Rearranging Fate, page 15
Heartache.
Bringing me here when his father is waiting for him wasn’t what I’d expected, and I was, in fact, prepared for him to drop me off at the Fernandez House after all.
Despite being here, him ordering me to stay out of sight as he meets with his father isn’t entirely a surprise. I’m no one, an unemployable drifter who once begged just to fill my empty tummy. Mirrors don’t lie, and the sad image in front of me is one with messy-bun blonde hair, oversized, secondhand parka, and thin khaki pants. Why would he bother his father with me?
“You don’t have to worry. I’ve no interest in Mr. Delevan.”
“You’re smarter than a lot of people then.” The discreet chime proclaims the start of the coming round. “And that’s Senator Delevan.”
The doors glide apart, and he’s pulling me out without giving me a dropped heartbeat to dig in my heels or make a panicked run for it.
It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the murky lobby from the elevator. No, not a lobby. It’s called a foyer, my muddled brain flashes in my mind as though it matters. A beautiful expanse of gleaming stone floor under ambient lighting and posh furnishings the likes I’ve only seen at Paige’s new home with Colin.
“Damian.” A jumble of protests rushes up my throat but don’t make it out. You’re crushing my hand. I can’t do this. I need to go home after all.
Quietly, he eases the ornate front door open. “Take the stairs to the left, then pick a room and lock the door.” He’s already steering me in that direction, our rushed steps tapping and squeaking on the pristine floor. “Do not come down under any circumstances.”
“I’m hurt, Damian.” The composed male voice penetrates before the figure of a man emerges near the curved staircase. “Surely acceptable manners would dictate you introduce your companion to your pops.”
As though the strained air isn’t choking, the stranger comes right up and wraps his arms around Damian’s stiff form. With a pat on the back, he eases away with his hands cupping Damian’s shoulders, proudly studying him from head to toe.
My first impression of the senator is height, clearly something Damian inherited. Slick, with attractive streaks of gray on his otherwise dark hair. The classy charcoal-gray Armani suit emphasizes his sturdy shoulders, fitting his lean yet solid physique perfectly. He’s handsome, dazzling even, reeking of you-can’t-touch-this cologne and old money.
And his measuring gaze is sizing me up without apology when his attention switches to me.
If Damian is more rigid, he might snap in two. “Acceptable manners would dictate an invitation, yet you’re here nonetheless.”
There’s a smile, a decided tilt of lips. “Would they?” he asks mildly and let his hands drop. “My representative conveyed how much my son wanted me here, and I would do anything for him, even if he refuses every time. You must be Cara Candlewood.”
The hand held out to me is big, not unlike the one still clutching mine, except I have a feeling this one might deliberately inflict pain.
He knows who I am. What does that mean? Does he know about Damian’s plan for me?
Since Damian gives no hint of releasing me anytime soon, I fleetingly clasp my free fingers to the outstretched limb. “Senator,” I nervously manage to push off my dead tongue.
“Call me Alan.” The smile widens. I’m harmless, it shouts. “You’re more beautiful than I imagined. My son is a lucky man.”
Then my hand is lifted, the light press of his lips on the top of my fingers smooth and practiced.
I don’t know much about politics, don’t find it remotely worth my time, but I recognize Senator Delevan from TV. The delicious politician, as Mrs. Fernandez whispered with a girlish giggle. I don’t know how I didn’t put the two and two together. The resemblance between father and son is undeniable.
Irritated, Damian draws me away, not once diverting his hard focus from his father. “Now that acceptable manners are taken care of, you know your way out.”
“I came all the way here to see you, Damian.” To his credit, he appears genuinely hurt by his son’s brusque dismissal. “Is it that difficult to spend some time with your pops?”
Damian’s jaw firms. “As you can see, I have a guest.”
“You have the rest of the night with her. As I said, you’re a lucky man. I’m sure Ms. Candlewood wouldn’t mind my stealing a few minutes.”
Damian’s father believes I’m here for sex. A one-night stand.
The gush of hot blood heats my skin.
Aren’t I?
“I should go.” My meaningful tugs only succeed in tightening the grasp on my fingers. “Thanks for...” For what? “Thanks for showing me your home.”
Noisy air leaves Damian. “Excuse us,” he says to his father before turning to me. “Come with me.”
I’m not given much of a choice when Damian resolutely tows me up the stairs.
Straight into a lavish bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I drone as he kicks shut the door behind him. “I don’t need to pee.” Not with him in the room.
On an impatient huff, he lobs off his coat and suit jacket before wrenching on the faucet, yanking me in until I’m wedged between the vanity and him, pulling up my sleeves. “You don’t know where he’s been,” he mutters with testiness and pumps, pumps, pumps a whole lump of soap into his palm, briskly scrubbing it all over my hands like I’m a toddler learning how to wash up. “The guy is as slimy as he is filthy.”
“He’s your father,” I remind him. Just as annoyed now, I elbow his stomach. It’s taut like the rest of him. “I can do it.”
“He’s only my father in name.”
“At least you have one,” I snap. “God, you’re weird,” I let out while rinsing off the mushrooming suds. “Both of you.”
For some bizarre reason, that noticeably pacifies his foul mood.
Male hands cover mine under the stream of warm water. “How am I weird?”
Indrawn air abruptly halts in my throat as the softly spoken words drift right over the shell of my ear. He tips closer, his chest over my back, arms cocooning me. Through the thick layer of my jacket his heat radiates into my shuddering flesh.
“You’re angry at your father for visiting you.” Breathe. I need to breathe. “He gets off on goading you. Getting a rise out of you. That’s how he tries to get your attention from someone who refuses to give him any. You and your father. You’re weird.”
Not my most articulate, but I’m having a really hard time when he’s eating up my space with that hard body.
He flips off the water and snatches a hand towel, draping the crazy softness over my dripping hands. Grateful for something to do, I’m busy patting at the dampness when he eases me back by my shoulders. My questioning gaze collides with his in the mirror over the sink.
“My father was right about one thing. Where are my manners?” His hands curve over the top of my shoulders. “I haven’t even taken your jacket.”
Damian towers over me. The top of my head doesn’t reach his chin. I’m fascinated at the sight of us, at those masculine fingers skating to the metal tab connecting the two sides of my jacket at the base of my throat. I watch, mesmerized by his thumb and finger seizing it, dragging it down to my pounding chest, between my breasts, sending all kinds of ferocious quivers through me. Lower still to the stomach urgently clenching. His hands are slow and gentle, and I’ve got thick layers on, but the heat of him creeps into my bones and makes a home.
His hand is so much bigger than the stub that it should look ridiculous. It doesn’t. It’s...breath-robbing. Suggestive. All the romance novels, all the designer words branding the pages don’t do this hot and cold, exquisite sensation justice.
A second after I lose sight of his hands on our reflection, the zipper releases.
Those fingers, those breath-robbing, suggestive, amazing fingers, curl into either opening, gently brushing the insides of my breasts, and draw them down my suddenly languid arms to reveal the red Café Love T-shirt. The hand towel drops to the floor.
“You’ve done that before.”
There’s amusement as he lays it on the vanity next to me. “Many times. I have to admit, it’s more fun with yours than mine.” Playful features sober. “Why did you ask to come here, Cara?”
Nerves. They’re battling within me once more. “I didn’t want to go home.”
Deep sea eyes silently hold mine. “Why did you ask to come here?” he insists more firmly.
I pull in a breath. Another. Yet another.
They don’t calm the jitters running amok inside me.
“To be with you.”
“To fuck,” he adds on my behalf.
The flinch comes quick, but he doesn’t miss it. I have a feeling Damian Delevan doesn’t miss much.
“Yes.”
It’s a wonder the glass doesn’t melt at the searing burn of his eyes. “No condom.”
Not a statement. Definitely not a request.
It was a demand.
“I’ve not agreed to the arrangement.”
“I’m clean. I know you are. I got the report to prove it. I want to fuck without it.” One brow arches slightly. “Problem?”
Hm. The romance novels never had anything about negotiating the terms. A hasty mental calculation confirms there shouldn’t be a risk, but still...
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“It is,” he insists but reluctantly sighs at my expression. “I’m still recovering. The likelihood of pregnancy right now is on the slim side.”
My image frowns back at me. “Recovering from what?”
“Chemo.”
Not able to hide my shock, I turn to search his deliberately composed features. “As in chemotherapy? For cancer?”
“That’s right.”
“When was this?”
“Last year. With your cycle, we should be fine.”
Grief for him momentarily overshadows my hesitation. He doesn’t want to talk about his illness. Maybe he thinks it makes him appear weak, doesn’t care for pity. That’s the last thing I feel for him. In his shoes, I probably wouldn’t freely share the very private detail either.
Is that why he wants to be a father? Realizing one’s mortality does different things to different people. I witnessed that multiple times at St. Christopher.
“All right,” I find myself agreeing. It doesn’t surprise me he remembers my conversation with Dr. Stanley about my menstrual cycle. A man on a focused mission to have a baby, and one that doesn’t miss much, wouldn’t forget something as important as that. “No condom.”
It’s his turn to search me. Whatever he sees must appease him, acknowledging it with a simple jerk of his head. “Good. Make yourself at home. There are bath things in here somewhere. Indulge a bit. I need a few minutes with my father.”
20
~ Damian ~
Alan Delevan never cares to blend in with his surroundings. He yearns for attention too much, craves for admiration and blind devotion. Similar to a child, the more he’s ignored, the more he acts out for notice. My mother freely gave it to him, but that wasn’t enough. The rejection, the constant dismissal, prompted her to shower all of what she would’ve given him to me.
And he and his inflated ego couldn’t stand it.
Like now, for instance. Instead of lounging on the sofa or making himself comfortable with a drink, he impatiently prowls near the French doors. Outside, fluffy snow steadily drifts on the veranda, framing his restless pacing
“Gorgeous young thing,” he allows at my approach, halting. “Innocent. Impressionable. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Why are you here?”
“Cara Candlewood isn’t for you, son.”
Not one to mince words, my father. He cut his vacation short to tell me this? “You’ve wasted your time. Who is or isn’t for me doesn’t concern you.”
He tilts his head, ready for his close-up. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know all about her, her upbringing, her unfortunate history. A shame, really, but we can’t help everyone.”
Someone should find him a podium and a mic. “Only yourself, right?” There’s no point in dialing back the scorn. “Since she’s not a registered voter, why bother?”
The distance between us diminishes as he skulks toward me. “Do you think so little of me?”
“Yes.”
Well, he asked.
He chuckles as though I said something funny. “You and I are so similar that I marvel at your contempt.” A hand goes up. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. Whatever it is you’re doing with that girl, get it over with and move on.”
“I’m not you, and Cara isn’t like one of your groupies.”
The Stare. The narrowed-eye, keep-talking-out-of-your-sorry-ass stare he bestows on his ignorant political opponents is being worked on me now.
“Shall we put that to the test?”
I still at that. “What?”
Coolly, casually, he’s in my face. “I’m sure the lovely Ms. Candlewood wouldn’t mind a taste of father and son. I’ll even let you go first.”
It takes a simmering, pulsating heartbeat. My fingers dig painfully into my palms. Does he think this is some sort of fucked up political game?
Contemptible, revolting piece of fuck stain.
Anger gushes up my spine to enflame my head. “You stay away from her,” I warn through lips gone stiff.
“I’ve had younger-all legal age, naturally-but I’ll still enjoy that fresh, tight pussy. She’s probably unsullied, isn’t she? Never known a needy man’s touch. Like I said earlier, fucking gorgeous. Congratulations. Like father, like son.”
I whirl away, feverishly battling to contain myself. My lungs burn from the hot, frantic oxygen stabbing my chest. There might be blood oozing out of my palms from my brutal fingers.
He gets off on goading you. Getting a rise out of you. That’s how he tries to get your attention from someone who refuses to give him any.
Fuck it. He has it now.
I spin back and plow my fist into his face.
Stunned, my father staggers back, cupping his nose on a curse. Blood gushes down his palm and between his fingers. “You pulled your punch.” The fucker has the nerve to scowl under his fingers, digging in his pocket with his free hand for a handkerchief. “Have I taught you nothing? Go big or go home. Never pull your punches.”
I did. Fuck me, but I did. Instinctively. If I hadn’t, he’d be sprawled on the floor with more than a gory nose.
I won’t make that mistake again.
The nasally lecture would be comical if I didn’t want to break his face. “You revolting fuck. Get the hell out of my house.”
“You think this is that simple? You can just assault me and get what you want? Life isn’t about how to satisfy your lust.”
“Tell that to the hundreds of whores you got lined up.”
“You know nothing.” He yanks out a gray cloth to use as a bandage. “Because you can’t work up the curiosity, much less the need to know how the real-world works. Your mother spoiled you, gave you everything on a silver platter. This girl, this... vagrant,” he spits out in utter disgust, “doesn’t belong on that platter. You think about that while you’re shoving it into her tonight.”
With one last fuming sneer, he stomps out of the penthouse.
For long minutes after he left, possibly hours, I stare at nothing in the room, incapable of movement. There’s a vicious, hammering throb. On my knuckles. In my head. I half expect his personal security to break through the doors and attack.
Cara believes having a bad father is better than having none. Perhaps she’s right, perhaps that’s naivete, but at the end of the day, I can’t change the fact mine is a grade A, top of the line dripping asshole any more than I can bring hers back to life.
Mom never divorced him. She thought about it, had once apologized to me for having married Alan Delevan. Ridiculous. If anyone was owed an apology, it was her. She wasn’t even dead yet when he was quietly getting it on with Cecilia, Elle’s mother. He preferred to be prepared, he told me when I confronted him about it. I might’ve been a kid, but even then, I knew my father was a certified dickhead.
I need to detox, I realize on my deadened climb up the mute staircase. Cara doesn’t need this venom contaminating my disposition. Her first time. It should be extra special.
Cara. I wish I can say I know what I’m doing. All these jumbled, opposing things I want from her, muddling my commonsense.
I still can’t get over her agreeing to the condition. I’ve never had a woman bare, so this is a kind of a first for me as well.
Chances are slim to none that she’d get pregnant her first time. Between the timing for her and for me, it’s highly unlikely.
But not impossible.
Despite the yearning to push, until she agrees to the arrangement unequivocally, I won’t stoop to contemptable actions. That’s my father’s way, not mine.
Which means I should, at the very least, pull out to be on the safer side.
Well, that’ll suck.
I find Cara in my bedroom, fast asleep. A white towel is twisted on the top of her head, another wrapped around her gorgeous body. Her toned legs are slacked, crossed at the ankles. Bare, slender shoulders are propped on a pillow against the headboard, but her head is tipped slightly to the side as though she just fell asleep by accident while taking a breather. My pants go to flag city just looking at her sexy, peaceful form.
And imagining what’s underneath that towel.
I should climb in, bury my face between her pale, firm thighs. That’s more effective than any alarm. My tongue flicks out over my lips, eager to taste what isn’t there. Yet.
I spend ten minutes in the shower, more to wash away the last hour than anything. Cara needs time to juice up for the night anyway, I decide with a wet smirk.
Thoughts of her have a way of improving my mood drastically.
Should I hang a towel on me, I mildly consider. Put on clothes or slather her with all my naked?
Switching off the water, I grab the warmed cloth and drape it loosely around my waist. I wouldn’t want to scare her.
