The Billionaire's Claim_Redemption Page 7

  You could’ve been the only man she’s ever known. You could’ve been the only man to see every one of her amazing slopes and dips, but you blew it.

  Yeah, I fucking blew it. And I didn’t realize how much that would infuriate and disgust me until now.

  Grabbing a pair of beach towels, she hops out of the room. Hopefully she hasn’t noticed my mood. I don’t want to put a damper on things because of my issues. She doesn’t remember anything. She thinks I’m her loving fiancé, and that’s the only reason why she’s spending time with me. I should accept that and behave like a proper fiancé…except for the sex part. That I can’t do no matter what. It’d be like sleeping with a woman so drunk she can’t exercise her agency properly.

  My hand around a bottle of suntan lotion, I follow her out. She already found the sun loungers I set out on the sand earlier this morning, and places the towels over both. I put up a huge parasol to give us some shade.

  “Oh, good! You have the suntan lotion.”

  She takes it and starts slathering all over her body. I watch her small hands working the pale, coconut-scented liquid into her bare skin. She doesn’t do the kind of exaggerated “look at me, I’m being really sexy on purpose” application I’ve seen from a lot of women before. Her focus is on herself, making sure she covers every square inch of her exposed body to the sun. But it’s still hotter than hell—more so because she’s so oblivious to her own natural attractiveness—and it’s all I can do not to place kisses on her shoulders and the base of her neck and inhale the coconut mingled with vanilla and lavender.

  “I can’t reach my back,” she says after contorting her body a few different ways. “Do you mind?” She drags her hair forward around her slim neck, out of the way.

  I squirt some lotion in my hand and very slowly run it down her warm flesh. Her back is elegant, with lean, beautiful lines. I never thought a woman’s back could be sexually provocative…until now. My fingers glide over a small knot of muscles underneath her right shoulder blade, and without thinking, I massage it.

  She moans, low and throaty. I know she isn’t making that sound out of arousal, but it hits me the same anyway, and my balls tighten as though she’s cradling them in her sweet little palm.

  Stop this. You’re heading into dangerous territory. The warning goes off in my head as she leans into my touch and lust sizzles in my gut. My fingers dig in deeper, and this time, the moan is louder—and throatier.

  That sound should be illegal. It makes my head spin with want, and I haven’t even kissed her.

  My fingers keep going because they can’t stop. And I keep telling myself she’s appreciative of the massage, she isn’t feeling anything sexual, and I really need to jump into the water and hope the sea can cool me off.

  “That feels so good, Dominic,” she whispers.

  I swallow. I should say something—you’re welcome, glad you like it—but I can’t speak. She looks at me over one shoulder, her storm-gray eyes smoldering. Her tongue darts out to lick across her full lower lip, and my gaze follows it in absolute mesmerization.

  Suddenly she twists and leans forward, catching me before I can move.

  She flicks her tongue over my mouth in a teasing invitation to open up. My breath catches, and I feel raw lust unfurling, spreading in a dangerous rush.

  A hand at the back of my skull, she presses deeper, her mouth persistent. My lips part on their own, and my conscious thoughts are no longer in the driver’s seat. Now it’s all about sensation. The feel of her fingers twisting in my hair. Her bare skin pressed against mine. The thrum of her heart hammering over my chest.

  She pushes harder, her tongue delving inside. Mine meets hers, gliding and twisting. She tastes like spun sugar and bright heaven and all that is amazing and wondrous. It goes straight to my head until I’m mindless with escalating need for her.

  Our breathing grows rougher and harder, and her lips are soft yet aggressive, silencing whatever thought my conscious mind is trying to send to my brain.

  My heart thuds, matching the rhythm her pulse sets, as though it’s no longer mine anymore, but hers. She places a hand on my shoulder, grips it hard until her pink nails dig into the muscle. Soft, desperate sounds vibrate in her throat, and I run my palm along the dip of her small waist, feeling the supple, heated skin.

  “I want you,” she whispers against my mouth. Her dark gaze looks into mine, and it’s all I can do to swallow the “I need you” that's threatening to push through my lips.

  But the tiny break is all I need to regain a bit of sanity. I can’t let her do something she’ll only come to regret.

  “Elizabeth—Liza. You’ve been injured. You still…”

  “It’s been over a week, Dominic. Nothing’s broken. I’m fine.”

  I bite back a curse. She’s right. Her bruises and scabs are mostly gone now. I have to really look to see the slight discolorations, and the last thing I want to do is examine her bare skin and lose control of myself again. I’m so, so dangerously close to the point of no return.

  She reaches for me again, and I wrap my hands around her wrists gently.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why don’t you want me?”

  Damn it. “It isn’t that I don’t want you, but—”

  “Dominic, don’t pull away. I’m fine.”

  Her eyes search mine, and I let her see all the conflicting desires fighting within me, so she knows I want her with mad desperation.

  She gives me a soft, reassuring smile. “I swear I’ll let you know if you’re hurting me.”

  Fighting for calm and something appropriate to say to defuse the situation, I inhale deeply, then realize I just made a colossal mistake. The scent of her fills me, and it only works to push out a little bit more reason out of my mind.

  “Liza… I… I had—have an injury that hasn’t healed quite yet.”

  She blinks. “You do?”

  “Uh. Yeah. It’s…” I grasp madly for something. What kind of injury makes a man unable to reciprocate?

  A whole-body cast, you dumbass. If you can’t stick your dick inside her, there’s always your mouth. If your mouth’s broken, then there’s always your fingers.

  “My doctor at the hospital told me to…exercise control until it doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say finally.

  “What hurts?”

  “Some muscles and tendons. I forgot their names.” God, such terrible lies. But it’s impossible to come up with something clever when all the blood’s pooling between my legs, and she smells amazing, and her taste is still in my mouth.

  Frowning, she says, “You seemed okay yesterday. Carrying our suitcases into the house and everything.”

  This is why shitty liars go to hell. At least the good ones don’t get caught and cause the other person doubts. “I can’t have you carry them. Man code.”

  My phone rings—thank God—and I shove my hand into the pocket for it, desperate for a reprieve. Even a telemarketer would be welcome at this point.

  “Dominic King speaking,” I say, making my voice as professional and calm as possible, so Elizabeth will assume this is a business call.

  “What’s the matter with you?” comes a near-hysterical screech from my aunt.

  I almost pull the phone away from my ear. Elizabeth raises both of her golden eyebrows, and I mouth, “HR crisis,” and walk away quickly, not wanting her to overhear Aunt Dorothy’s hysterical bullshit.

  “I asked you to give him a job, not kick him when he’s at his most vulnerable.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I haven’t seen him in weeks.” The last time I spoke with Andy was in Hawaii.

  “You fired him!”

  What the fuck? “Of course I didn’t fire him. He quit.”

  “Oh, is that how you’re playing it? You tell him either he quits or you fire him, then wait until he resigns because he can’t bear the humiliation?”

  “I told him nothing of the sort. And as far as I know, there’s been no problem with his job performance. I don
’t know why he quit.”

  “You know he needs more nurturing than most people!”

  My jaw slackens. “And this is relevant because…?”

  “You should’ve given it to him.”

  The gall. “You’re his mother, not me.”

  “Seriously? Is that what you tell yourself while you abuse my son?”

  “Nobody’s abused him. He’s an adult now. He’s his own man.”

  I thought the reminder that Andy’s an adult would help, but I miscalculated. Aunt Dorothy’s voice gains a crazed edge.

  “He’s your cousin!”

  “Which is why I gave him a chance.”

  “You’re trying to ruin us! I should’ve made sure you were thrown in jail, then Dad wouldn’t have left you a penny. Just look just how you lord it over us like you’re somebody when all you’ve got is filthy money!”

  My lips twist into a cynical line. She doesn’t think money’s so filthy when it’s in her husband’s war chest.

  She continues, “You’re just trying to make Chuck look bad during an election year! He has big dreams for the country!”

  I roll my eyes. It’s always back to her husband’s political career. “I don’t give a damn what Chuck does because I’m not voting for him. Nor do I give a damn about his big dreams for the country.” They most likely have something to do with raping everything he can to enrich himself and his buddies.

  “You’re going to be sorry when Chuck’s in the White House!”

  “Then I’m glad he never will be. A lobotomized lemming would make a better president.”

  She screeches loudly, and I hang up.

  Furious, I clench the phone. A deep growl starts in my chest, but I push it down. I’m not stooping to Aunt Dorothy’s level of ranting and screaming like a lunatic.

  “Who was that?” Elizabeth asks only a few feet from me. Sand covers her bare feet, and she hugs herself. She hasn’t put on anything except some lip gloss earlier, and her pallor is stark.

  “Nobody important.”

  “Sounded like more than a simple HR crisis. I don’t think your HR people yell like that.”

  “No. It was the mother of one of my former employees.”

  “And you answer calls from your workers’ moms?” Elizabeth rubs her arms, then looks away.

  Shit. Now I made it sound like Elizabeth isn’t important. “It was my aunt.”

  “Aunt?”

  “My cousin—her son—used to work at my company until yesterday, when he quit. She’s upset that I cost him his job somehow.”

  Elizabeth turns paler. Her skin’s so white that her eyes almost look black by comparison. “Your cousin…”

  “Andy. You and he met before.” I search her face for any signs of recognition.

  “Andy…” She repeats the name in a dazed whisper, then takes a small step backward. She almost stumbles, her knees folding under her. I leap forward and catch her before she hits the sand, my arm around her waist.

  “Eli—Liza. Are you okay?”

  “Andy…” she repeats.

  “Right,” I say, at a loss.

  She closes her eyes as though she can’t process it anymore.

  Her reaction is alarming. Why is she so freaked out about Andy? She doesn’t remember him. And even if she did, why would she be unnerved like this? She only knew him as Chuck Brown’s son—she and her family donate heavily to his campaigns. Given Aunt Dorothy’s ambition and survival instincts, Andy had to have been a hundred percent polite and courteous to Elizabeth.

  But she acted oddly when I introduced her to Andy back in Hawaii, and he seemed puzzled by it.

  “Elizabeth, did Andy do something to offend you?” I ask. Maybe her attacker in St. Cecilia was named Andy… Maybe her subconscious mind remembers the significance of the name…

  She stares at me, her eyes wide and unblinking. Terror fleets through her gaze like dark clouds crossing the sky.

  “Elizabeth, do you know someone named Andy? Someone who may have hurt you?”

  “I…” She licks her lips. “I…I have to…” Her eyes dart to the sand and the water and the sunny sky before returning to mine. “I…I’m fine.” She stops clinging to me and stands up. “I’m fine. Thanks for catching me, Dominic.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elizabeth

  I stumble inside, then grab a bottle of vodka and glass from the wet bar and go upstairs to the studio. It’s only after I shut the door that I realize I’m still in my skimpy bikini. I put it on with a vague plan to seduce Dominic, but all thoughts of sex are gone now.

  Quickly, I drink a shot of vodka, then run to the bedroom, grab the first wrap dress I see in the closet and put that on over the bikini.

  Andy.

  The name sends such terror through me, leaving me chilled to the core. My hands shake, and I clench them, refusing to be weak. I’m on an island. How’s he going to get here without me knowing?

  Nobody can be here without me and Dominic’s knowledge.

  Dominic enters the room. “Are you all right?”

  I nod jerkily.

  He cradles my cheek, his palm warm against my cool skin. I grip it hard, not wanting to lose this physical contact. He inhales sharply, but I’m too desperate for comfort to care.

  “Liza—”

  “Just a little bit longer,” I whisper, my numb lips making it hard to talk.

  “Hey…” He pulls me close, enveloping me in his arms, lending me his warmth and strength. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “I know.” I lick my dry mouth. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

  I’m terrible at taking care of myself. I lose weight that I shouldn’t. I reach for a drink when I have trouble rather than trying to think things through. It’s a miracle I’m not an alcoholic. Aren’t lives full of problems? Problem solving, you’re doing it wrong. I could be one of those memes.

  I let Dominic hold me a bit longer even though I’m still stinging from the earlier rejection. I know he doesn’t want to sleep with me for some reason. A man doesn’t have to hit me in the head repeatedly before I get it. It clearly has nothing to do with physical inability or anything, because I felt his erection pushing against me. And the excuse about an “injury” was ridiculous.

  Still, it feels nice to be held, so I count to five hundred…then slowly I pull away, lowering my face to school my expression. “Thanks. I’m okay now.” Lifting my chin, I give him an “I’m fine and doing well” smile.

  “Liza—”

  I put two fingers over his mouth, not wanting to hear him say my name or give me any more lies. I can’t tell who they’re supposed to make feel better. “It’s okay.” Because it really is okay if he doesn’t want to have sex with me for some reason.

  Maybe Tolyan’s right. He warned me I was making a huge mistake at the hospital, wanting me to go with him to L.A.

  This isn’t what I meant when I said I could make you disappear so you can live whatever life you want, Lizochka.

  He doesn’t understand freedom doesn’t mean much if I’m going to be alone, cut off from everyone I care about.

  “You know, you made me that nice studio, and I haven’t had a chance to use it. I should while the light’s still good,” I say with another smile. I cringe inwardly, aware I didn’t calibrate my smile correctly. It’s too bright, and when that happens, people don’t believe you.

  Not too bright. Not too glum. One must smile with warmth, poise and polish, so as not appear to be trying or overfamiliar or invite such sentiment from others.

  I just failed, according to that.

  I go down to the studio. The vodka and the empty glass are still waiting for me. The easels hold blank canvases of different sizes. I pour myself another drink and walk up to my portrait. My nose’s so close to the paint, I feel like I can still smell the turpentine.

  “You look sad,” I say to the portrait. Then I take a few steps back. “I don’t want to be sad.”

  The younger me in the picture merely look
s out at the world, her gaze not meeting mine.

  I clench my hands. “I’m not going to be sad.”

  Only the waves outside answer.

  “And I’m not going to waste my time on the island, you hear?”

  I pick up my tools—paints, brushes, thinner and a palette. I select the smallest canvas because I want to finish the painting before my time here is up.

  My first touch of the brush to canvas is scary…even though it’s full of potential. The first brush stroke is a commitment. I focus on the potential and possibilities and keep going. And it does get easier as more colors cover the whiteness, filling blankness with my art.

  I’m not creating anything concrete. I’m following what’s in my heart, just the emotions flowing through me.

  More colors splatter—bright blue, snowy white, dingy yellow and jet black. I’m not going for something abstract, but even as I add more paint, I’m not exactly certain what I am going for yet. All I’m aware of is that it’s something that’s been in my heart for a long, long time—some unfulfilled yearning…maybe something more fanciful…

  Suddenly, I’m centered, and I feel like there’s golden light pouring down over me, giving me peace and strength. My brush moves faster on the canvas.

  I know exactly what I’m going to paint.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dominic

  It hurt to see Elizabeth suffer, having a mini-breakdown over hearing the name Andy. It cut deeply when she pulled away, rejecting the comfort I was willing to give her.

  She doesn’t have to be so strong or try to stand alone. But I didn’t know what to say to make it right. When we were in Hawaii, she drank, then kissed me, and we ended up in bed. Even if there was alcohol and a kiss, we wouldn’t have ended up in bed this time, and maybe she could sense that, and that’s why she withdrew.

  But not having sex with her doesn’t mean I’m not going to fix the problem. I call Antoine. He and I didn’t part well over my decision to bring her to the island, but I know I can count on him.

  “Yes, Dominic?” he says, his voice cool and unreadable.