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“Everyone thinks you’re dead. Your father’s name became mud after the fire. He killed his own daughter and himself too,” he tells me, reciting the papers. I feel sick to think people believed such ill of my father. He was a good man, a good man caught in a dangerous game. I understand that when he says ‘everyone’, he means everyone lawless enough to rub shoulders with those despicable men who want me dead. Olivia Monroe was a no-one, the innocent daughter of accountant Anthony Monroe: motherless and supposedly murdered by her father.
“But I’m not.” I shudder. I could be. It’s only a matter of time—they’ve bided it for long enough. Instinct tells me they are becoming restless, and restless men make dangerous men, just like the one comforting me now. I don’t know what set him on this path, but I doubt he was ever dragged from his bed in the middle of the night at gunpoint and thrown in the boot of a car to be used as bait against his own father. I suspect if he knows who my father is, he also knows my mother left us when I was a baby—the staid life of Anthony Monroe and parenthood not to her standards.
“You’ve been hiding in plain sight all this time.” He shakes his head in awe. “Your father was in with some pretty nasty people, and they are the ones who leaked information about your death. Does the name Santino or Ramis Yovenko mean anything to you?” he asks softly. His kindness isn’t for my benefit. He wants me to divulge information, but I don’t know any more than I’ve already told him.
I shake my head and ask the only thing I can at this moment in time, “What do they mean to you?” I look up at him and find him back to the cool, impassive man he was when I first met him.
“Nothing good. I suspect they faked your death so there would be no connection between you, your father, and them, and they are sitting in wait for you. You were clever to carve this life for yourself.” I know that much. “As soon as you feel comfortable enough to leave your podium, you’re walking into their hands, Zara. I need time to execute this. Is there anything you’re not telling me?” he asks, searching my gaze for a lie. I shake my head. All I know is what happened that night. I know nothing else about Santino and Ramis. Hearing their names for the first time leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Why are you helping me?” I fidget with the lapels of his suit, not quite meeting his eyes.
“It doesn’t come free,” he delivers, setting me back on my feet, “no more crying. You’re stronger than this.” He grips my hair at the nape of my neck and levels me with a hard stare. “Don’t ruin my opinion of you,” he quips on a raised brow, pulling a reluctant smile from me.
I pull at the necklace my father gave to me. I need his strength in a moment like this.
“You’re not exactly turning out to be the big bad wolf Oscar professed you to be,” I remark. The wait staff comes in to take our order, but I haven’t even looked at the menu. I duck my head as Callan halts them, and they leave as quickly and quietly as they came. Callan and I are feet apart, and we remain quiet until they leave. If they recognise me, they don’t show it, but I suspect Callan will have ensured they are paid enough to keep quiet. He lifts me onto the table and steps between my thighs, lifting my dress gently as he moves in.
“Why?AmI not rough enough for you?” His voice has dropped an octave, and when he leans in and bites my neck, I hum out a sigh.
His hands grip my thighs as he brings his head back up to stare at me.
“I never said that. So what will it cost me to have your help?” I query, searching his gaze. I want to put things into motion and get the wheel to freedom moving.
“Lie down.” His soft instruction has my stomach clenching. I do as asked and lower slowly. “Lift up,” he taps my hip and my knickers are removed quickly, “put them in your mouth.” His deft fingers hold my knickers just above my face.
“I’m not putt—” I’m halfway sitting up when he flattens me with force to the table. His thumb pulls my lower jaw down, and my flimsy knickers get shoved past my lips.
“You’re noisy,” he tells me, his lips twisting into a smug smile.
“What’s the catch?” I muffle around the lace. Callan laughs deeply, and I’m tugged to the end of the table, my arse cheeks nestled in his big hands. I have a moment of warning when his breath hits my inner thigh before he is sweeping his tongue up my sex, and my head bumps the table on a low moan.
“This is the catch,” he tells me between licks. His fingers join his tongue, and I’m soon writhing on the hard wooden surface. When my eyes open, he is standing over me, watching me come apart. “I want you for one month, no questions, no excuses. You’re mine for a month.” His fingers curl up as his thumb works in deep circles, and my hips fly off the table, my cry swallowed up by damp knickers. A month of hot sex—it’s barely a hardship. I nod in agreement as his fingers pump in and out, gently prolonging my climax.
“Good, you move in tonight,” he says boldly.
“What!” I choke on the material and spit it out in shock. I’m still gasping for air when Callan kneels to drop a kiss on my throbbing sex. As soon as he is at the right position, my heel hits his shoulder, halting him. He looks up lazily, bemused by my action. “You never mentioned moving in,” I state. His eyes drop back between my thighs, and he swallows a smile.
His black eyes are sharp and intense on mine.
“I just did. Are we still in agreement?” I gape at his stark handsome profile and the dark lines snaking up his neck, the cold, fearless gaze and intimidating way he carries himself. When he adjusts his cufflinks, I see those tattoos poking out. He is such a far cry from the kind of man I thought I would be with—not that we are together, but I never considered fooling around with such an unruly man. All these years, I pictured myself hidden away with some quiet and reserved man who would make me just as inconspicuous as he was, yet the only one I can think about is too big to go unnoticed and reputedly dangerous.
“Zara, I need an answer. You either come home with me now, or this is goodbye.” My chest heaves. I sit up and slip off the table, pulling my dress into place. I’m staring at the black buttons on his black shirt, chewing my lip furiously.I run the risk of becoming too involved with this man if I agree to his terms, but the alternative could cost me my life. The only question is, can I live with heartache?
“Okay,” I sigh, giving in to him, giving in to more heartache.
“Good, let’s order.”
It’s been an exhausting evening. My emotions are everywhere, and when we sit in the back of the car, I’m surprised when Callan takes my hand in his and drops our threaded fingers in his lap, the other tapping on his phone.I’m a bag of nerves and confusion on the way back, but I strip it all away, telling myself I have to do this to get free of the invisible restraints around my neck. Giving myself to a man like Callan Scott is probably the easiest thing I’ve ever done, even if, in principle, it goes against everything I believe. I’ve already slept with him, so it’s not like he randomly propositioned me. We have already been intimate, and that was no strings too. This is a means to an end.
We remain silent on the journey back. The partition is down, and Stalin is humming to some music so I try to focus on that. When we pull up beside the private elevator, Callan slides out and waits for me to exit the car. My heart is picking up, beating quicker and quicker. It’s dawning on me what I’ve agreed to, and oddly, I’m anticipating the small amount of time he has extended to me. I’m enjoying this man’s company, his devotion, and his quick tongue. I’m enjoying being around him too much.
It’s already been a week, and I’m aching all over. His sexual appetite is shocking, and I hate to admit it, but it’s concerning how much I ache for him. I’m falling asleep in a sexed-up haze and being woken up in the most pleasurable ways. Work is one big blur, and everything else is becoming very much about Callan. My week is arranged by him, and although I am still picking up work, Callan is utilising my free time to meet his needs.
“Why are we here?” I ask, both irritation and curiosity in my tone. I'm staring out of the window at Skyn, its colossal structure bearing down on us both. I thought women weren't allowed here? He’s all about breaking the rules at the minute. I twist to face him, expecting an answer. This is the last place I want to be. People will see us together.
“I have some things to attend to.” Callan's voice carries just enough for me to hear him as he pushes free from the car. Unlike all the other cars lined up in an expensive, showy line, Callan has broken the carpark tradition and parked diagonally over two spaces. His obnoxious,blacked-out car seems to mock all the others.
“I thought we were keeping things low key?” The last thing I need is to be associated with him. Neither of us has left the penthouse unless it’s to work. I have no idea of Callan’s usual work schedule, but at the moment, he is out of the door for eight and home twelve hours later.
