Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Satisfaction traces the lines of his handsome face, and I reach over and trail fingers down his jaw. He catches my hand and kisses it. “I’ll get you something.”
I catch his arm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He strokes my hair, his hand lingering before falling away. “Nothing is wrong.”
“I know you,” I whisper. “I know what I felt when you pulled me into this bedroom.”
“You need a towel, baby. Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.” He removes my hand from his arm, rounds the bed to cross my direction, and disappears into the bathroom.
He’s avoiding this topic and using sex to shut me up. Good sex, great sex, but still, he used it to shut me up.
I grab the box of tissues, clean up, and then follow him. I all but run smack into him at the door, him exiting and me entering. He captures my arms, a towel in one hand. I grab it and toss it. “I took care of it. And I know whatever you’re holding back is you taking care of me. But don’t do that. If we’re in this together, we’re in this together.”
“Of course, we’re in this together, baby.”
“Then what are you avoiding?”
“Not avoiding. Just delaying. I wanted some time together. I wanted it untainted by all this bullshit.”
“Talk to me.”
“If you want to talk, we both need clothes. You’re especially distracting while naked.” He releases me and snags my silk robe from behind the door, pulling it around me.
I slip my arms inside, and he pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, our attire suggesting we might go back to bed. Just—not yet.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Alana
“I could use one of those pastries,” Damion suggests.
It feels like another intentional delay, but I let it ride, allowing him to capture my hand and lead me to the kitchen. I brew fresh coffee while he inhales a croissant. I suppose early meetings and sex have made him hungry. “I thought you had to run by the office,” I say, setting a cup in front of him with one in my hand as well, as I claim the stool next to his.
“My meeting ended early, and there were developments I wanted to consider before seeing my father or any member of the board.” He sips his coffee and then rotates to face me. “I don’t think you need to do that interview this afternoon. You already set the right things in motion.”
“Meaning what?”
“Max called me. Your interview has the board up in arms. They’re worried. The board has decided one of the two of us, me or my father, has to go. The vote on which one of us is tomorrow morning.”
“Why is this even a question? They signed voting agreements with you.”
“I don’t think it is. That’s my point. My father is out. He’s going to be a bull in a china shop, and I don’t want attention on you again. Let his wrath lash out at me and me only.”
“First, lashing out at you means lashing out at me, no matter what. We’ve seen this to be true. I think you need me to do that interview, Damion. The board members need to know I will keep your father in the spotlight.”
He scrubs his jaw and turns away from me, torment rippling along the tension in his neck. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s necessary.”
He rotates back to me. “It’s not necessary. They don’t want an accused killer running the company. I told them you’re pressing this with the police. And you should. The car accident happened across state lines. Walker has ties to the FBI. Let’s get some real agents to look into it.”
“I’m all for that.”
“I’m going to ask Max to meet me this afternoon and seal the vote in the morning. I want you to go to the Hamptons, and I’ll meet you there after the vote.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not going without you.”
“And, of course, I knew you were going to say that, Alana.” His hands come down on my shoulders. “I need you to do this. I need to know you’re safe.”
“When will I be safe if he’s not in jail or dead? And no, that’s not an invitation to kill him. But come on, Damion. He’s going to lash out, just like he did when I went on that show.”
His hands fall from my shoulders, and his expression is set with stubbornness. “And we don’t have an answer prepared, which is exactly why I need you to go to the Hamptons.”
“He knows you have a place in the Hamptons, Damion,” I argue.
“He doesn’t know. I bought it years ago while I was home for a month from Europe and visited a friend who had a place there. I knew I’d eventually come back to the States. It was completely spontaneous because I love the place, and I looked at it as both a retreat and an escape. And until a month ago, I had tenants renting it.”