The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(14)

I try to pull away but he draws me forward instead, wrapping his arms around me. I mumble into his chest, “I think I’d like to die right now…”

To my utter shock, he chuckles. “I made my own bed, Candace. I know you wouldn’t have slept with him if I hadn’t fucked up royally on Friday.”

He’s right—I may be a serial dater, but I’ve never cheated on anyone.

I mumble, “Are you going for Best Boyfriend of the Year or something?”

He leans back fast, grinning broadly. “Boyfriend?”

I fight a sudden feeling that I’m sinking into quicksand. Tell him no. Take it back. But instead, I look into his eyes and say, “If that’s what you want.”

“Definitely,” he says quickly, and kisses me hard. Hard enough that my skin hums and my toes curl. It’s not Sebastian’s barely leashed aggression, but it isn’t unpleasant. Not by a long shot. I make a little noise of enjoyment as his fingers sink into my ass, pulling me roughly against him.

Robert murmurs against my lips, “Interesting.”

“Huh?”

He just shakes his head and kisses me again. Even harder this time, his teeth scraping against mine, his tongue forcefully penetrating. Hard arms lock around me, pulling me into his chest. One hand fists in my hair and I whimper.

“And here I thought you wanted me gentle,” he whispers.

Ah, that’s what he meant. On the heels of that thought is another: Interesting.



When the doorbell rings, Robert stands immediately from the couch. I’d told him that Sebastian was coming over with a check for one of my charities. I don’t say anything at his presumption, just watch him stride to the door and open it. I barely resist covering my face with a throw pillow. Instead, I stare out the dark windows, imagining the rush and pull of waves on the nearby beach.

I hear Sebastian’s angry voice, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

And Robert’s calm response, “We’ve worked things out. Move on.”

“Candace!” shouts Sebastian. “I know you’re in there. Talk to me! Don’t do this!”

The words make me angry. So fucking angry that I leap from the couch and stalk to the front door. Robert glances back worriedly as I approach, but when he sees my expression he simply pushes the door open wider.

“Get lost, Bast,” I snarl. “Last night was a huge mistake. I have no idea why, but Robert has seen it in his heart to forgive me.”

Midnight eyes blaze with rage, so much that I step back into Robert’s chest. Sebastian growls, “There’s nothing to forgive. We didn’t do anything wrong last night. It was right. So fucking right. Why can’t you admit that?”

“Because I don’t want you!” I yell. More horrible words roll onto my tongue—I clench my teeth against them. I don’t want to hurt Sebastian. Not really. I just want the years of longing and addiction to end. I want to move forward.

“You’re serious,” he croaks.

The rawness in his face and tone causes my heart to jackknife. The look in his eyes… No, it can’t be. And then it’s gone, his mask slamming into place.

His gaze fixes on Robert. I flinch, expecting the worst, but he says, “If you hurt her, I’ll grind you to dust.” With a flick of his wrist, a check flutters to the ground, then he turns and strides away.

Robert and I stand silently together until the roar of his motorcycle fades. At length, he says in a strained voice, “I take it you two have a history beyond last night?”

Stiffening, I look up at him. “Yes. Rob, I understand if—”

“Not a fucking chance,” he says, and grabs me around the waist, lifting me up and carrying me back inside.





10





My mother taught high school English until I was thirteen. Not at the private academy her four children attended, but at a public school in Boston. She loved her job so much she kept it despite the insignificance of her salary and the repeated urgings of her husband to retire. When she finally gave in, it wasn't to bask in the lifestyle near-unlimited wealth could provide, but to devote her life to philanthropy.

My father, Benedict Hughes, is the only child of an only child. The trend actually spans back to the early nineteen hundreds to Roy Hughes, who made the family’s first serious green tapping oil on his land in East Texas.

Roy’s son, and his son after, all the way down to my own father, were each extraordinarily successful in business. Risk-takers with the Midas touch. But none before my father had borne more than one child, and never a daughter.

Not the least among the reasons my father worshipped the ground my mother walked on was her role in giving him four children. Breaking the one-son cycle. It wasn’t until we began reaching talking-and-walking years that my poor father realized the blessings of multiple children came with an equal number of trials.

Deacon came first, then Alex a year and a half after. I showed up four years later, a shock compounded by Charles’ arrival two years after that. By then, Deacon and Alex were unholy terrors and I was firmly in the Terrible Twos. Within a month of Charles’ birth, my father underwent a vasectomy.

When I was six years old, I overheard him telling my mother that he finally understood why God only gave the Hughes men one child. “So they stay sane.” My mother had laughed in that soft, intimate way she only did for him, and I’d snuck away from their bedroom door without knocking.