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In no uncertain terms, Mr. Jones had told him he wasn’t good enough for their family. A poor backstreet orphan who’d been saved from his own father by social services and handed from one foster family to the next wasn’t good enough for the Jones’ of Manhattan.
He’d been eager this afternoon to see her fidget like she did when she got nervous, feeling a perverse excitement at imagining her discomfort, and then, just before the meeting, the voices had started. He’d bailed out, walking around for hours, trying to get his mind straight.
It was more than the voices, though. The thing was, where Alice Jones was concerned, he didn’t know if he wanted to hate or adore her. Probably both. The ideas he’d been walking around with in his head for the past few years certainly involved a lot of punishment, mostly with her naked body draped over his lap. His cock hardened as it always did at the thought of Ms. Jones. A lot of water had run into the sea since his foolish youth. This time round, he was wiser. He had no illusions left about love. Plain and simple, it didn’t exist. There were but two truths in life. Everybody died, and only people with money got what they wanted.
Turned out he had money, and he knew what he wanted.
The same thing as always.
Alice.
He’d own every inch of her body and every drop he could squeeze from her upper-class soul. For nine hard years, he’d worked like Jacob had labored for Rachel. With blood, sweat, and tears, he’d climbed to the top of the ladder. Today, he made more money than her daddy could ever dream of earning. He was ready to take back what was his. He’d do whatever was necessary. There was a darkness in his soul, thanks to Alice, that worked to his advantage. Alice had no idea what lurked inside him, because when he’d loved her, he’d loved her with everything he had. There was no more loving left to give, only this body, and he didn’t believe in doing anything in half measures. When he gave, it was going to be hard. Go big or go home. She’d made him a loveless bastard with one obsession only—to have her—and she’d live with what she’d created.
The door opened, letting in a gush of wind and interrupting his dark thoughts. He turned his head in that direction and stilled. Light of the kind he’d only seen with one person pulsed around the figure who entered, a whole spectrum, a rainbow captured in a body-hugging halo rather than solid. The hue was unusually bright, blinding him until he managed to look beyond the aura at the person. A woman stood in the frame, her hair dripping water and her ballerina flats soaked. Clutching a leather folder under one arm, she removed brown-rimmed glasses and wiped them with a tissue she pulled from her pocket. A beige dress clung to the parts of her voluptuous figure not obscured by a short rain jacket. Thanks to the tight fit, he could guess the roundness of her breasts and hips. They were fuller than he remembered. At eighteen, she’d been a bony little thing.
Well, well, speak—or think—of the devil.
Alice Jones was as centerfold beautiful as ever, though her conservative attire surprised him. He’d expected something eccentric but classy like the clothes she used to wear in school. What surprised him even more was how much it pleased him and how hard his dick turned.
A loud crack of thunder sounded as lightning split the sky and lit up the windows, illuminating an outline of the bridge over the Thames with a flash. She remained in her spot by the door until a puddle of water had accumulated around her feet and her gaze found him in the busy room. He sat back and enjoyed the show of emotions that played on her face. He’d been dreaming of this moment for nine long years, after all, and not a second of it was disappointing. There was a moment of discomfort she couldn’t quite hide, followed by disdain and nervousness. She lifted her chin and made her way to him with a regal stride. The woman had backbone. He had to give her that.
She stopped a step away and held out a steady hand. “Hi, Ivan.”
“Hello, Alice.” He took a moment to savor her name before his eyes roamed over her, making a visual meal of her body as he took her cold hand.
She pulled her fingers from his grip as if he was contagious and said drily, “So, you remember me.”
Her words were a slap in the face. Like he’d ever forget. Like he hadn’t tormented himself for the last decade with images of her in every waking hour and dream. Was this her way of telling him how little he’d mattered because she’d long forgotten the event that had twisted his whole goddamn life? If she thought she was going to dismiss what had happened between them with that line, she was in for a surprise. He’d be damned before he let her pretend it was of so little consequence they’d hardly remember each other. No fucking way. She’d ripped out his heart back then, and she’d trampled on it now where it lay at her feet on the floor. If she was going to play hardball, he was all game.
