Page 14 of Branded

I move aside, giving her space to exit first.

Three thousand square feet of space is spread out before us. Floor-to-ceiling windows that currently show nothing but darkness and the Pacific Ocean beyond, waves invisible but present in the constant sound of surf, audible even from up here. The lighting is low; I prefer it that way, giving everything a soft, intimate glow. Recessed lights highlight the custom furniture, the art on the walls and the sleek kitchen island made of Italian marble.

Lennox stops just inside and kicks off the heels she’s wearing, her now bare feet silent on the polished hardwood. She takes it all in slowly, the living area with its leather sectional, the workspace with three monitors still glowing from when I checked resort occupancy numbers that afternoon, and beyond that, visible through an open doorway, my bedroom.

“This is where you live?” she asks.

“When I’m in Monterey Cove. I have properties in San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego. You’ll see them all eventually.” I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over a chair, then work the buttons of my cufflinks free. The small metallic clicks seem loud in the quiet space. “But tonight, we’re here.”

She doesn’t move from her spot near the elevator. I can see her shoulders rising and falling with each breath and can practically hear her calculating. The elevator is right there. One button press and she can escape to the lobby, run out into the Monterey Cove night.

“Don’t,” I say quietly.

“Don’t what?” But her hand drifts toward the elevator panel.

“Don’t try to run. You signed the papers, Lennox. You’re my wife.” I roll up my sleeves slowly, methodically, watching her watch me. “Running would be a very poor way to start our marriage.”

“This isn’t a marriage.” She turns to face me fully, and those eyes are now electric blue like the hottest center of a flame. Anger replacing resignation. “This is ownership. You bought me.”

“I paid off debts. They might not have been yours, but they’re taken care of nonetheless.” I close the distance between us slowly, deliberately, with each footstep. Her eyes track my movement like a small animal watching a predator approach. “For two million dollars. Do you know what that makes you?”

I stop directly in front of her, close enough that the silk of her robe brushes against my shirt.

“A whore?”

“The only woman I’ll ever call my wife.” I reach up and trail one finger down the center of her chest, from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, stopping at her sternum where I can feel her heart hammering. “And worth every fucking penny.”

Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly before she bites the corner of her mouth and her gaze travels down my body. As if she’s realized what she’s done, her eyes snap back up to mine and I’m pleased to see lust. I don’t need love, but I want this woman to want me.

“I need a drink,” she says, her voice rough, breathy almost, breaking the intensity between us.

“Wine? I have an excellent pinot noir⁠—”

“Whiskey.” She cuts me off, her eyes not leaving mine. “Wine isn’t nearly strong enough to deal with you.”

I laugh, the sound genuine and surprising. Even scared and trapped, she is in control. “Whiskey it is.”

I go to the bar, custom walnut cabinetry, stocked with enough bottles of liquor that would make most bars envious. I have something for everyone that might come through this suite. Tonight is calling for something special; it isn’t every day I bring home a wife. I select the signature run of Devil’s Ridge whiskey. The exclusive vintage that in certain circles is whispered about and coveted. The crystal tumblers are heavy, expensive, the kind that makes each pour feel significant. Two fingers in each glass. Neat.

She takes the glass from me with a trembling hand, the first real sign of nerves I’ve seen, and downs half of it in one gulp. Her throat works as she swallows, barely flinching at the burn. The alcohol leaves a sheen on her lips that catches the light.

Good whiskey deserves to be savored, but I understand the impulse. Liquid courage before the inevitable.

“How long have you been doing this?” she asks, gesturing vaguely with her glass. Some of the amber liquid sloshes against the crystal. “The auctions.”

“They’ve been happening for five generations.” I take a slow sip of my drink, letting it sit on my tongue before swallowing. “Tonight is the first time I’ve ever considered participating.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise breaking through the careful control. “You’ve never bought a woman before?”

“Never wanted to.” I set my glass down on the side table with a soft clink, then reach for hers. She lets me take it, her fingers brushing mine as I pull it away. I place it beside mine. “But you were different.”

“Because I come from money?” Her tone is bitter, defensive. She wraps her arms around herself again, the robe pulling tight across her shoulders.

“I didn’t know who you were before we got to the office, so the fact you have money meant nothing to me. I wanted you because you didn’t break.” I reach for the belt of her robe, my fingers finding the silk knot. “Because you stood up there in front of all those men and refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you scared. Now I know you sacrificed yourself for someone you care about, which is even more intriguing.”

She grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. Calluses on her palm scrape against my skin. “I need a minute.”

I look down at her hand on my wrist, smaller than mine, but strong. Ranch work had built calluses, made her hands strong, and even after being in California, she hasn’t been able to shake her past. Her nails are short, practical, unpainted. “You just have to be willing.”