Caged (Mastered, #4)(126)

“It ain’t home to me, and it never will be.”

She reached for his hand on the console. “So we’re both without a place to call home.”

Deacon started to say something but changed his mind. Instead he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.

She waited until Deacon came around to help her out of the car. He kept his left hand around the back of her neck—an obvious sign of propriety, but the heavy weight of his hand reassured her.

After he rang the doorbell, she tensed up. He pressed his lips to her temple. “Babe, gotta remember to breathe. Only time I want you breathless is when I touch you.”

The door swung inward, cutting off her retort.

Molly half expected a tuxedoed butler. But the man in the doorway wore gray trousers, a gray and white pin-striped shirt, and a big smile. Molly noticed a resemblance between him and Deacon, but the man foiled her scrutiny by forcing a hug on Deacon.

“Son. Good to have you here.”

No positive response from Deacon.

He disentangled himself and brought Molly forward. “Dad, this is Molly Calloway. Molly, my father, Bing Westerman.”

Molly offered her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westerman.”

“Call me Bing. Please.” He clasped Molly’s hand in both of his and held on. He studied her more intently than she’d anticipated, and she found herself leaning away, into Deacon. Bing caught himself and retreated. “Come in. Everyone has gathered in the lounge before dinner.”

Of course this house had a lounge. Probably the butler did double duty as the bartender.

Molly didn’t have time to check out the foyer beyond seeing the marble floor beneath her feet, the enormous sparkling chandelier above her head, and the two grand staircases that curved up to the second story. Her initial impression? This kind of wealth meant never stepping foot in IKEA.


Bing led them into a room straight out of an English manor—a wood-paneled, thickly carpeted lounging area where men played billiards, smoked cigars, and swilled expensive spirits while plotting to run the world.

“Stay by me,” Deacon murmured.

They stopped in front of a hand-carved, L-shaped bar with club chairs on one side and a brass foot railing down the other side. Bing stepped behind the partition. Looked like he was the butler and the bartender. “What would you like to drink, Molly?”

“She’ll have the same as me. Jameson Select on the rocks with a splash of soda.”

Molly thought it best not to correct Deacon and ask for rum and Diet Coke.

When Bing smiled and turned away to fix their drinks, Deacon put his mouth to her ear. “Dad is a shitty bartender. Makes drinks three times stronger than they should be. The Jameson is high-end, so he’ll be stingy with it—trust me.”

“But I’m not a whiskey drinker.”

“Good. Then there’s no chance you’ll get hammered and my family will take advantage.”

“They’d do that?”

“In a f*cking heartbeat, babe.” He kissed the hollow below her earlobe. “They’re cut from the same cloth as your cousins.”

A more expensive cut of cloth to be sure, she thought tartly.

“Deacon, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

A command cloaked in a honeyed drawl was still a command.

Deacon didn’t turn around, and Molly didn’t see a smile on his lips or in his eyes. “I figured introductions could wait until we had our drinks.”

“Very well. I’m pleased you retained something from the etiquette classes I sent you to.”

Wow. He’d just blown off his mother.

Conversation buzzed in the room, but Molly kept her focus on Bing, as he used an industrial soda dispenser to add bubbles to the amber liquid in the crystal glasses.

“Here you are.” Bing popped a tiny blue straw in each glass.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Need me to run interference with your mother?”

“No. I can handle her.”

“I wasn’t worried about you, son.”

Molly sipped her drink and wished she could’ve slammed the entire thing when she finally noticed the people openly gawking at her.

Deacon draped his arm over her shoulder. They made their way toward a rail-thin brunette with big Texas hair, who was stylishly dressed in a pantsuit the soft hue of pink champagne. “Molly, meet my mother, Julianne.”

Molly thrust out her hand. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Mrs. Westerman.”

Her pale blue eyes, as frosty as her son’s, inspected Molly head to toe. The woman didn’t look a day over forty. She briefly took Molly’s hand. Then her gaze moved to Deacon. “Will you make introductions, or shall I?”

With his drink, Deacon gestured to the blond woman next to his mother. “I’ll do it. Molly, this is my aunt Annabelle Wick—Julianne’s sister—and her husband, Derek.”

Derek offered his hand and muttered, “Our son, Warren.” Then he gestured to a gangly teen sprawled in a cozy seating area, who didn’t look up from his cell phone to acknowledge either of them.

Deacon pointed to the next couple. “This is my uncle Clark Westerman and his wife, my aunt Sissy—they’re Tag’s parents.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Sissy said.