Chapter Six #3
The words stirred nothing but shock and suspicion. That it was a ploy. A trap. And at no point since then have I ever considered, let alone yearned for, what Ashon has now.
I’m almost relieved when he pushes back his chair. ‘Come. Let me show you the new wine selection I commissioned from South America.’
We walk the corridor towards his temperature-controlled cellar, the air cooler, quieter. He pauses at the sound of Cilla’s laugh, his expression softening all over again.
I roll my eyes. ‘Seriously, do you have to fold like a cheap suit every time she breathes?’
He just grins, unoffended. ‘When you find your person, you’ll understand.’
My jaw tightens, but I say nothing. Words feel dangerous right now. My gaze flicks towards the door where the voices float from, Tessa’s low murmur weaving through Cilla’s warm tones.
Then the image surges, wild and unbidden…of Tessa heavy with my child, radiant, irresistible, glowing with a power that would eclipse every carefully built wall I’ve put in place.
I shove the thought down hard, but it clings like burrs to my mind.
Ashon slaps my back, dragging me out of the spiral. ‘They’ll be knee-deep in baby talk. We’ve got time for you to tell me what’s up with you.’
I bark a laugh, offhand. ‘Not listening and most definitely not participating. I’m here for the wine and nothing else.’ But the words taste like a lie.
Because I can’t shake it. The image of Tessa, pregnant. Glowing. Beautiful in a way that would undo me entirely. Seriously…what the hell? Less than five minutes ago I was counting my blessings over my lucky escape from Tamara’s schemes. And now—
My phone vibrates, sharp and insistent, dragging me further off balance. I glance at the screen. It’s a message from the private security firm I hired. The one I asked to dig into Tessa’s impromptu trip to London.
Because when all’s said and done, women lie. Don’t they?
The wine cellar is hushed and chilled, rows upon rows of bottles gleaming like sentries in glass and oak. Ashon swipes his hand across a rack, waxing lyrical about terroir and vintages, but my phone buzzes again, insistent.
The report.
I unlock it, skimming the first few lines. Subject spent eight hours in London. Visited Mayfair, then Westminster. No evidence of rendezvous with male companion. No contact traced to known acquaintances.
Relief slams into me so hard I nearly stumble.
Not another man. She didn’t go to another man.
Ashon’s sharp gaze flicks to me. ‘Careful.’
I look up, brows drawn. ‘What?’
‘Don’t start fires you won’t be able to put out. Or worse, burn the whole structure down before you’ve laid the first foundation.’ His words are calm, but there’s steel in them, the steel of a man who’s built his life from rubble and won’t watch me set mine ablaze.
I snap the screen dark, unwilling to let him glimpse more. He doesn’t know how close to the bone he’s just cut.
Because yes, the relief is staggering, unwelcome. It hints at the possibility of trust, at Tessa being different.
But I know better.
How many times did my mother smile, swear she’d changed, then sneak out to another man’s bed? How many times did society mock me for her sins, pity me with cloying sympathy one day, then sneer the next, spitting that I’d grow into the same kind of person?
And perhaps I did. The playboy mask fit well enough.
It kept the jackals fed and the whispers satisfied.
Better they believe I’m nothing more than a man ruled by his cock than see the truth—that my mind, not my trousers, is what built my success.
If they laughed, if they dismissed me, then they never saw me coming when I beat them with pure, unadulterated intelligence.
That strategy made me a billionaire. Not someone who believes the na?ve notion that people can change on the strength of one good deed.
So no. I wasn’t about to fall under Tessa Rockson’s spell.
Ashon plucks a bottle from the rack, turns to offer it, but I’m already walking towards the stairs, blood humming with something dangerous.
‘What are you doing?’ he calls after me.
I glance back, my mouth curving into a wicked smile. ‘Ending this insufferable dinner the only way I know how.’
Ashon mutters something under his breath, but I don’t stop.
I stride into the dining room, the air still sweet with pepper and garlic. Tessa looks up, startled, Cilla beside her with a teacup poised midair.
I don’t give her time to protest. I haul her to her feet, sling her over my shoulder as easily as if she weighs nothing, ignoring her gasp, her fists pounding at my back.
‘Theo!’ she cries, half outrage, half disbelief.
‘Save it,’ I growl, already moving. ‘You’ve had your tea. I’ve had my fill of polite conversation. Time to go.’
Behind me, Ashon’s bark of laughter follows, mingled with Cilla’s soft, astonished exclamation.
And then we’re outside, striding past the startled staff, the night air hot against my skin. I set her in the car, slide in beside her and gun the engine.
In the rearview mirror, Ashon and Cilla stand framed in the doorway—wide-eyed, intrigued, maybe even faintly amused.
Let them watch.
Because if I’m going to burn, I’ll do it on my own terms.