“Only ten?” I said, trying and failing to shave the sharp edges off my tone. “That’s all your daughter is worth to you? Ten millionmeaslydollars? Come on, Mr. Blackwell—you can do better than that.”
“Alright.” He practically snarls the word. “Name your price. What’s it going to cost me to get you away from my daughter?”
I feel my chest tighten. The back of my neck go hot and stiff because I can hear it in his tone. I’ll never be good enough. Nomatter how many times he allows me to sit at his dinner table. Shakes my hand or pats me on my back and calls meson,I’m never going to be good enough.
Not for him and certainly not for his daughter.
So what the fuck are you doing, Mercer? Why are you fighting for something you’re never going to have? Millie is vulnerable and not acting rationally right now—what happened between you all but proves it—and you took advantage of that. You took advantage ofher.
“You know what’s completely fucked,” I say on a shitty laugh to cover up the fact that I feel like someone’s caved my chest in with a wrecking ball. “I’m in love with her. I’m so completelygoddamnedin love with your daughter that I was willing to follow her around like a stray dog for the rest of my fucking life. Watch her get married to a man who could never love her the way I do. Live happily ever after while I let your niece torture me with the fact that Millie was always going to bejust out of reach…” Reaching up, I swipe a rough hand over my face because I’m done and we both know it. “I’ll get on your plane,” I tell him quietly. “And I’ll leave Millie alone but I don’t want your money. Not one goddamned dime—you just keep her the fuck away from me.”
Ending the call, I jam my phone back into my pocket and keep staring at the ocean. Building my wall so when the time comes, I’ll be strong enough to do what needs to be done.
THIRTY-NINE
Over the past week, I’ve been careful toreserve the most visible table at Davino’s. A table where the whole dining room can see us. One that puts us on display. Due to his own battle with the tabloids, Davino Fiorella has a strict no camera policy in all of his restaurants—but that doesn’t mean that people don’t spot us and rush back to their rooms and report on what we ate or whether or not Dean held my hand across the table.
This time, when the Maître D leads us through the restaurant, it isn’t to a table for two in the center of the room.
“Doesn’t this defeat the purpose a bit,” I say when it becomes obvious where we’re being ledto.
“It might defeat your purpose, McEnroe,” Dean tells me. “But it serves mine perfectly.”
I need you to think about where we were and what we were doing a few hours ago and then I need you to decide if wearing this dress to dinner with me is a good idea, or not…
I look straight ahead, doing my best not to look at the other patrons while they discreetly watch us as we walk past them. “People are staring at us,” I whisper, feeling myself wobble in my heels a bit when Dean’s palm presses against the small of my back, fingertips brushing past the loose drape of my dress to skim along the curve of my waist.
“They aren’t staring atus,” he informs me, making no attempt to lower his voice. “They’re staring at you. They’re trying to decide if you’re wearing panties or not.” When he says it, a man in a nearby booth nearly chokes on his Porterhouse.
I let out a soft, indignant huff. “Seriously?”
“Don’t blame me, Maraca—” He leans into me to whisper the rest in my ear. “you dressed yourself, remember?”
“You’re insufferable,” I whisper while pushing back against the bubble of laughter bursting against the back of my throat.
“Uh oh…” Dean says softly, his fingertips digging into my waist. “That sounded an awful lot like an insult, Princess.” Our host stops in front of a set of decorative pocket doors and opens them with a flourish to reveal one of the small, private dining rooms that line the perimeter of the restaurant. “One you’re going to have to pay for.”
Heart knocking in my chest, I shake my head on my way past the Maître D. The room itself is small, no bigger than 10x10, with the leather upholstered, U-shaped booth taking up the majority of the space. Next to the table is a silver champagne bucket, an uncorked bottle already on ice.
Stopping in front of the booth, I turn to watch while Dean has a short, whispered conversation with the Maître D beforehe gives him a brief incline of his head and pulls the pocket doors closed. “What did you say to him?”
Undoing the single button on his jacket, Dean shrugs out of it before tossing it onto the booth. “I told him that if he or anyone else in this fucking restaurant even thinks about opening those doors without a clear, verbal invitation to do so—” Unbuttoning his cuffs, one after the other, he starts to roll up his sleeves, revealing tan, tattooed skin. “I‘m going to murder them.”
“Murder?” Licking my lips on a soft, breathless laugh, I shake my head. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Considering what I’m about to do to you?” Dean flicks me a quick look, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a look that can only be described as predatory. “No.”
“Dean—” Trying for scandalized or maybe disapproving, I fail miserably while I watch him cover the short distance between us in a couple of long, purposeful strides.
“You called meinsufferable.” Dean fits his arms around me, his hands immediately sliding over my ass. “Rules are rules, Mills. It must be done.”
Looking up at him, I feel my nipples tighten under the thin silk of my dress. “It wasn’t an insult,” I tell him, a soft whimper escaping my lips when I feel his hands slide over the curves of my ass cheeks. “It was a statement of fact and—” Breath caught in my throat, I feel the floor tilt slightly when his hands slide even lower to catch the hem of my dress. “and I don’t believe for a second that you were insulted by it.”
“I’mbeyondinsulted, Mills.” Lowering his head, Dean licks his way up the side of my throat while he skims his fingertips along the outside of my thighs to my hips. “My feelings are hurt...” Finding the waistband of my panties, he hooks them into it, pulling them down over my hips. “I just might cry myself to sleep over it.” Letting them fall, he whispers it in myear, the end of it caught in a deep, rumbling groan when I step out of them and widen my stance in invitation.
“You’re at least two insults ahead of me,” I remind him, my knees wobbling when I feel his teeth scrape across the soft skin of my neck while his hands slip under my dress and between my thighs, his fingertips teasing over the seam of my bare pussy. “Maybe we should call it even and—” My attempt at negotiation ends on a sharp gasp when his fingers push themselves inside me on a hard, deep stroke that has my hands sliding across his shoulders and into his hair.
Lifting his free hand, he hooks his fingers around the strap of my dress like he did earlier, pulling it off my shoulder to expose my breast. Feathering the pad of his thumb over my stiff, swollen nipple, he groans against the side of my neck when my pussy clenches around his fingers. “Those weren’t the rules...” Sliding his fingers out, Dean pushes them higher to slick them over my throbbing clit, dragging me to the edge of release before he pumps them back in. “And it’s not my fault if you’re not willing to collect.”
