Page 50 of Wicked Heat

“My mother,” he says quickly. “I meant that I know how my grandfather destroyed her. Oh, Bree, no. What did you think I meant?”

I shake my head, feeling like an idiot, because of course I’d leapt to my kidnapping.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Maggie. She put me on edge. It wasn’t about you. Really.”

That’s not entirely a lie. And I do feel ashamed. We’d been having a perfectly civil conversation, and one wrong word and my fight or flight instinct sprang into play. Because apparently, I’m the only person in the world that bad shit has happened to.

Except I know that’s not true. Not by a long shot. I know more about Ashton Stone than I probably should, simply because I was there when he first showed up at the Stark home.

I know about Sofia, Ash’s mother and Damien’s lifelong friend. She and Damien had both been mentally and physically abused by Sofia’s father, Merle Richter. So much so that Damien and Sofia had been forced together sexually when they were only children, barely into puberty. And when Sofia became pregnant, she’d been taken away to live with Abigail, Richter’s half-sister and Ash’s great-aunt, while Damien—oblivious to Sofia’s plight—traveled the world and rose as a tennis star with Sofia’s father as his coach.

Already mentally fragile, young Sofia hadn’t understood what was happening to her body, and when she’d had the baby, her mind had snapped. Growing up, Ash barely knew her. Technically, she lived in Abigail’s house, but she was rarely in residence. Instead, she spent most of her life in an institution. Instead of a mother, Ash was raised by Abigail, a cold woman who’d fed him lies and half-truths and insinuated that the way he’d been conceived made him the devil’s spawn. As for a father figure, Ash hadn’t had one. His grandfather spent most of his time on the road coaching Damien until he died from a fall when Ash was still tiny. As for Damien, until recently, he hadn’t even known Ash existed.

I can’t even imagine all the trauma that Ash experienced in a household like that, essentially alone with a woman like Abigail whispering in his ear.

Ash isn’t perfect—I know that. But I also know that he’s strong. Probably stronger than he believes. And a bit messed up, though probably less than he should be. However you slice it, he’s broken.

So am I. But Ash grew up that way. He knows how to hide the cracks. I’m still learning where my fissures are, and what will make me shatter.

“I really am sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you had anything to do with what happened to me.”

I feel like a complete shit. And where before I was grateful that he’d come with me to meet Maggie, now I wish I was alone so I wouldn’t feel so small and stupid that I could easily crawl under the nearest rock.

“It was just a knee-jerk⁠—”

“—reaction. Yeah. I get that, too.” He steps closer, then brushes his fingertips over my cheeks, an intimate gesture I’m not expecting, but which washes over me like sunshine.

I’m afraid I might like it a little too much.

“I would never hurt you or Anne,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

I want to tell him that I do. Instead, I say, “You wanted to destroy Damien.”

His shoulders drop, and he nods. “I did. I really fucking did.” He glances around the parking lot, then uses his fob to unlock the Mercedes. “Listen, I don’t want to leave this hanging, but I need to hit the road soon, and I still haven’t packed. Come with me and we can keep talking? I can drop you back here for your car later.”

I swallow, strangely hesitant to be alone with him. And not because I think that he’ll hurt me. Quite the opposite. Because despite still being wary, there’s something about Ashton Stone that pushes all my buttons… and in all the right order.

But it’s not my buttons that have me saying yes. It’s the fact that I still haven’t asked him for the money. And the clock is ticking down.

“Well, that wasn’t what I expected,” I say when Ash pulls the Mercedes under the portico at the front of the Starks’ Malibu house.

He turns to me, his brow lifted in question.

“You have a reputation, my friend. And I think you drove here slower than my cousin who lives in Manhattan and doesn’t actually know how to drive.”

He looks me slowly up and down. “A woman with a need for speed. I’ll keep that in mind.”

I roll my eyes, fighting an amused smile. Not to mention a tiny little bud of lust, so small and fragile it could wither and die… or bloom and thrive. I want the latter. But I also know better than to go there. I’m fine with fantasy. I don’t do so well with reality.

We follow the paved walkway around the house to the manicured backyard that includes a pool, a huge patio, and the guest house where I used to live. There’s also a stunning view of the beach, a tennis court, and a small bungalow just off the water.

Just your average home for your average billionaire.

Despite being huge, the house is actually pretty cozy. The truth is that I’ve always loved this place. And even though I adore my fixer-upper, I can’t deny that living in Malibu with a beach outside my door is something I definitely miss. Which is probably why I gasp with delight when we head straight across the patio to my former digs.

“You’re staying here now?” I ask as we step inside the guest house.

“Just for this trip.” He turns to look at me before opening a satchel and filling it with a laptop and the papers that cover the kitchen table. “I go to sleep every night thinking of you.”