“I can’t do this for a few more weeks.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I have a choice,” I counter, “and yes. That’s a threat.”
“To yourself. You know the consequences.”
“That you created and you said you had proof to make go away.”
“Proof that has to be absolute, and it’s not absolute yet. Stay your course. I’ll be in touch. Get rid of the phone you’re on and text me your new number.”
“I need—”
He ends the call before I can say “money” and I stuff my phone back into my pocket, turning to face the railing, my hands settling on the steel. So much for using my power. I failed miserably and I lower my head, forcing myself to think. Suddenly Shane’s hands are on my shoulders and I whirl around to face him, afraid he’s heard my call.
“Hey,” I say, his big body crowding mine, his eyes too attentive, searching my face. “What did you do about the apartment?”
“I bought it,” he says, and the very fact that he’s answered, tells me no. He did not overhear my conversation.
“Already? How is that possible?”
“Money talks, but I’m not going to live here.”
My brows furrow. “Then why buy it?”
“It’s a damn good investment.”
“So is Jessica lining up more places for you to look at?”
“Yes, and I might buy them too, but I’m staying at the Four Seasons.”
“I’m confused, Shane. Does this mean you’re leaving?”
“Leaving? No. I’m not going anywhere. It hit me when we were talking earlier: I decided to look for a place before I found out my father rented an apartment in my building for his mistress, if I leave now, he’ll think he drove me out. I’m staying in the city, in the building, and I’m taking the apartment and the company.” His hands come down on my arms, branding me, in that way his touch always brands me, and he closes the tiny space between us. “The way I’m going to take you when we get back to the Four Seasons.”
“Yes. Please.”
“There’s a word I like and haven’t made you say near enough.”
He kisses me, quick but perfect, and I’m getting used to the way he kisses me all the time. And when he grabs my hands and leads me toward the door, I let him. Because in the next few weeks, I’m either going to have to tell him the truth or leave, and the only way I can tell him the truth is if I fix my mess. Whatever the case, I’m going to savor every second I have with this man.
Nothing personal, it’s just business.
—Otto Berman
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHANE
I spend the rest of Sunday making good on my promise to keep Emily naked and saying “please,” a remarkable feat, considering I now know I’m not just in bed with her. I’m in bed with the Martina cartel. They’re running drugs through our trucking division, and getting them out will be no easy feat. They have the control, not my brother, who foolishly thinks he does. My desire to find Derek and beat the shit out of him is an action outside my normal calculated response.
Come Monday morning, I let Emily sleep while I shower, and adrenaline, not coffee, is fueling my thoughts. Brandon Enterprises will not become the Martina cartel’s bitch and today I will come up with a plan to get them the hell out of our business. And while beating my brother’s ass won’t solve anything, when this is all over, I plan to give him the ass beating he deserves, purely for pleasure.
By the time I’ve texted my mother to find out what time my father starts his chemo, shaved, wrapped a towel around my hips, and entered the bedroom, Emily seems to be stirring. I cross to the closet and choose a dark gray suit. I’m dressed aside from my jacket and tie when Emily appears in the doorway wearing one of my T-shirts, her hair a wild, sexy mess.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“It’s still early and you’re dressing at home anyway.” I pull open one of six built-in drawers, this one with a selection of ties. “Not to mention I kept you up late.”
“Let me choose,” she says, joining me at the drawer to inspect the options. “This one,” she declares, reaching for a blue and gray striped Burberry tie. “One of my favorite brands,” she adds, handing it to me.
“Expensive taste,” I observe, fitting the tie under my collar and gently prodding her to fill me in on her past.
“Says the man with a fifty-thousand -dollar wardrobe,” she says, reaching for my tie. “I’ll do it.”
I give her a quick nod and she starts working the knot like an expert. “You seem to have done this often,” I comment, and I’m stunned to realize that I don’t want her doing this for another man. Ever.
“My mother taught me,” she says. “She used to do this for my father, and I wanted to help. One thing led to another and I took over doing it for him every morning.”