster, my chef from Newcastle. My assistant is paid handsomely because he does a stellar job, and if you think I paid two hundred quid for my hair cut, you really don't know me at all."

She leans forward. "That was a compliment. I like your haircut. I think it shows you have a wild streak underneath."

I stare at her. "A wild streak?"

She shrugs. "Shaved at the sides like that is pretty risqué, don't you think?"

I ignore her. "You also got one other so-called fact wrong."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"I'm not a millionaire."

She frowns. "Oh, you're not? Did you lose some shares in the Nasdaq lately, old boy?"

I wish she'd stop calling me that.

If she were mine, she'd already have half a dozen strikes against her pretty little ass for those kind of comments.

Now I'm fucking picturing her ass…

"I'm a billionaire," I say casually. Her lips part as she stares at me, so I continue. "So if you think ordering fucking lobster thermidor is going to send me broke, think again, Princess. If you'd like another, just let me know. It looks like you could do with fattening up a little bit."

The minute the words are out I regret them.

That"s what I called her last night.

My fucking Princess.

Except she's not that and she never will be.

Even if I do want to teach her a lesson, I can't. Not with her.

"I'll order two of the crème br?lée since it's thirty-five big ones per serve, if that'll make you happy."

"It will, actually."

She zeros in on me. "Does me spending your money turn you on?"

I grind my teeth. "How many times have I told you to not talk to me like that?"

She rolls her eyes, earning her another strike in my book. "I've lost count. Then again, I've told you umpteen times that I don't take orders from you, or anyone, and yet here you are, still thinking you have some power over me."

"I don't think that, as it happens. I only want what's best for you. That's what I've always wanted."

"So we shouldn't have sex?"

I sputter my bourbon all over myself. Grabbing my napkin, I wipe my chin and shoot her a glare. "I swear to fucking God, Charlize."

She smiles like this amuses her. "Stop being an old fuddy duddy. It's so boring, Alistair. Frankly, I think you could put me to better use other than clicking around on eBay while I pretend to work in your office."

I shake my head. "Is that what you think my staff do all day?"

"Check their computers. I'll guarantee they have solitaire on there. Or Pornhub. I don't know what's worse." She takes another bite of her seafood and groans when she chews.

She just can't stop talking about sex. It makes me wonder if she really is the little nymphomaniac she's making herself out to be.

I can barely watch her. I've never been so hard in my pants in my entire life.

Would it be so bad if I fucked her?

I mean, I didn't know her as a child. I saw her six fucking times, one of those times was at her mother's funeral. I should be fucking ashamed of myself.

But a dark part of me — if I'm being honest — feels no shame at all.

I want Charlize Prescott. I just wish she wasn't my goddamn ex-stepdaughter.

"What are you thinking right now?" Her eyes are dancing with amusement as I look up.

Of course now I have to lie because I can't tell her what's really on my mind. Any encouragement and she'll be under the table, zipping my pants down.

"How I should get you home soon."

"Way to ruin a date, I'm still eating." She narrows her eyes. "Wait a minute, how long has it been since you took a woman out on a date, Alistair?"

Stop. Fucking. Using. My. First. Name. Like. That.

I clear my throat. "A while."

She smiles to herself, smug about something. "It must be tiring counting your billions up in your ivory tower."

"You assume I have one?"

"Don't all billionaire assholes?"

"So now I'm an asshole?"

"Well, you won't answer any of my questions."

"That's because all your questions lead to innuendos about sex."

She laughs. "Oh, there's no innuendo."

Touché. I guess we can finally agree on something.

"I'm not going to be some game that you play to get back at me because of what happened to you," I say, knowing the words sound harsh. But this is what I came here to do, after all. "If that's what you're doing, my advice would be to stop."

"So now is the perfect time for you to prove I'm right once again; all billionaires have huge chips on their shoulders. Aka, assholes." She shakes her head.

I've barely touched my steak. For some reason, I'm not feeling very hungry. At least not for food.

"I'm just being honest, the same as you're being with me. I don't play games, Charlize. At least, not the ones you're used to."

When her blue eyes meet mine, the tension between us all but crackles.

She's so fucking beautiful. Too young for me, yes, but gorgeous all the same.

"I can see that all your billions haven"t bought you any manners," she scoffs. "On a date — such as the one in progress — it's always a good idea to wait until after the meal before insulting a woman."

I frown. "I'm not meaning to insult you, but I don't know what it is you want from me." There, I fucking said it. "Revenge? For me to feel bad about what we did? For me to be mad at you for not telling me? What is it, Charlize? Fucking pick."

Her eyes go slightly round as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. I'll give her this; she's got fucking balls of steel. Most people cringe away when I get mad and make any excuse to get up and leave the vicinity as quick as possible. Not her though.

Charlize has always been in a league of her own.

She leans closer toward me. "You really want to know?"

I toss my napkin on the table. "Yes."

"Fine. I'm not out for revenge because if I want to be mad at someone, I need to look closer to home. Unfortunately, I have no family left so I guess I'll hate on my grandmother and my mother from the grave. Did I want to punish you right after it happened? I admit, I did. I was being a brat. Using you as an excuse for my abandonment when I was never your problem, but now… now I want something else."

I swallow hard, the words tumbling out before I have a chance to think. "And what is that?"

She levels me with her gaze, unsmiling and completely serious when she says, "You."

That can't be true.I stare at her wide-eyed.

I lean closer, too. "Let's get one thing straight, got me?" She doesn't move a muscle as our eyes lock. She's like my prey, and I'm the lion about to pounce. She knows it, too. And what's more, she loves it. "I never once considered you a problem. Never. If you can believe anything that comes out of my mouth, then believe that." I'm angry now, and she knows it. She backs off, looking down at her meal.

Fuck me if she doesn't continue eating. It makes me wonder how long it's been since she had a decent meal if she can sit here and listen to my tirade and not storm out.

Isn't that what I carefully planned out for tonight? If so, why isn't it happening?

Why does she sit there and put up with this shit? I want Charlize to have some backbone. I always thought she had some, but now I'm realising a lot of what she says and does is bravado.

"Can I finish my dinner before we go?" Her words pain me, hitting me in the chest until I can barely breathe. Can she finish her meal? What in the ever-living fuck?

My eyebrows knit together. "Of course. Charlize, I never meant to…"

She takes an audible inhale of breath, halting my next words. "I'm fine. Really. You don't have to keep explaining like a broken record. I've got it."

And just like that, my ray of sunshine. My Princess. She's gone.

I extinguished her, just like I extinguish anything good in my life. I have a real knack for it.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb, willing the thump in my head to dissipate. But it won't.

We both know we have a connection. And we both know this shouldn't go anywhere.

Shouldn't.

It fucking shouldn't.

I let her eat the rest of her food in silence, willing the ground to swallow me whole because she's right; I am an arsehole. And I didn't need tonight to prove it.