Do Us Part (The Dumont Diaries (#4))

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Copyright © 2013 Alessandra Torre

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Cover photo by Miguel Kilantang Jr

DO US PART is the fourth book in the erotic romance miniseries The Dumont Diaries. Please do not start this book unless you have read the below books, in the below order. Otherwise, you will experience massive bouts of confusion and spoileritis. Yes, it’s a real thing. Trust me.

To Have, Book 1 of The Dumont Diaries
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To Hold, Book 2 of The Dumont Diaries
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Till Death, Book 3 of The Dumont Diaries
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I didn’t ask for her heart. I didn’t ask for her soft eyes, and needy kisses, and expectations. I needed a birthdate. June 6, 1984. I needed a birthdate, and out of the three possibilities, she fit the bill. She was in a situation that was desperate enough to allow her life to be manipulated.

It took three cities, three approaches, before it worked — before an agreement was signed and vows were exchanged. Yes, it was a lot of work. Well worth the fifty million dollars at stake. I needed that money back. I needed to know that I had regained control of my destiny. I needed to know that a part of me was whole once again.

The Journal of Nathan Dumont

M
y time at the Crystal Palace changed me — hardened me into a survivor, shooting steel into parts of me that were previously weak and bendable.

So, even when my heart was falling, free and unrestrained, diving downward into a pool of ridiculousness, my brain knew better. My brain planned for the inevitable, for the disappointment, and the disaster that lay ahead. My brain made sure that there would be a parachute to catch me, to ensure that my weak heart wouldn’t doom the rest of me.

I sit next to Nathan, shooting him a nervous smile. He reaches over, looping his fingers through mine, tugging a hand free and planting a soft kiss on the back on it. “Relax,” he murmurs.

I try, letting out a breath and rolling my neck slightly to relieve the tension there.

“Mrs. Dumont!” The dark-skinned man strides up to me with a smile, reaching forward and enthusiastically shaking my hand. “I am Leo Brantling. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I match his smile, returning his handshake and gesturing to Nathan. “Mr. Brantling, this is Nathan Dumont.”

The man turns to Nathan with a smile, repeating the greeting ritual. “Come, come. Let’s step into my office.”

His office turns out to be a small glass cube, right off the lobby, with two worn chairs in front of a crowded desk. I had envisioned riding an elevator, walking through ornate halls and lobbies until we reached a large corner office. I set down my purse and shift uncomfortably in the chair.

“Now, how can we help you this morning?” The man addresses me, understandable given the fact that my name is the one on the account.

“I’d like to transfer all of the funds in my account.” I reach into my bag, pulling out the card that Nathan had given me two days prior, the account number written on the back.

“Will they be leaving the bank?” This seems to be of concern to the man, whose eyebrows meet in a worried pinch above his brown eyes.

Nathan leans forward in his chair. “No, they will be transferred to my account, here at the bank.”

“Very well.” The man smiles. “Is that the account number?” When I nod, he takes the card, setting it before him and begins to type, his attention on the screen. “I’ll need identification, preferably a passport, for both of you. Mr. Dumont, may I have your account number?”

As Nathan speaks, I pull out my passport, a slight tremor in my hands. My fingers smooth over the rough blue plastic, opening it slightly to see my new name staring confidently back at me. Jennifer Ann Dumont.

I am Jennifer Ann Dumont. I was born on June 6, 1984. I am Jennifer Ann Dumont.

“Mrs. Dumont, can you verify your social security number for me?”

I recite the numbers, grateful for the time Nathan insisted I spend memorizing Jennifer’s social. Then I hand over the passport, aware of the change in power that is occurring right here, right now. The weight of influence shifts with every dollar that transfers from Jennifer’s account to Nathan’s. After this, I will be expendable, my purpose fulfilled. No reason other than honor to keep his promises and care for my father.

It is done entirely too quickly, the entire process taking less than five minutes. $54,236,301.59 transferred from one person to another faster than a twenty-dollar lap dance. Nathan is unhappy with the amount, a scowl stealing over his face when he sees the figure. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, scrawling a signature as I have been shown to do: a big, looping J followed by a swirl of squiggles, then the last name in clear, bubbly cursive.

He mutters something under his breath about the poor rate of interest and then signs the form. I find it amusing that he has anything other than elation on his face, seeing as he is suddenly fifty-four million dollars richer.

We stand as a group, the beaming Bahamian shaking our hands and inquiring about our plans for the rest of the weekend.

Nathan loops an arm around my waist, bringing me to him. “We fly back tomorrow morning,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my neck. “We just came into town for this transfer.”

The man frowns. “You didn’t have to come here just for that. If you have any transfers in the future, please know that we can easily handle that over the phone, provided that you fax or email us your identification documents.”

Nathan winks, pulling gently on my hand, and we move toward the door. “I may have wanted to steal a few hours of her in a bikini.”

“That I can understand,” the man says with a smile as he holds open the door.

Waving and smiling, we step from the bank and onto the sidewalk, the flavor and sounds of Nassau all around us. As the doors close, it is like a weight lifted. It is done; we have escaped unscathed. The money is transferred. Nathan grips my hand and smiles down at me, his grin wide, his manner light.

“Are you happy?” I ask, holding up a hand against the glare of the sun.

“Ecstatic.” He beams, pulling me to him and bending down to kiss me. “Thank you,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me to his mouth, causing a squeal to leave my lips. A squeal he quickly silences with his mouth, spinning me in a small circle before releasing me. The limo, this one a small improvement over the first, pulls up, and he opens the door for me, gesturing with his hand. “After you, Mrs. Dumont.”

I tilt my head graciously, a smile tugging at my lips. “Why, thank you,” I say sweetly, ducking into the car and waiting for his heat to join me.

W
e spend the day in town, walking through the shops of downtown, filling the car with shopping bags, and eating lunch oceanfront at Fish Fry, a colorful strip of local eateries. In full view of the paparazzi, Nathan is the picture of a perfect husband, purchasing every item I touch and kissing me sweetly over fried conch and plantains. We walk into the hotel at four, dropping our bags inside the suite’s front door, our hands on each other before the door even clicks shut.

He lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist and carries me to the bed, our mouths fighting a frantic battle of ownership. When he bends, setting me softly on the bed, I pull back, taking a moment to study his face so close to mine. His thick brows rest perfectly above dark blue eyes, the color of deep water and just as dangerous, rimmed with thick dark lashes. His nose is slightly burnt, evidence of our time in the sun, the effect only reinforcing his All-American perfect bone structure. Those lips — full, pink, kissably irresistible. I reach up, needing him closer, needing confirmation that he is, in fact, here with me. That he is, indeed, mine in this one moment of time. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back down to my mouth.

Lust is a dangerous thing. It can make you believe things that are not real. It can seduce your mind and lead it blindfolded to the cliff that will be its demise. Nathan takes me to that cliff, my body bending and molding beneath his, my heart coming up for air in between soft caresses with his mouth while his cock hammers out a slick, rapid motion. I gasp, I arch, I dive. I’m not naïve enough to think that it has been lust this entire time. I’ve known what was sneaking in, looking for an opening and begging for admittance. But here, in this island paradise, sharing a bed and conversation with this beautiful specimen of a man … here I can feel the final ties of restraint loosening, allowing the scary thing called love to work its way in.

The afternoon sun is streaming through our open window when he comes. The orgasm rips through him, his body heaving and bucking inside me, my name ripped from his throat as he gives a few final thrusts, his thighs trembling against me as he buries himself fully inside of me.

I am fully relaxed, multiple orgasms turning my limbs loose and uncooperative. When he withdraws, collapsing beside me, it takes every ounce of my energy to roll over and curl up against his hard body. He moves closer to me, dragging me higher until my head rests on his chest, his heart beating a strong rhythm in my ear, its steady beat soothing and secure. There, with his hand tracing a soft pattern on my naked back, I sleep.