Cruel Conquest: A Dark Romance, page 3
The weirdest thing was it was practically brand new. There were only a handful of entries in it. The last was on the night of her murder.
Leo G, this address, and a phone number that was no longer in service.
I’d have taken it to the police… but they’d told me to stop interfering with their investigation after the twentieth time I went to the precinct to speak to the lead detective. In my defense, I know nothing about stuff like circumstantial evidence… but I’m apparently a pro at finding it.
I have a feeling that even my mother’s day planner—especially since it looked brand new and didn’t have her name or anything in it—wasn’t proof of anything.
The cops wanted hard evidence.
That’s exactly why I’m here.
That’s what I should focus on. Not Leo’s smell. Not the aura of danger he exudes. Not the way my body ignites whenever he’s around.
Hard evidence, Hannah. Not hard… well, you know.
Frustration gives me summit fever. By dinner, I’m done with the ground level and already getting to work on the first floor. The mansion isn’t so much dirty as neglected. There’s dust and cobwebs in a few rooms—more so the ones where a window had been left cracked—but I see little difference after vacuuming the carpets.
Being unable to investigate any of Leo’s personal effects while he’s locked up in his bedroom is annoying. I’ve given up scowling in the general direction of his room. I’m just wasting my energy. I thought he’d come out of his room and give me a chance to snoop, but he didn’t even bother answering the door when the cleaners arrived to collect his clothes.
Hunger claws at my stomach as I’m carrying my bucket of cleaning supplies into an enormous library. The size of this room is so overwhelming, I just stand there for a minute or two, staring.
Leo must come from old money if he doesn’t have to work all day in the city to afford a place like this. Maybe he had filthy rich parents and inherited their fortune when they died. I still don’t know why he’d live all the way out here by himself instead of living in a penthouse.
My nose twitches.
Am I having a stroke, or do I smell apple pie?
My stomach growls in response, and I feel compelled to investigate. The smell gets stronger as I head toward the kitchen. It’s dark outside already—has been for an hour or more—but instead of the overhead lights, there’s a candlestick with three lit candles pouring flickering light onto the white marble countertop.
The sight of Leo Grayson eating apple pie by candlelight is so incongruous that I wonder for a moment if I slipped and hit my head. Or maybe I passed out from exhaustion, and this is just a dream.
My stomach rumbles loudly.
“Sit,” Leo says, but he doesn’t lift his head from the plate where he’s devoured half of a fat slice of apple pie and most of the enormous mound of whipped cream.
As good as it smells, I’d have to be starving to break bread with the enemy. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Leo studies me with narrowed blue eyes. “You’ve eaten nothing all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Do you think I’d poison you?”
A blush springs up on my cheeks. Way to keep your composure, Hannah. If you keep going like this, he won’t wait until morning to throw you out. That would definitely put a damper on your investigation.
I manage a meek, “Of course not, Sir.”
My submission seems to anger him. His chair scrapes back as he gets to his feet, his eyes locked on mine as he drags back the barstool next to his.
“Sit.”
My ass is in the chair before I dare second guess myself. Leo murmurs something that might have been approval if his eyes hadn’t still been so shadowed with annoyance. I study the devastation he leaves behind as he goes to fetch another plate. A dish with less than half of the pie left, crumbs scattered over the countertop, a stray dollop of whipped cream looking like an iceberg washed out to sea.
I sit stiffly on the barstool as I watch him cut the remaining piece of pie in half and dish some out for me.
“Cream?”
I shake my head.
“Not even in your coffee?”
“Coffee? This late at night?”
“It’s decaf.”
I give him another shake of my head.
He lets out a displeased rumble. As if it’s any business of his what the hell I eat or whether I want coffee. I snatch the fork from his hand with ill grace and stab off a piece of pie before shoving it into my mouth.
Hilarious that I thought for even a moment this man had an ounce of civility inside him. I’ve never met a control freak as… well, as controlling as him before.
Despite my sour thoughts, I can’t help a little mmm of pleasure rippling up my throat when the pie hits my tastebuds.
“Good, right?” Leo says. “Get it brought in from town. Best pie I’ve ever tasted.” He points at my plate with a fork. “Savor this… it’s the last one.”
Why does that sound like a threat?
He poured me a cup of coffee anyway. I drink it, if only to wash down the pie now sticking in my throat.
I sit back, studying him through my lashes. I know I shouldn’t chance my luck, but I can’t fight my curiosity. “What work do you do?” I ask as casually as possible.
“I’m retired.”
From what? I frown at him. Unless I’m misreading his age by a few decades, he’s not anywhere close to retirement age. “Aren’t you a bit… young?”
“Should have done it sooner,” he says grimly, and then gives my plate a double take. “You don’t like it?”
I take another bite. It’s delicious, but every bite feels like a betrayal to my mother. How can I sit here, calmly eating pie with the man who murdered her?
“I prefer key lime,” I murmur, pushing away the plate.
He shakes his head, eyebrows twitching like he thinks I’ve lost my mind.
It might just be true.
“I suppose I’d best order some groceries in the morning then,” he says. “Unless you can live on coffee.”
I stare at the pie, then back at him. “You’ve been living off this?”
He shrugs. “It’s good pie. And I’ve been—”
“Busy. Yeah, I got that.”
Leo’s frown deepens. “That’s a very annoying habit.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you should broaden your vocabulary, then I won’t finish your sentences for you.”
It shouldn’t be this easy to bait him, but I guess we’re both a little on edge. Leo stands, unnecessarily reminding me just how tall he is. I make the mistake of scrambling off my stool, and that gives him another few inches.
“I warned you about that mouth of yours.” He gives my body a derisive scan. “I’m guessing you can’t afford to lose this job.”
Hell, that’s a low blow.
“Not everyone can own a McMansion and a damn Aston Martin.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“What did you say?”
Instead of retreating meekly like the good little maid I’m pretending to be, my hackles rise and my lips peel back from my teeth.
It’s not a smile. It’s a fucking snarl.
“You pay me to clean, Sir. Curtsies are extra.”
I understand the glint of anger in his gray eyes. What I don’t understand is why his hand inches toward his belt. His eyes track mine, and he grabs his buckle with a white-knuckled hand as if to stop himself… from doing what, exactly?
My skin prickles in a rush of terror as I back away.
He watches me for a moment, and then growls, “Get out of my sight.”
I’m not even a little ashamed at how quickly I scamper out of that kitchen.
CHAPTER 6
Leo
I barely stop myself from slamming my bedroom door.
“Hannah,” I mutter like a curse.
Maybe if I say her name enough times, it’ll desensitize me to her presence.
I’ve got to do something.
Get rid of her.
Yes. That’s the obvious answer. But why the fuck does it feel like abject failure? I’ve never met someone who wasn’t intimidated by me. Seems Hannah gets off on challenging people. I’ll lodge a complaint with the temp agency tomorrow… but I’m undecided if I’ll ask for a replacement. I’d lose too much time.
“Hannah.”
I was busy today. The realtor I signed a sole mandate with had more questions. Several of my old clients expressed their dismay at my retirement plans, and I still have three deals to broker before I can well and truly close the door on this phase of my life.
I’m exhausted… but it has nothing to do with my schedule.
It’s her.
I’m constantly aware of where she is in the house. Not that I’m stalking her. All it takes is a distant clang or thud and I’m picturing her dusting off a windowsill in the drawing room or sweeping out a fireplace in the den.
In defiance of my exhaustion, I take a cold shower. It should help with the urge to put Hannah in her fucking place whenever she gives me that challenging, wide-eyed stare of hers. The one that screams, “Take your best shot, asshole.”
I step under the icy water, my breath hitching.
All I’ve ever needed is a stern word before someone’s hiccupping out an apology to me… but this girl? My fierce looks and threats don’t seem to affect her.
“Hannah.”
I’ve never felt the need to resort to physical means to control someone. When I grabbed her wrist earlier today, I was so close to her that all it would have taken was a hand on the back of her neck, a quick shove against the door, and I’d have her pinned.
At my mercy.
The thought sent such a fucking hedonistic thrill through my body that I got a hard-on. One even an elbow to my stomach barely deflated.
Christ, even thinking about it has my cock at half-mast. I twist my hips, angling them so the icy water hits my thick shaft, but it only seems to aggravate the situation.
Grabbing my cock in a fist, I yank it up, holding my crown in the direct line of the shower as I turn up the pressure even more. Tiny pinpricks of pain scatter over my cock, and I grimace into the sensation.
“Hannah.”
I crossed a line by making her sit with me. Idiot that I am, I thought I could remain civil long enough to share a meal with her.
My mistake.
Before I sent her out of the room like a rebellious child, I’d been seconds away from stripping off my belt and laying it across her plump ass until she howled with pain.
Until she begged me for mercy I wouldn’t give.
“Fuck,” I grit out, giving my cock a hard stroke. The pain is good, but I don’t want to jerk off in the shower… I want my cock in Hannah’s warm pussy.
Christ. This is beyond inappropriate. It’s downright criminal. And even if she wasn’t such a young, pretty thing, I don’t need this in my life. I don’t need her. I’ve loved. I’ve lost. And after that, I’d wished I’d never loved at all. This girl, she’s nothing but a distraction.
I have to get rid of her.
But I can’t send her home.
I tell myself it’s because there’s too little time. I need the house to look its best for the viewing in two days’ time.
Yes, that’s it.
No time.
I’ll just stay out of her way and make sure she stays out of mine. And if I need a few more showers than usual to keep my testosterone at bay, then so be it. And if I need to fantasize about her while I’m jerking off… well, fuck. No one needs to know what I think about.
How I fantasize about bending Hannah over the kitchen counter, yanking down her jeans, and laying a multitude of red stripes over her ass with my belt. Or what I fantasize about doing to her after I’d gotten her ass warmed up.
“Hannah,” I grate out, my hand moving faster over my shaft. My cock looks as angry as I feel, the hardest it’s ever been. And fuck, it doesn’t take more than a few pumps with that taboo fantasy playing through my mind before I’m shooting cum against the shower wall.
It makes me sick to waste it.
I’d rather be filling Hannah with my seed than letting it run down the drain.
I’m determined to go back to work now that my mind’s clear, but I tidy my room instead. I will have to allow the master suite to be viewed during the open house on Wednesday, as much as I abhor the thought of having so many strangers tramping around. Which means Hannah will need to come inside and clean.
I don’t want her thinking I’m a slob, but I’m too tired to figure out why the fuck I care. Cindy would have told me that Mars was in retrograde or something.
When I spot Hannah’s coat on the floor by my closet, I stare at it like it’s a fucking snake. It must have fallen off the door handle where she’d hung it up earlier.
My king-sized bed hid it, so I didn’t even realize she’d left it behind. Did I really scare her that much that she didn’t want to come back for her coat?
I made it clear I wasn’t to be disturbed. Maybe that’s why she’s so belligerent. Can I blame her? I’ve been a horrible boss.
Taking her coat, I go to drape it over my office chair, intent on returning it in the morning. I’d do it tonight, but I don’t trust myself around her. There’s still a sullen ache around my balls, a restlessness in my bones.
Maybe it’s malnutrition. I have literally been surviving on pie. I could have ordered groceries and cooked for myself, but I couldn’t summon a single fuck to give.
I can’t expect Hannah to live on pie. Also, there isn’t any left. After she stormed out of the kitchen with a scowl embedded on her beautiful face, I finished it. And then all the whipped cream. And then I brought a bottle of red wine up with me that’s already empty.
A yawn cracks open my jaw. I look over at my desk, then my bed as I drain the last bit of wine in my glass and set it down beside the empty bottles.
Several empty bottles.
Maybe just a quick nap, then I’ll get to work tidying this place.
My room is warm enough that I don’t bother getting dressed. I leave the towel wrapped around my hips and fall on the mattress face-down. My cock stirs as my thoughts inch back toward Hannah, but my full weight keeps it pinned.
No wonder, when sleep takes me, I dream of doing the same to Hannah.
CHAPTER 7
Hannah
It’s at two o’clock in the morning, when I have my hand down the front of my underwear as I fantasize about Leo, that I realize I have to leave this manor immediately. I haven’t been in proximity to a man as formidable—and drop dead gorgeous—as him. Ever. And it’s throwing me for a loop. Instead of interrogating him, instead of finding evidence of the crime I’m convinced he was involved in, I’ve been cleaning his damn house.
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been affected by him if I hadn’t been too busy for trivial things like dating or one-night stands. But I’ve been playing amateur sleuth while working two jobs. I have my father to thank for that last part. He couldn’t cope with my mother’s death. He started drinking. Started playing poker. Started losing.
He only stopped when there was nothing left. After we’d lost our house, our savings, and both our cars, and we were living in a crappy apartment above an alley that reeked of cat piss and decomposing trash.
Hannah Monroe has one goal—and it doesn’t involve weddings and babies and happily-ever-afters. I mean, who has the time?
Not this girl.
I pluck my hand out of my underwear with a scowl, ripping off the sheets and jumping out of the bed like it’s made of lava.
This is the break I’ve been waiting for, but I was foolish to think I’d be able to crack this case alone.
I need to report this to the police. If they’d even listen to me.
My cellphone fills the guest room with a sterile white glow as I order an Uber. It’ll be here in an hour. That’s plenty of time for me to get the evidence I need.
I shiver, absently grabbing a chenille throw from the foot of the bed to wrap around myself. I was nice and warm under the covers, but I’m guessing Leo doesn’t bother turning on the heat inside the house when he has a roaring fire going in his room twenty-four/seven. The blanket helps a little. At least my teeth aren’t chattering.
Alright.
I have an hour to sneak into his room, find some evidence connecting him with my mother on the night of her murder, then I have to hightail it out of here.
My bare feet are silent on the thick carpets as I creep down the hall to Leo’s room. I listen at his door for a few minutes, and I swear I hear snoring.
Yes!
I pause for a brief prayer offered to whatever deity is on call tonight, and turn the knob.
Someone’s looking out for me—the door’s unlocked.
The heat hits me a moment before the smell of soap and wood fire. It’s not as hot in here as it was the last time—and a quick glance at the sullen red glow throbbing from the blackened logs shows why. I’m surprised Leo didn’t add a few more logs… until my eyes sweep to the bed and I realize why.
Leo’s flat on his stomach. Fast asleep. And wearing just a towel.
The rational part of me knows what to do. Get what I need and then get the hell out.
Unfortunately, the rational part of my brain is currently pinned to a wall in some dark alley of my mind, being brutally mugged by the far more aggressive, irrational part of me… and it’s already handed over its wallet.
So I go over to the bed.
Staring down at Leo’s large, perfectly chiseled body, I wonder if this is what the Lilliputians felt like when they’d tied down Gulliver. I can’t help but take in every corded muscle in his strong body. The faint scars on his chest and arms. His angular jaw. The way his broad back rises and falls. He is snoring, but so quietly I’m surprised I heard it from the doorway.
As if sensing a disturbance, Leo rumbles something incoherent and rolls onto his back.
I clap a hand over my mouth, stifling a surprised gasp that would undoubtedly have woken the sleeping giant. His towel is tented by what can only be a decidedly thick, hard cock.
