I’m almost ashamed to admit that getting beyond my grief didn’t cure my toxicity. Probably because my mother wasn’t the cause. The poison is all about Whitney, about the way she stabbed me in the back and left me to bleed out.
“I understand. I miss my dad,” she murmurs softly.
“I heard about his car accident. I’m sorry.” I genuinely mean that.
She’s had a terrible few years, too. Some part of me that still gives a shit about her—no matter how hard I’ve tried not to—empathizes. That part wants to reach out and hold her, soothe her, and tell her I’m here for her.
The rest of me has learned better.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
Silence falls again, and Whitney clutches her purse like she’s nervous as she downs the last of her drink. Next time she looks at me, she’s glaring. Her shields are up once more. “So now that we’ve caught up and you’ve watched me drink, what do you want?”
“In exchange for forty million dollars to save your brother’s financial ass?” I smile tightly. “You.”
She swallows like my words unnerve her, but she doesn’t look surprised in the least. “I’m engaged.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Slowly, she closes her eyes. To brace herself? To hide her fury from me?
Finally, she nods. “What are your terms?”
“One week.”
“For me to be your whore?”
She’s trying to bait me. “You putting an ugly spin on our arrangement isn’t going to make me change my mind.”
She clenches her delicate jaw. “What do you expect?”
“I’ll send a car to pick you up at precisely nine o’clock. Bring nothing with you. Anything you need, I’ll provide. When you arrive, the front door will be unlocked. Once inside, you will strip. And you will kneel. Then you will wait for me. You will be completely mine. While you’re with me, you will forget two things: any other man who’s ever fucked you and the word no. You will do anything I desire with, to, or for me during our week together. Am I clear?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“That can’t be a surprise.”
“No.”
“Are you refusing?”
Whitney hesitates. “No.”
Triumph spikes. I lay a twenty on the bar for her drink. “You accept? You’ll get in my car tonight?”
She looks down at the bar like she’s ashamed. She makes me wait and sweat and worry that she’ll refuse. But we both know she won’t. For her brother’s sake, she can’t.
“Yes,” she finally whispers.
I settle a finger under her chin. “Look at me when you answer.”
“Yes, I’ll come be your forty-million-dollar piece of ass for the week.” With a jerk of her head, she pulls away. “Don’t touch me until then.”
I smile at her show of spirit. It’s intriguing—but it won’t last. I’ll make sure of that.
“You have four hours to get yourself in order. After that…” I trail off into a smile.
Let her imagine the worst.
I’m sure she thinks I intend to use her horribly and cause her pain. Quite the opposite.
I’m going to give her so much pleasure she’ll lose her mind.
And surrender her heart?
Since I can’t afford to listen to the mocking voice in my head, I shove it aside and slide a burner phone across the bar to her.
She picks it up, then frowns. “What’s this for?”
“To contact me in case you choose to back out. If not, at quarter till ten, you will text me to verify your arrival. Make no mistake, Whitney, this device only allows you to call or text me. So don’t bother trying to use it to contact anyone else so you can tell them where to find you for the next week.” I send her a cold smile. “It will be our secret.”
I toss those words she uttered to me long ago back in her face.
Predictably, she blanches. “I hate you.”
“I don’t care. I’ll see you this evening.”
I force myself to walk away. The rest is up to her. But I’ve dangled the carrot and I’ve cornered her. She’ll come. She’ll submit.
Then I’ll make her pay.
Eight years earlier…
Jett
I shouldn’t put my hands on Whitney Chancellor. Really, I shouldn’t…but the princess is right there, mere feet away by the shimmering pool, wearing a pink bikini and soaking in the sun. Her long, dark waves brush the swells of her pert ass as she sways to the sexy ballad of the summer.
For fuck’s sake, I need to keep my distance. But how, especially today?
Tiptoeing across the back patio, I sneak up behind her, cover her eyes, and whisper in her ear, “Happy sixteenth birthday, Whitney.”
She whirls around and flashes me rosy cheeks and a flirtatious grin. She might still be too young, but nothing about the way I want her is innocent.
I’m twenty-one. I know better. I shouldn’t make a move on my best friend’s little sister, especially before she’s grown. But during the past two months, she’s been just beyond my reach, wearing next to nothing to combat this heatwave and tossing me come-hither glances. My impatience to have her under me chafes. I’m almost beyond caring what I “should” do.