Chapter Twenty-One

Seconds after Sweven slammed the door to her room with a loud bang, Louisa turned to me and said, “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Never thought you were,” I said easily, taking a sip of my wine.

“You still haven’t touched me. Not even a kiss.”

It had been six dates. They were good dates too, although I was careful to be Respectable Devon around her. We did not discuss weird animals, and she did not tease me about my age or my language or my accent—and, come to think about it, my existence.

“I pride myself on my good behavior,” I said idly.

“You’re the biggest sinner of them all, and we both know that.” She offered me an impatient smile. “If you wanted me, you would’ve taken me by now.”

I leaned back in my seat, scanning her face pensively.

Louisa was on the cusp of looking her age, her skin had become thinner, clinging to her bones delicately, giving her an elegant, slightly malnourished look. She was a far cry from the plump-cheeked Sweven, with the dusting of freckles and flushed, healthy skin.

Louisa’s beauty had history, and wrinkles, and stories.

She was lovely in a way that was far more interesting than a bombshell who looked photoshopped within an inch of her life.

“I fancy you,” I admitted to Louisa.

“Not enough to make a move, apparently,” she said easily.

Everything was easy with her, and therein lied the temptation of yielding to my mother’s request.

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

“I still have hope. Is it foolish?” She twisted the wineglass here and there on the table, holding it by the stem.

“Foolish? No. Unlikely? Always.”

“I reckon I might be able to break you,” Louisa mused, sipping her red wine. Candlelight danced across the planes of her face, making her smile appear softer. “If I told you a year ago that we’d be sitting together, discussing a potential affair, you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” I admitted.

“Yet, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

I stole another glance at Sweven’s door.

This time, she didn’t eavesdrop or peek.

At the end of that week was a gala.

The seventy-eighth annual Boston Ball, a fundraiser for the Gerald Fitzpatrick Foundation, a 501c3 tax-exempt non-profit organization that symbolized to many the official arrival of spring.

Proceeds of the ball, which usually sat at around three million dollars, went to various local establishments I didn’t care for nor wanted to know about.

But it was an excellent write-off for my firm, not to mention a terrific excuse to wear my Ermenegildo Zegna suit.

Attending the Boston Ball was also a business move.

I’d be hard-pressed to find a better place which gathered all of Boston’s Private Island Owners’ Club, most of which were existing or potential clients.

As I stood there, at the O’Donnell Ballroom, scanning the place, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride.

I’d become the polar opposite of my father.

A hardworking, law-respecting man who did not let himself be swayed by women or booze.

The O’Donnell Ballroom was a five thousand square foot venue on Boylston Street, with grand windows, elegant Tudor architectural details, black wooden beams, ecru chandeliers, and champagne-silk draperies.

Waiters floated across the room, bypassing women in ball gowns and men in dashing suits. I stood in a cluster of people, including Cillian, Hunter, Sam, and Sam’s stepfather, Troy, while keeping an eye out for Emmabelle.

I knew she was going to be here. Her sister helped organize the event, and Sweven celebrated every one of her sister’s mundane accomplishments.

“…said him starting a private bank is as laughable an idea as my starting a Christian crusade to save hairy frogs. I’d never buy into his ventures,” I heard Cillian explain to Troy.

If Cillian was here, his wife was nearby. And if Persephone was on the premises, Belle couldn’t me more than a few feet away.

“I’ve only put two mil into it,” Hunter cried out defensively. “So I could be on the board and gain some experience. If it bombs, it bombs. It’s no skin off my back.”

“Devon? What do you think about James Davidson’s new bank?” Sam pulled me into the conversation, the devious smirk on his face telling me he knew I didn’t listen to a word they said.

I tapped my index finger over the glass of champagne I held.

I tried to think what I thought. I’d been more focused on trying to find my roommate than the conversation. “I think Davidson is rubbish at everything he does, and I said so to Hunter when he came to me with the proposition. Luckily, Hunter needs his money like I need another hormonal female to handle, so as he said, no worries.”

“How is Emmabelle doing anyway?” Hunter asked. “Is she starting to show?”

I thought she was, last time I saw her, a couple of days ago. When she’d passed me in the kitchen, I thought I caught a glimpse of a rounded stomach. I couldn’t tell for sure. But since I kept my cards close to my chest when it came to my personal life, they had no idea I was not on speaking terms with her.

“Moderately.”

“Are you taking advantage of the pregnancy cravings?” Sam elevated an eyebrow.

I raised my champagne in the air in salute. “Same answer.”

“Well…” Cillian took pleasure in directing his pinky beyond my shoulder, pointing at something “…then you may want to ensure you’re the only one enjoying those cravings, because Davidson seems to be working on his next private venture.”

I followed his line of vision, turning around to see Emmabelle standing in the corner of the room, wearing a light blue silk Cinderella gown, her sandy hair in an elegant do.

She was laughing at something James Davidson was saying, her fingers fluttering over her necklace.

The same Davidson who wouldn’t know a rotten deal from a good one if it chopped off his leg without anesthesia.

He was objectively handsome in a white bread sort of way, with brown, thick hair, big white teeth, and the languid, lazy manners of a man who never had to work for what he owned.

And he was completely enchanted with the lurid, shockingly vivid woman in front of him.

I squinted, focusing on her midriff. To my disappointment, her dress hid her belly quite well. It didn’t even matter. If Belle wanted to sleep with Davidson tonight, nothing was going to stop her.

“Isn’t James Davidson married?” I was surprised to hear my question sound more like a moan.

“Newly divorced,” Hunter corrected, off to my right. He bumped his shoulder against mine as we both looked on at Belle laughing throatily at something Davidson said.

What could have possibly made her laugh? The guy was dryer than a rice cake.

“His ex just bought a new Cadillac and a pair of tits to taunt him, but I hear he’s moving onto nicer and better pastures.”

“That pasture isn’t going to be Emmabelle.”

Cillian tsked. “Doubt she got that memo.”

“She is just being polite,” I lamented.

“Yes, your baby momma is known for her manners.” Sam chuckled.

“Also, polite people don’t touch other people’s chests.” Hunter laughed.

Buggers. She was touching his chest.

I wasn’t a violent man, but I was quite sure I was well on the way to doing something that would land me in state prison.

“What do you think?” I asked Sam.

Across the room, Emmabelle shook her head when a server approached her with a tray of champagne while James leaned closer to her, whispering something in her ear.

“I think if I were in your shoes, James would have had six teeth missing and a punctured lung by now,” Sam said indolently.

That was all the assurance I needed that I wasn’t overacting. Even though I was overacting, because I was currently dating another woman, even if technically, I did not touch her.

I moved quickly, brushing shoulders, crossing the vast room, my fingers pressing hard against the thin champagne glass.

I wanted to kill James, and lock Emmabelle in an ivory tower. Though really, could I blame her? She thought I was about to get engaged to someone else in a few short weeks, maybe even days.

What kind of claim did I have over this woman? None at all.

I stopped in front of them, smiling like all was well in the world.

“Belle, darling, I’ve been looking for you.” I made of show of kissing her cheeks, but ignored it when James reached for a handshake.

Politeness went out the window when his eyes landed on what was mine.

“You were?” Sweven gave me a lazy onceover. Again, I found her indifference to me enchanting. “Honestly, one would think you’d be searching for more important things, like your spine.”

“Maybe I’ll find your manners while I’m at it,” I bit out.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You don’t have a good track record for finding things. My G-spot can attest.”

That was plainly a lie. I could find her G-spot if it was in a lineup with five fucking others, and she darn well knew it.

“Devon, do you know this gem?” James pointed at her with his glass of bubbly like she was a painting he was thinking of buying.

I wanted to punch him to the ground and then keep going until he reached the depths of hell. “She is so funny!”

“Marvelous,” I said gravely. “And yes, I know her well.”

“Not well enough, apparently.” Belle took out her phone from her purse, determined to let me know she was more disinterested than embarrassed about the scene I was making.

“Well enough to impregnate her with my baby.” I turned to James, nailing him with a frosty look. “You make whatever you want of it.”

“You’re pregnant?” James’s eyes dropped to her midriff.

His skin went pale. His eyes flared. Perhaps he thought he hit the jackpot with wife number two.

Belle shrugged, rolling the entire thing off her back. “We both want a child. It’s not like we’re together.”

“We do live together.” I let loose a wolfish grin.

She patted my arm like a concerned aunt. “Only because you begged.”

“Begged? No. But I did use an unorthodox way of persuasion.”

“You talk a real big game, honey. You do know people have sex all the time and it doesn’t end with marriage, or babies, or even, ya’ know, a phone call?”

“Try to reduce what we have as much as you wish, but the facts speak for themselves. You are carrying my child, living under my roof, and getting nailed by me on a weekly basis.”

This was the part where James Davidson excused himself and pretended he noticed someone across the room.

I stayed with Sweven, who stared at me like she was going to have my balls for breakfast tomorrow.

“What the fuck, dude?”

“The fuck is you’re flirting with one of the worst charlatans in the business in front of my eyes, and I cannot risk his subpar intelligence and awful backward logic near my child. What if he becomes her stepdad?”

I was well aware I sounded like a terrible hypocrite.

Belle’s blue eyes widened, more in anger than shock. “Are you kidding me now?”

“Not now, but maybe later. There’s not much humor in our situation.”

“You’re marrying someone else!” She punched me in the chest. Hard.

We were beginning to draw the wrong sort of attention.

Unfortunately for Belle, she had finally met her match. I did not much care what people thought of me. Most were so dazzled by my titles and accent, they’d let me get away with murder.

“I’d still let you warm my bed, if you play your cards right.” I knew this was going to drive her bonkers.

It did. She slapped my face now. Hard. I did not react.

“Take me somewhere private so I can bite your head off properly,” she commanded.

I pressed my hand against the small of her back and ushered her to a mezzanine library in the corner of the room. It was a small space, painted wall-to-wall with an elaborate black sky dotted with stars that made you feel like you were in outer space.

A cluster of businessmen lounged there, talking idly as they sipped their drinks.

“Out!” I barked.

They scurried away like the hares had when my father had unleashed his hound dogs. People in this city knew I made a good friend and a terrible enemy.

I pinned Sweven to one of the walls, my eyes dropping to her luscious lips.

She had nowhere to move. Nowhere to go.

“Here,” I hissed seductively to her lips. “Bite my head off. I’ll even unbuckle to make life easy for you.”

She groaned, pushing me away. “You’re about to marry someone else, so get the hell away from me before I grab your balls and make sure the child I’m carrying is the only one you’ll have.”

I chuckled sardonically, palming her cheek. She slapped my hand away.

“You’re frightened, aren’t you? That I’d put a ring on her finger.” I was flattered, though I still couldn’t understand why she was so darn stubborn and cold.

“Actually, I couldn’t care less. I’m just letting you know I’m no one’s side piece.” She made a move to duck under my arm, but I moved quickly, blocking her way to the door.

“Who fucked you up like this?” I seethed, demanding to know.

I held her arms, not wanting to let go but unsure how to get to her either.

“I’m trying my fucking hardest, but always reach the same dead end. You want the cock, the banter, the conversation, but not the feelings. When I give the feelings to someone else, you lose it. So let me ask you again—Who. Did. This. To. You?” I shook with rage. I was going to kill the wanker. End him. “Who made you so utterly incapable of having a healthy relationship with a man?”

“None of your business!” She spat in my face. I didn’t even bother wiping the saliva off. She tried escaping again. I blocked her—again.

“Not so fast. Tell me what I need to do to get through to you.”

I was completely out of my depth.

We were both fighting for control over a situation neither of us had power in.

She tilted her chin up, a sly grin gracing her Aphrodite features.

“There’s nothing you can do or say to make me see you as more than what you are. A spoiled little rich boy who ran away from home, but never really escaped the golden cage. You finally found the one thing you cannot have—me—and if it kills you… Well, then die.”

I slammed my palms against the wall, boxing her between them.

I was so frustrated I was on the verge of destroying the room. Ripping it apart.

And where the fuck did my champagne glass go, anyway?

“You’re impossible!” I roared.

“You’re an asshole.” She yawned right into my face.

“I regret the day I offered you this arrangement. At least, before this, I had a bit of respect and sympathy toward you.”

“I don’t need either from you.” Emmabelle pushed me away, her tone businesslike. “You think you’re so much better than your family, don’t you? Just because you work for a living doesn’t make you a martyr. Don’t wait up for me at home. I’ll be sleeping at Pers’ tonight.”

“Why on bloody earth would you do that?”

“So you can have a little room to finally nail your precious new girlfriend!” she boomed. Emmabelle gave me the finger as she dashed outside, the hem of her dress flipping about her delicate ankles.

I chased her. Of course I chased her. At this point, I was unable of making one rational decision when it came to this woman.

But I was no longer enamored by her ability to throw me off balance. Now, all I felt was disgust and disappointment toward both of us.

I was too old for this shite.

Emmabelle stopped momentarily. Turned around. Opened her mouth again.

“You’ve been enjoying your precious Louisa like you don’t share a roof with the future mother of your child. Well, if you’re happy to screw around, I’m going to find myself some entertainment too, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Come close to me again tonight, and I’ll break your nose.”

With another whoosh of her skirts, she was off.

I stopped.

For the first, bloody time, I came to the conclusion that chasing Emmabelle Penrose may not be the right, or constructive, or fun thing for me to do.

It was just me and the vast, dark room. I regulated my breaths and looked around.

Life was a lonely business, even if you were never completely alone.

This was why people fell into love.

Love, it seemed, was a brilliant distraction from the fact that everything was temporary and nothing quite mattered like we thought it did.

It was only after I stood there for an entire minute when I realized something puzzling.

I was inside a small, closed, confined room all by myself, and I didn’t have a panic attack.

Love has some strange ways indeed, I thought, sauntering out of the room leisurely, plucking another glass of champagne from a tray.

Betterto not find out what they are.