Authors: Magda Alexander
My blood boils and I see red. “Fuck.” I pound feet for the gazebo with Mitch right behind me.
I intend to pry him off Madrigal and give him the beatdown of his life. But when I get there, he’s writhing on the ground. She’s kneed him in the nuts. Good for her. But I’m not satisfied. Hoisting him by his preppy shirt, I haul back my fist.
“Don’t!” Madrigal screams.
Mitch grabs my arm. “You don’t want to do this, Trenton.”
“The fuck I don’t.” I wrestle Mitch for my hand and punch Pretty Boy right in the stomach. He doubles over in pain and drops to the ground.
“Why did you do that?” Madrigal yells.
“He was touching you, kissing you.”
“I had it under control.”
“I was proposing to her,” Pretty Boy wheezes out.
I clench my fist and go for him again.
Cursing, Mitch peels my hand off his shirt. “Careful,” he cautions. “We have an audience.”
About twenty or so people have gathered around the gazebo. They’ve seen plenty, and God only knows how much they heard.
“Oh, God,” Madrigal says. “Uncle Mitch?”
Uncle Mitch?
What the hell?
I don’t miss the plea in her glance. She expects him to fix the situation.
Mitch whispers to the three of us, “Follow my lead.”
Displaying a broad smile, he turns around and addresses the crowd. “Did you enjoy the show?”
The “audience” appears appropriately confused.
“Just a little entertainment, folks. Ha-ha. Mr. Holcomb, Mr. Steele, and Ms. Berkeley were re-creating an event from her family’s history. Before the Civil War, two suitors battled over one of her female ancestors. They held a duel right here on this spot. We thought dueling pistols would be a bit much. So we opted for fists.”
Someone in the audience pipes up, “They should have worn costumes.”
Mitch nods. “You’re absolutely right. But then it would have given it away, wouldn’t it? This way you were all surprised.”
A head bobs up and down. “Yep, sure was.”
Although a couple of people still look skeptical, no one accuses Mitch of spouting off a pack of lies.
“How about giving our players a hand for their fine performance?” When the audience applauds, he whispers to us, “Take a bow.”
Madrigal dips a graceful curtsy. Brad gives it his best shot and bends. In a fake show of support, I throw my arm around his shoulder and squeeze. “Hope I didn’t hit you too hard, old boy.”
Brad grimaces. I hope it hurt like hell.
“That concludes our show, folks. Thank you for coming,” Mitch says, like they knew about the “performance” ahead of time.
“You gonna do it again?” a kid asks, biting into a cherry-colored Popsicle.
“No, I’m afraid it was a onetime performance.”
Once the audience wanders off, Pretty Boy glances at Madrigal. “Sorry for the kiss. I thought you’d be okay with it.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues. “Please think about the proposal. It would be a good thing for us both.”
I glare at him. “She’s not marrying you.”
“Let’s not start this again,” Mitch says. “Brad, let’s find your parents. I’m sure they’re anxious to hear how the proposal went.”
“What the hell, Mitch?” He can’t possibly support this marriage.
He shoots me a warning glance. “You don’t want Holden hearing what happened secondhand. I’ll need to explain things to him.”
He’s right about that. “What are you going to tell him?”
“A version of the truth. You misconstrued Brad’s intentions and charged in to ‘rescue’ Madrigal.”
Don’t know if the old coot will believe that sorry tale. But if he wants to keep up appearances, he’ll act like he does. At least in public.
“Brad, my boy, why don’t we go into the house where you can catch your breath. Remember to smile on your way back. We don’t want a scandal.”
“Yes, sir.” With Mitch’s help, he stumbles in the direction of the manor house. Good riddance, I say.
“He wants to marry you for your money,” I tell Madrigal, who’s gazing after them.
“Why? His family has plenty.”
“No, they don’t. His father is almost bankrupt.”
Her chin jerks up. “How do you know?”
“Trust me. I do. I can provide proof if you want.”
She drops into the plush gazebo seat. No wonder. After all the drama, she must want to get off her feet. “Don’t worry. I’m not marrying him. But—” Glancing down, she picks at her nail polish. By now I know that’s a nervous habit of hers.
Squatting in front of her, I clasp her restless hands. “But what?”
“Gramps wants me to get engaged to Brad. His health is frail. I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t agree to the engagement.”
I grit my teeth. “You would consider marriage to that . . . ass to avoid a confrontation with your grandfather?”
“Of course not. But I would consider a temporary engagement until I get my hands on my trust in September. Problem is Brad’s insistent on a quick wedding. Before the end of summer.” She explains this offhandedly, like it’s no big deal.
I clench my fingers around hers. In her circle, an engagement is as good as a wedding. I’m not going to lose her, not now. “You’re not marrying him!”
Smiling as if nothing’s wrong, she whispers, “Of course I’m not, and stop yelling. I just need to come up with a plan.”
How did things go so wrong so fast? “His family’s financial situation must be worse than I thought. Doesn’t the bastard have a job?”
“Not a job, job. He volunteers with a conservative political action committee. He says it’s good for his political career.” She glances off into the distance. “He wants to run for a county council seat next year.”
“So he’s counting on your money to bankroll his campaign?”
She bites down on her lip. “I guess.”
“Do you know the terms of your trust?”
“All the money comes to me when I turn twenty-five, but if I marry before then, the money is divided equally between my husband and me. That means he would get twenty-five million dollars as long as we marry before September tenth.”
No wonder Pretty Boy is in such a hurry. “You won’t marry him before your twenty-fifth birthday. I’ll marry you myself before I allow that to happen.”
Those amazing pansy eyes of hers frost over, and the anger she’s been suppressing comes to the fore. “You son of a bitch. Last thing I want is to marry. You or Brad or anyone else. I’m fine on my own. Excuse me.” She stands.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to think things through.” She pokes me in the chest. “And don’t you dare follow me.” With that she trips down the steps and hurries toward the manor.
Out of nowhere, a waiter appears carrying a tray of Lil’ Smokies with toothpicks skewered through them. Having had nothing to eat since breakfast, I grab two, wolf them down. After he leaves, I pace back and forth, weighing my options. The wise thing to do is leave. Between the altercation with Dick Slayton and the fight with Pretty Boy, I’m bound to be the main topic of conversation. Thing is, I can’t. Not without making things right with Madrigal.
Having made that decision, I head in the direction she took. Halfway there, Mitchell blocks my way. “Where are you going?” He smiles when he asks the question. Anyone witnessing our exchange would think we’re having a friendly chat.
Keeping up the facade, I grin in return. “I need to talk to Madrigal.”
Tossing an arm over my shoulder, he throws back his head and laughs as if I’ve just made a joke. But then he grinds out, “No. You don’t. I found Holden and explained things to him. I think he believed me. So get the hell out of here before he decides to come looking for you.”
He’s right. I should leave. But at the moment I don’t give a fuck about what’s right.
CHAPTER 23
Madrigal
After leaving Steele, I make a beeline to my room. The only place in the house where I can be alone, have privacy. I pace back and forth while I weigh my options.
If Brad’s family is having money troubles as Steele claims—and why would he lie about something easily proved—that explains Brad’s need to marry me before my birthday. Brad would get his hands on half of my trust fund to deal with his family’s finances. That’s not my problem, though. No matter how much Gramps wants me to marry Brad, I’m not doing it. I’m not ready for marriage. To him or anyone else. But I can’t turn down Brad’s proposal either. Given the frail state of Gramps’s health, he might suffer a second heart attack if I refuse the engagement. God, what am I going to do?
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Steele! What is he doing outside my room? I fly to the door and swing it open. “You shouldn’t be here. Anyone could see.” I stick my head out and gaze up and down the hall. Thankfully no one is near. The staff is too busy catering to our guests.
He props his hands on the doorframe, and the female in me goes on alert. How does he make me ache for his touch when I’m so mad at him? “Let me in. We need to talk.”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I can’t leave him out there either. So I grab him by the shirt and pull him inside. “How did you know this was my room?”
He points to the window. “I saw you pacing.”
Aaargh. I pull the curtains, shutting us in, and turn back to him. Inviting Trenton into my bedroom is a bad idea. A really bad idea. If Gramps were to take it into his head to check on me, what a disaster that would be.
“You shouldn’t have come up here.”
“I didn’t want to leave with you angry at me.”
As big and masculine as he is, he fills up the space. And it occurs to me that I’ve never had a man in my room. Not in college, not in law school. And definitely not here. His sheer masculinity combined with that yummy scent of his makes me want to lick him from head to toe.
He’s glancing around the room, taking in every inch of my space. From the frilly cover on the bed and the girlie curtains on the window to the white desk only an adolescent could lay claim to, the whole thing clearly marks me as the teenager I once was. The only thing that doesn’t is the vintage mirror that sits in a corner of the room, the one I inherited from my mother.
“It’s nice.”
“No, it isn’t. It screams teen spirit, doesn’t it? The only thing missing is the poster on the wall from my favorite boy group.”
He’s fighting hard not to laugh. “Which boy band?”
“NSYNC, of course.”
His gaze bounces around the room, probably trying to picture just where I would have put that poster.
“Over the bed, okay?”
“Of course. Where else?” His lips finally give up the battle and curve in a smile.
And I’m right back to amusing him. After the headway I made, I thought it would stop. Guess not. “I was a loner. Focused on my studies and dealing with the pain of my mother’s death. I needed an escape.” Why am I defending myself?
“Of course you did, sweetheart.”
I fist my hands against my sides. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your sweetheart, or your sweet girl, or any other endearment, for that matter.”
For a second he studies me, probably trying to figure out how to put me in a better mood. But I’m up to his tricks. It’s not going to work this time.
“I’ve never been in a teenager’s room before,” he says. There’s a wistful tone to his voice.
Huh. Not the approach I thought he’d take. “Not even your own?”
“Last thing I had was a teenager’s room. No posters for me. Just the basics. Clothes, schoolbooks. I shared my bedroom with one of my foster brothers. He stashed weapons and drugs on his side.”
“God.” We really are from two different worlds.
“So this room of yours is a wonder to me. Everything here is white and innocent. Like you.”
“I’m not innocent. You should know.”
“It takes more than the loss of your virginity to sully someone. Like someone taking a cigarette to you because you didn’t move fast enough or breaking your arm because you didn’t get him what he wanted. Or someone killing your brother for speaking the truth. After that, you’re not innocent. You’re awakened to the darkness in the world.”
His litany of pain makes my temper tantrum seem silly now. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”
“I survived it. That’s what’s important.” Suddenly he drops on the bed and pulls me toward him.
Surprised by the move, I scramble for balance and end up straddling his legs to keep upright.
His hands knead my hips. “Wanna fool around?”
I sweep back the lock of hair that’s fallen forward across my face and glare at him. “Are you insane?”
Reaching up, he cups the back of my head and pulls me down to him. He gently nibbles my mouth, licks the seam between my lips. “We’ll only go for second base, I promise.” His voice’s gone husky, needy.
I give him the entrance he seeks, moan when his tongue tangles with mine. How could I have forgotten how amazingly good he is at this? “I like third base better,” I confess.
“If I get to third base, I won’t stop until I make it all the way home. And that, my darling Madrigal, we can’t do in a teenager’s room.” He strokes his thumb against my cheek. “Such soft skin you have.”
“Okay.” What can I say? I’m a pushover when it comes to him. Without a word of protest, I allow him to strip off my blouse because, who am I kidding, I love everything he does to me.
One-handed, he unsnaps my bra. Rather than toss it somewhere in the room, he lays it, nice and tidy, next to us on the bed. “I love your breasts.”
“They’re too big.”
His brow wrinkles. “Says who?”
“Me. Nothing fits.”
He cups my breasts with those big hands of his. “They fit me.”
He plays peekaboo with the fingers of his hand, and a nipple pops out. I fidget while he suckles it right through his fingers. He’s hard beneath me, against my crotch. And by now I know what he likes, how he likes to be touched, so I stroke his erection over his slacks.
He stops torturing me long enough to croak out a laugh. “Stop that, you witch.”
“What’s the matter? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it? Why am I the only one to be tortured? Two can play this game, you know.”
“Because sooner or later someone will come looking for you, and if they find me here, there’ll be hell to pay. I don’t care what happens to me. I can stand up to your grandfather. But you? Holden must keep believing his beautiful granddaughter is pure as undriven snow. And this time I
am
talking about your virginity.”
“I don’t care. And the door is locked.” Unzipping his slacks, I free him. He bobs hard and long and thick in my hand. He only gets one second’s warning before I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
“Madri—God Almighty—the mouth on you.”
I smile as I pleasure him. Taking my time, bobbing up and down his cock, sucking him in, playing with his balls.
He grunts when I squeeze him gently. When he grows large, I know his climax is near. Sure enough, within a few seconds his seed spurts in my mouth. I swallow as much as I can, but some of it spills onto him. I lick every last drop from the head of his cock. But before I have a chance to do the same to his skin, he grabs me under the arms and raises me until we’re face-to-face. “I do believe we’re going to third base after all.”
Such a pronouncement makes my heart sing. I love it when I get my way with him.
His mouth is right over my groin, and he’s pulling down my pants when a knock sounds on the door. “Madrigal, are you in there?”
“Shoot.” I scramble off the bed and grab my bra, glad he didn’t toss it somewhere in the room. “It’s Olivia. I have to open the door. She won’t go away unless I do.”
He’s already rising from the bed, zipping his pants, snapping on my bra.
“You have to hide.”
“Where?”
I point out the obvious. “The closet. Where else? And close the door.”
“Madrigal. Are you okay? I’m worried about you, honey.” Olivia’s knocks are louder, more insistent.
“Coming.”
“I believe I did just that.” He gives me a hard kiss before he disappears into the closet, closing the door behind him as told.
I rush to straighten the bed and slip the wrinkled mess of a blouse back on.
After one last look at the room to make sure everything looks okay, I open the door and let Olivia in.
“Are you all right? You disappeared from the picnic.” Her gaze bounces around the room as if she’s looking for something, trying to discover some secret.
I follow her gaze, and that’s when I notice Trenton’s loafers. He’d kicked them off when he plopped down on my bed. Hoping Olivia hasn’t noticed, I rush over and nudge them away.
Brushing my hand against my forehead, I act out the wilting flower routine. “I had a headache. Too much sun, I guess. So I thought I’d come up and lie down for a bit.”
“Did you take some aspirin?”
“Yes.”
She searches the room some more, hunting for clues. But everything’s as it should be. Except for his scent. That I can’t disguise. Damn, where’s that can of air freshener when you need one?
Breathing out a soft sigh, she sits on the bed next to me. “Sweetheart, be careful.” She knows. “Your grandfather would get very upset if he found out about your . . . friendship with Trenton Steele.”
Friendship? Well, that’s one way of putting it. I don’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “I will.”
Giving my arm a soft squeeze, she rises. “I’ll let your grandfather know you’re not feeling well. That will keep him from coming up here to check on you. But just in case he does, I suggest you take care of matters so he has nothing to find.”
“Thank you, Olivia.” I hug her and kiss her cheek. She’s always been such a great friend and mentor to me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Steele,” she says before walking out the door.
I throw the lock before running to the closet to spring Steele from his hidey-hole.
“She knew.”
“Yes.” I can’t help but giggle. “She’s aces at detection. I never could keep anything from her.” I change into a fresh blouse while he studies me with his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry we never got to third base.” He cups my chin, brushes his lips against mine. His beard stubble as always tickles my skin.
“Me too.” I lead the way to the door. “I better go with you. If we run into somebody, I’ll just act like I’m giving you the tour.”
His brows scrunch. “The tour?”
“Of the house. It’s a historic site. You didn’t know?”
“Yes, I knew. Not that Holden’s ever shared that information. He and I don’t exactly run in the same circles.”
Gramps is a snob who only hobnobs with individuals whose families can be traced back to colonial times. As far as Gramps is concerned, Trenton’s a member of the lower class, even if he is a partner in his firm. “You know how they all have those signs stating that George Washington slept here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he actually did. Sleep here, I mean. In Gramps’s bedroom. Well, what is now Gramps’s bedroom. Our family and his were great friends.”
“Figures.”
I can’t quite decipher the look on his face. But his frown tells me it’s nothing good. Just before we walk out the door, he pulls me to him and kisses me. “Just so you know, tonight I’m going to dream about all the things I’d like to do to you in this room.”
I shiver. “Bastard.”
“Witch.”
And that’s the last word he says before we step out into a life that no longer fits.