“My mother was a single parent who worked her fingers to the bone to provide for her son. Because she loved me. She died still working and doing what I’d witnessed her do all my life—sacrifice so I could go further, do more, be better. She was the best person I’ve ever known. Did she believe she’d hit the jackpot with Barron? I don’t know, since she never told me who he was and to my knowledge never received a check from him. Would she have liked to live like this?” He mimicked Laurence’s earlier gesture and waved a hand toward the lavish room.
Meeting Cherise’s and then Laurence’s gazes, he compared them to parasites. Insects feeding on the labor, the sweat, the dignity of those they considered beneath them. Getting bloated until there was nothing left, and then preening as if they hadn’t left destruction and carcasses in their wake.
“Possibly. Probably,” Achilles continued. “But there’s another difference between you and my mother. She didn’t understand generational wealth or privilege. She didn’t comprehend reaping the benefits of someone else’s hard work simply because of the coincidence of birth and DNA. She believed in the efforts of her own hands and the satisfaction that comes from a hard day’s work. So yes, maybe she might have enjoyed your beautiful home and your seven-course dinner—because she always loved great food—but I don’t know if she would’ve stayed long in your world. She wouldn’t have been content with being kept.”
A silence so deafening rang in the room, it assaulted his ears. No one moved. Not even the servers, who stood behind the guests, their carafes of coffee frozen aloft in their hands. The stone of the mountains around his home possessed softer facades than Laurence’s and Cherise’s faces. That same flint hardened their eyes and Achilles didn’t flinch from it. No, they’d sought to humiliate him, to tear down his mother in front of their guests. Undoubtedly, he’d made enemies of the Hills tonight, but he couldn’t find a single fuck to give.
“We’re ready for coffee, please.” Cherise nodded to her staff, dismissing Achilles.
Or pretending to. The angry, stiff set of her shoulders contradicted her attempt to resume normal dinner conversation.
Everything in him demanded that he abandon this house and this farce of a party. He wasn’t wanted, had never been anything but the planned entertainment, like a tragic circus clown. But pride kept his ass in the chair. Damn if they would run him from the table. He would stuff down the rest of this tasteless mousse and pretend just like them. Pretend that he belonged. Pretend that his skin didn’t itch with the need to tear this suit off like the costume it was.
Pretend that all eyes weren’t on him, watching, waiting...judging.
“Achilles.” Mycah laid a hand on his thigh under the table, and the muscle bunched so tight, it ached. “I’m sorry.”
She was part of this world. Belonged here. And yet, dark heat radiated from under her palm. He hated his body in this moment. Detested that it responded even when his heart, his head wanted nothing to do with this place—with her.
“Let it go,” he ordered, shifting away, dislodging her touch.
He didn’t need her apology. Or her pity.
After another excruciating twenty minutes, he finally stood from the dinner table and escaped into the drawing room with everyone else. But he didn’t stay. He’d done his penance for the evening.
Past caring what the Hills or other members of Boston society thought about him, he slipped into his coat in the foyer, not bothering to wish his hosts good-night. They could forgive him or not. Most likely not.
Again. Didn’t give a damn.
And as he strode out into the January night, preferring to wait out on the curb in the frigid winter cold for Dave rather than spend another second inside that mausoleum of a house, he swore that would be the last time.
The last time he returned to this house.
And the last time he gave a damn.
Nine
Anger was a wonderful motivator. Shame a close second.
Enough of a motivator to walk out on the rest of her parents’ dinner party, bear the brunt of their outrage, brave the freezing January night and the judgy eyes of this security guard.
Wasn’t the security for multimillion-dollar buildings supposed to be of the see-nothing, hear-nothing variety? After hesitating too long, he picked up the phone and punched in numbers on the keypad.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night, Mr. Farrell, but this is John Ward at the security desk. There is a young lady here asking to see you. A Mycah Hill.” He paused, suspiciously eyeing Mycah as he nodded, listening to whatever Achilles said on the other end. “Right. I’ll send her up, then. Thank you, sir.” The guard hung up. “If you’ll just enter your information here and sign in.”
Mr. Ward slid a black registration book toward her and flipped it open to a clean sheet, setting a pen on top. Moments later, she followed him to a bank of elevators. He slid in a key card to a private car off to the side and a pair of doors opened. Stepping forward, he pressed a button, and shifted aside, motioning for her to go inside.
“This will take you to the penthouse. Good night, Ms. Hill.”
With that, the doors closed, and she rode thirty-two floors. In seconds, the doors opened once more, and she came face-to-face with Achilles.
It’d been less than an hour, but it might as well have been days. The impact of him slammed into her like a cudgel to the chest. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie, but the ice-blue shirt remained, and the black vest hung open over his massive chest, and the slim-fitting pants clung to his hips and powerful thighs. The hem broke over his bare feet.
God.
Why did the sight of his bare feet reverberate through her like two cymbals crashing together? Maybe because it reminded her of the man and the intensity, the raw strength barely leashed beneath the civility of the suit?
Maybe. Did it matter when her nipples tightened under the cups of her corset top and her sex swelled and dampened beneath her skirt? When her belly tightened, as if in hunger, but not for the dinner her parents had served nearly an hour earlier. Only the man in front of her could sate her.
