Loe raamatut: «The Billionaire's Bargain»

One

Delilah. Jezebel. Yoko. Monica.

According to past and recent history, they were all women who’d supposedly brought down a powerful man. Isobel Hughes silently snorted. Many of the people inside this North Shore mansion would include her name on that tarnished list.

Swallowing a sigh, she started up the stairs of the pillared mansion that wouldn’t be out of place in the French countryside. Sitting on acres of meticulously landscaped grounds, the structure screamed decadence and obscene wealth. And though only a couple of hours’ travel separated it from her tiny South Deering apartment, those minutes and miles might as well be years and states.

I can do this. I have no choice but to do this.

Quietly dragging in another deep breath, she paused as the tall, wide stained-glass doors opened to reveal an imposing gentleman dressed in black formal wear. His tuxedo might fit him perfectly, but Isobel didn’t mistake him for who, or what, he was: security.

Security to protect the rarefied elite of Chicago high society and keep the riffraff out of the Du Sable City Gala.

Nerves tumbled and jostled inside her stomach like exes battling it out. Because she was a member of the riffraff who would be booted out on her common ass if she were discovered.

Fixing a polite but aloof mask on her face, she placed the expected invitation into the guard’s outstretched hand as if it were a Golden Ticket. As he inspected the thick ivory paper with its gold engraved wording, she held her breath and resisted the urge to swipe her damp palms down the floor-length black gown she’d found at a consignment shop. Once upon a time, that invitation would’ve been authentic. But that had been when she’d been married to Gage Wells, golden child of the Wells family, one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest lineages. When she’d believed Gage had been her handsome prince, the man who loved her as much as she’d adored him. Before she’d realized her prince was worse than a frog—he was a snake with a forked tongue.

She briefly closed her eyes. The present needed all of her focus. And with Gage dead these past two years and her exiled from the social circle she’d never belonged in, the present required that she resort to deception. Her brother’s highly illegal skills were usually employed for forged IDs such as driver’s licenses, birth certificates and passports for the city’s more criminal element, not counterfeit invites to Chicago’s balls. But he’d come through, and as the security guard scanned the invitation and waved a hand in front of him, she whispered a thanks to her brother.

The music that had sounded subdued outside seemed to fill the space here. Whimsical notes of flutes and powerful, bright chords of violins reverberated off the white marble walls. Gold tiles graced the floor, ebbing out in the shape of a flowering lotus, and a huge crystal-and-gold chandelier suspended from the glass ceiling seemed to be a delicate waterfall over that bloom. Two sets of staircases with gilded, intricate railings curved away from the walls and ascended to the next level of the home.

And she was stalling. Ogling her surroundings only delayed the inevitable.

And the inevitable awaited her down the hall, where music and chatter and laughter drifted. All too soon, she approached the wide entrance to the ballroom, and the glass doors opened wide in invitation.

But instead of feeling welcomed, nausea roiled and shuddered in her belly.

You can still turn around and leave. It’s not too late.

The tiny whisper inside her head offered a lifeline she desperately wanted to grasp.

But then an image of her son wavered across her mind’s eye, invoking an overwhelming swell of love. The thought of Aiden never failed to grasp her heart and squeeze it. He was a gift—her gift. And she would do anything—suffer anything—for him.

Including seeking out her dead husband’s family and throwing her pride at the feet of the people who despised her. She’d committed the cardinal sins of being poor and falling for their golden child.

Well, she’d paid for that transgression. In spades.

Over the last couple of years, she’d reached out to her husband’s family through email and old-fashioned snail mail, sending them pictures of Aiden, offering updates. But every email bounced back, and every letter was returned to the sender. They hadn’t wanted anything to do with her or with the beautiful boy they considered her bastard.

She wanted nothing more than to forget their existence, just as they’d wiped hers out of their minds. But to keep a roof over Aiden’s head, to ensure he didn’t have to shiver in the increasingly chilly October nights or go to sleep hungry as she debated which overdue bill to pay, she would risk the wrath and derision of the Wells family.

The mental picture of her baby when she’d left him tonight—safe and happy with her mom—extinguished her flare of panic. Because it wouldn’t do to enter these doors scared. The guests in this home would sense that weakness. And like sharks with bloody chum, they would circle and attack. Devour.

Inhaling yet another deep breath, she moved forward. Armored herself with pride. Ready to do battle.

Because she could never forget. This was indeed a battle.

One she couldn’t afford to lose.

* * *

Hell no. It can’t be.

Darius King tightened his fingers on the champagne flute in his hand, the fragile stem in danger of snapping.

Shock and disbelief blasted him like the frigid winds of a Chicago winter storm, freezing him in place. Motionless, he stared at the petite brunette across the ballroom as she smiled at a waiter and accepted her own glass of wine. Though he’d only met her a couple of times, he recognized that smile. Remembered the shyness in it. Remembered the lush, sensual curve of the mouth that belied that hint of coy innocence.

Isobel fucking Hughes.

Not Wells. He refused to honor her with the last name she’d schemed and lied to win, then defiled for the two years she’d been married to his best friend. She didn’t deserve to wear that name. Never had.

Rage roared through him, incinerating the astonishment that had paralyzed him. Only fury remained. Fury at her gall. Fury at the bold audacity it required to walk into this mansion as if she belonged here. As if she hadn’t destroyed a man and dragged his grieving, ravaged family to the very brink of destruction.

“Oh, my God.” Beside him, Gabriella Wells gasped, her fingers curling around his biceps and digging deep. “Is that...”

“Yes,” Darius growled, unable to soften his tone for Gage’s sister, whom he cared for as if she were his own sibling. “It’s her.”

“What is she doing here?” Gabriella snarled, the same anger that had gripped him darkening her lovely features. “How did she even manage to get in?”

“I have no idea.”

But he’d find out. And asses would be kicked when he did. The security here was supposed to be tighter than that of the goddamn royal family’s, considering the people in attendance: politicians, philanthropists, celebrities, the country’s wealthiest business people. Yet evidence that the security team wasn’t worth shit stood in this very room, sipping champagne.

“How could she dare show her face here? Hell, in Chicago?” Gabriella snapped. “I thought we were rid of her when she left for California. No doubt whatever sucker she attached herself to finally got tired of her and kicked the gold-digging bitch out. And she’s probably here to suck Dad and Mother dry. I swear to God...” She didn’t finish the thought, but charged forward, her intentions clear.

“No.” He encircled her arm, his hold gentle but firm. Gabriella halted, shooting him a let-me-go-now-dammit glance over her shoulder. Fire lit the emerald gaze that reminded him so much of Gage’s. At twenty-four, she was six years younger than her older brother, and had adored him. And though she’d been in college, studying abroad for most of her brother’s marriage, tales of her sister-in-law had reached her all the way in England, and Gabriella despised the woman who’d hurt Gage so badly.

Darius shook his head in reply to her unspoken demand of freedom. “No,” he repeated. “We’re not causing a scene. And running over there and confronting her will do just that. Think of your parents, Gabriella,” he murmured.

The anger didn’t bleed from her expression at the reminder, but concern banked the flames in her eyes to a simmer, and the thin, grim line of her mouth softened. Neither of them needed to voice the worry that Darius harbored. Gabriella and Gage’s father, Baron Wells, had suffered a heart attack the previous year. Nothing could convince Darius that it hadn’t been grief over his son’s death in a sudden car accident that had precipitated the attack, added to long work hours, poor eating habits and a lax exercise regimen.

The last several months had finally seen the return of the imposing, dignified man Darius had known and admired all of his life. Still, a sense of fragility stubbornly clung to Baron. A fragility Darius feared could escalate into something more threatening if Baron glimpsed his dead son’s widow.

“I’ll go and find security so they can escort her out,” he said, the calm in his voice a mockery of the rage damn near consuming him. “You can locate your parents to make sure they don’t realize what’s going on.”

Yes, he’d have Isobel Hughes thrown out, but not before he had a few words with her. The deceitful, traitorous woman should’ve counted herself lucky that he hadn’t come after her when she’d skipped town two years ago. But with the Wells family shattered over their son and brother’s death, they’d been his first priority. And as long as Isobel had remained gone, they didn’t have to suffer a daily reminder of the woman who’d destroyed Gage with her manipulations and faithlessness. In spite of the need to mete out his own brand of justice, Darius had allowed her to disappear with the baby the Wells family doubted was their grandson and nephew. But now...

Now she’d reappeared, and all bets were off.

She’d thrown down the gauntlet, and fuck if he wouldn’t enjoy snatching it up.

“Okay,” Gabriella agreed, enclosing his hand in hers and squeezing. “Darius,” she whispered. He tore his attention away from Isobel and transferred it to Gabriella. “Thank you for...” She swallowed. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“No need for any of that,” he replied, brushing a kiss over the top of her black curls. “Family. We always take care of one another.”

She nodded, then turned and disappeared into the throng of people.

Anticipation hummed beneath his skin as he moved forward. Several people slowed his progress for meaningless chatter, but he didn’t deter from his path. He tracked her, noting that she’d moved from just in side the entrance to one of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to a balcony. Good. The only exit led out onto that balcony, and the temperature of the October night had probably dropped even more since he’d arrived. She wouldn’t venture through those doors and into the cold. He had a location to give security.

It was unfair that a woman who possessed zero morals and conscience should exhibit none of it on her face or her body. But then, if her smooth, golden skin or slender-but-curvaceous body did reveal any of her true self, she wouldn’t be able to snare men in her silken web.

Long, thick, dark brown hair that gleamed with hints of auburn fire under the chandelier’s light flowed over one slim shoulder and a just-less-than-a-handful breast. Dispassionately, he scanned her petite frame. The strapless, floor-length black gown clung to her, lifting her full curves so a hint of shadowed cleavage teased, promised. A waist that a man—not him—could span with his hands flowed into rounded hips and a tight, worship-worthy ass that he didn’t need to see to remember. Even when he’d first met her—as the only witness and friend at her and Gage’s quickie courthouse marriage—it’d amazed him how such a small woman could possess curves so dangerous they should come with a blaring warning sign. Back then he’d appreciated her curves. Now he despised them for what they truly were—an enticing lure to trap unsuspecting game.

Dragging his inspection up the siren call of her body, he took in the delicate bones that provided the structure for an almost elfin face. One of his guilty pleasures was fantasy novels and movies. Tolkien, Martin, Rowling, King. And he could easily imagine Arwen, half-Elven daughter of King Elrond in The Lord of the Rings, resembling Isobel. Beautiful. Ethereal. Though he couldn’t catch the color of her eyes from this distance, he clearly recalled their striking color. A vivid and startling blue-gray that only enhanced the impression of otherworldly fragility. But then there was her mouth. It splintered her air of innocence. The shade-too-wide lips with their full, plump curves called to mind ragged, hoarse groans in the darkest part of night. Yeah, those lips could cause a man’s cock to throb.

He ground his teeth together, the minute flare of pain along his jaw grounding him. It didn’t ease the stab of guilt over the sudden, unexpected clench of lust in his gut. He could hate himself for that gut-punch of desire. Didn’t he, more than anyone, know that a pretty face could hide the black, empty hole where a heart should be? Could conceal the blackest of souls? His own ex-wife had taught him that lesson, and he’d received straight fucking A’s. Yeah, his dick might be slow on the uptake, but his head—the one that ruled him, contrary to popular opinion about men—possessed full disclosure and was fully aware.

Isobel Hughes was one of those pretty faces.

As if she’d overheard her name in his head, Isobel lifted her chin and surveyed the crowded ballroom. Probably searching for Baron and Helena. If she thought he’d allow her within breathing space of Gage’s parents, she’d obviously been smoking too much of that legalized California weed. He’d do anything to protect them; he’d failed to protect Gage, and that knowledge gnawed at him, an open wound that hadn’t healed in two years. No way in hell would this woman have another shot at the people he loved. At his family.

The thought propelled him forward. Time to end this and escort her back to whatever hole she’d crawled out of.

Clenching his jaw, he worked his way to the ballroom entrance. Several minutes later, he waited in one of the side hallways for the head of security. Glancing down at his watch, he frowned. The man should’ve arrived already...

Darkness.

Utter darkness.

Dimly, Darius caught the sound of startled cries and shouts, but the deafening pounding of his heart muted most of the fearful noise.

He stumbled backward, and his spine smacked the wall behind him. Barely able to draw a breath into his constricted lungs, he frantically patted his jacket and then his pants pockets for his cell phone. Nothing. Damn. He must’ve left it in the car. He never left his phone. Never...

The thick blackness surrounded him. Squeezed him so that he jerked at his bow tie, clawing at material that seconds ago had been perfectly comfortable.

Air.

He needed air.

But all he inhaled, all he swallowed, was more of the obsidian viscosity that clogged his nostrils, throat and chest.

In the space of seconds, his worst, most brutal nightmare had come to life.

He was trapped in the dark.

Alone.

And he was drowning in it.