CHAPTER NINETEEN
TRAVIS
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Twisting my body, I slide to a stop and turn. Behind me, Brook is traversing the mountain like a...well a novice. The Matterhorn isn’t a beginner’s mountain. To her credit, she wanted to ski, so I gave her some lessons, and after falling over a dozen times, she finally found her groove.
Four hours later, I’m ready for a drink.
Brooklyn glides beside me, and I reach for her, helping to slow her down. Her cheeks are rosy pink, and her eyes look so fucking alive.
The urge to kiss her is insane.
Not kiss her because I want to fuck her...but kiss her.
“That was exhilarating. Wow! Look at this—”
I slam my mouth onto hers, giving into the compulsion.
She moans, our tongues finding one another as I hungrily take from her. Hints of her earlier coffee merge with her moan, and I wonder if staying in Switzerland really is a possibility.
And kidnapping her.
Not that I think it would take much convincing.
It’s becoming impossible to ignore my feelings for Brook, and yet I’m trying really hard. Just not at the moment.
I don’t know who wobbles first, but it starts and then we wobble some more and, cursing, I know this is going to end in disaster.
Our mouths pull apart as we both cry, the world topples, skis fly in the air, and poles drop to the snow as we both go down after them.
Jesus.
That’s when I hear her laugh.
A full belly laugh.
The most beautiful sound in the fucking world.
I turn and take in Brook’s blonde hair splayed out—her wool hat AWOL—and the pink of her cheeks. I’ve never seen anyone more alive.
My lips twitch, my chest starts bouncing and, without my permission, I’m laughing just as hard and loud.
Brook turns to me, and our laughter shifts into grins, like we are two school kids, and then fades to a simmering heat.
We both know what this is.
I don’t think she wants it any more than I do. But it's goddamn here, and I’m not sure what to say.
It’s going to fuck up my plan.
Yet, I don’t want to move. I want to lie here and watch those pretty blue eyes smile at me while the snow melts around us. Part of me aches to reach out to her and say we’ll work this out. The other part wants to run.
The problem is she doesn’t know me.
Not all of me.
She hasn’t met the devil inside me. The one who wants to destroy my father and who will do anything to make that happen.
Giving up Brook?
Yesterday, I would have said yes.
Today? Today feels different.
She chews her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes drift up to the sky.
I’m fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.
I want this woman.
And there’s no way on earth I can have her.
I’ve lied about who I am, and it’s only a matter of time before she figures it out or I have to tell her. Today would be a good time...but we all know that’s not happening.
Can I really walk away from the need to destroy my father and be happy with that for the rest of my life? Could I do that to keep this smart, kind, blue-eyed beauty?
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brOOKLYN
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CHRIST MY BODY hurts, and this time it’s not because Trav has spent the night devouring me.
Although he did.
No, the need to prove I was a competent skier is coming back to bite me. Shoot me, I’m competitive. Thankfully, our suite has the most divine hot tub with a view of the mountains, so we’re currently soaking in it and listening to the wind roar outside.
I’m wondering if Trav is one of those kidnapping kind of billionaires I read about in novels.
If so, let’s hope today is the day he decides to break the law.
I’d happily stay right where I am and shrivel into a prune.
Die happily staring out at the Matterhorn.
And the gorgeous naked man soaking opposite me.
Who looks starving for my body.
No, the fire in his eyes is much more complex than simple lust.
So is yours.
Stupid inner voice. All day, that voice has been going on and on about Travis being the most amazing man and lover on the planet.
That if I were to start dating again (actually, what it said was if we were dating, so I was forced to argue with myself, which is never a good sign), Travis Warner would be a good choice.
Of course he would. He's confident, handsome, has amazing genes (and looks hot as sin in jeans!), wealthy, and successful...and owns a sex club.
Great.
How would that work if we got married and had kids? Sorry Mom, we can’t come over for dinner. Trav is at the sex club tonight, probably having his dick sucked by some twenty-two-year-old, and I’m taking the kids to the movie.
Because there’s no one on earth who can tell me this man, with his insane sex drive, is only going there to work and have cups of coffee.
No way.
No way in hell.
I should have told him I know about it. It’s a moot point, anyway. Despite seeing him as a man I could walk down the aisle to and seeing him protect and love our children, I need to remember what he said.
Don’t mistake possession for love, Brook.
His reaction to me saying I didn’t want kids. That wasn’t what I said, though. Not all women get the chance. It seemed to trigger him. Perhaps because he lost his parents and there’s some link psychologically.
It’s very sad. I have so many questions, but I saw the pain in his eyes, so for once in my life, I stopped asking them. But I want to know if they left him money or if he created this success from the ground up. I’d admire that.
And why did he feel the need to create a sex club?
I guess he’s a billionaire playboy.
Not a man that takes a woman away to Switzerland for a romantic weekend. Not someone who falls on the snow and starts giggling and making snow angels.
That might have just been me. He could have been kicking his ski to stand up. I am sticking to my story, though. Travis Warner making snow angels makes my heart melt.
I snap out of imagining a set of little Travis-Brooklyn twins lying on the snow between us and lift my head off the hot tub pillow.
“God this is amazing.” I moan.
“I might go cut the fuel hose so we can’t fly home.” Travis chuckles.
I don’t think that’s how it works on jets, but I’m no mechanic, so I smile. Because I love that he wants to stay here with me too.
“Thank you for bringing me.”
“It’s my pleasure. Literally.” His foot glides up the inside of my leg.
“So,” I start, wanting to focus on the promise I made with myself when I agreed to this weekend. “Terrance Taylor.”
His foot falls away. I study the lines around his eyes, which deepen when I mention his friend.
“My team hit a brick wall when we looked into your friend.”
“Yeah?” Travis turns and picks up his tall glass of water. He tugs out the straw and tosses it away, then takes a long sip, watching me.
“What year did you meet him?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Well then, how old were you?”
“Like twelve. I think.” He takes another sip.
“A vulnerable age.” I nod, glancing outside.
“Kids are vulnerable at all ages,” he says darkly, and I glance back.
Did they share the same pain? Asking a question like that directly would be completely inappropriate, so I try a different tack.
“Why do you think he shared his story with you?”
More sipping of the water.
“He trusted me. I guess I’m someone that people trust,” Travis says, finishes off the water, and puts the glass down. “You should drink so you don’t dehydrate.”
Deflection.
My instincts are flaring now because it makes no sense for him to be this defensive. So closed down.
“Travis. Why did you tell me?” I turn, grab my water, and sip through the glass straw. “I can’t do much with the information if I can’t find him.”
Travis nods.
“I can’t speak about it on the show either.”
He nods slowly.
“It’s just hearsay.” I watch him stretch out his arms, his chunky wristwatch makes a clunk sound as it touches the edges of the tub.
He might be a beautiful man, but he’s got a big secret.
I’d put money on it.
But what? What is he hiding?
Any journalist will tell you they listen to their instincts, especially when they get louder and louder. We don’t always find the facts to back it up, but we never ignore them.
“It is.” Travis tilts his head ever so slightly. “But it speaks to the man being guilty of what you’re investigating. So isn’t that encouraging?”
“Yes. Did you meet his father? Leo?”
Blink, blink, blink.
“There’s a possibility he’s been at events I’ve attended over the years. I am on the invite list for very powerful men, including politicians, actors, industry heads.”
The way he worded that was so damn careful, I know he’s choosing the words I want to hear. Or rather, not what I want to hear.
So I keep going.
“Have you been introduced to him?”
“Not that I recall.”
Not that he recalls...so he might know him but was never introduced. Clever.
“You met Terrance when you were about twelve. He went to Phillips Academy—a very pricy boarding school. How did your paths cross?”
It can’t have just been a sporting event. No one is going to open up and share about the childhood abuse they experienced after kicking ball with a stranger.
Nor a frat party. They were too young.
“I would think, Ms. McKenna, that your efforts would be better focused on those who suffered at the hands of Mr. Taylor, not someone who has mentioned in passing that he’d met the man’s son and shared a conversation— a private and sensitive conversation— that gives credibility to the accusations you’ve received. ”
Fuck.
“Plus, forgive me if I’m wrong”—he lifts as brow—“but I don’t think I’m on the stand. Am I?”
Shit.
“I’m sorry.” I lower my eyes.
“If Terrance doesn’t want to be found, it’s unlikely he will be. Before you ask, I don’t know where he is.” He adds firmly.
I tug my lip and stir my drink, searching for the right words. I’m naked and interrogating this man while away on a romantic weekend.
I pushed too far.
It’s possible Travis was harmed as a child also, before his parents died, or by a foster parent. God knows that happens more often than not.
Travis could be trying to help his friend.
Even if we did find him, then what? Was Travis the only person he shared his story with? That would break their confidence.
Damn it.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I give him an apologetic smile.
As I glance out at the snowy mountains, I wonder about the coincidence of our meeting and him knowing Terrance. I don’t believe in coincidences though...
When I get home, I’ll be able to think clearer. I’m going to tell the team about Travis. Something isn’t adding up. It doesn’t help that he’s drop-dead gorgeous and his tattooed muscular body is cut like glass.
And he has a really nice dick.
That despite neither of us wanting more than a dirty few nights together, we seem to enjoy each other’s company, make each other laugh, and are not able to keep our hands off each other.
Plus, those few moments...
I know I shouldn’t be thinking this, and I’ll probably kick myself for it, but if there was something more serious between us, and if I did decide to date again, I really don’t want Leo fucking Taylor and his shitty life choices to destroy it.
Am I the person responsible for making sure his crimes are exposed?
What he did to those people is not on me.
Perhaps I’ve done all I can do?
The mood changes back to a light, flirty one when Travis tugs me over to sit on his lap, taking my mouth in his. Then his cock thrusts inside me, and I barely see the pretty mountain as his hot seed fills me.
After showering and drying off, I check my messages and flop down on the bed as the blood drains from my face.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Travis strides across the room, palms my back, and towers over me as he asks, “What is it?”
I press play on the video that was sent to me, and we listen to Taylor's legal team speaking to the world press.
“The outlandish allegations made by Ms. McKenna, a failed New York Times reporter who was fired, are false. Not only are they clearly a desperate act by this podcaster to gain followers and profit from Mr. Taylor’s success, but her and her inexperienced team are dragging his fans into a rabbit hole which has no proof and no substance. ”
“Jesus.” Travis runs a hand over his face.
“We are calling on Ms. McKenna to cease her”—he holds up his hands to mimic quotes— “‘ investigation ’ and stop causing further harm to Mr. Taylor, his reputation, and his family.”
I drop the phone onto my lap.
“First, I wasn’t fired. I’m not desperate, and I’m a fucking investigative journalist, not a reporter.” I stand, throw the phone on the bed and cross my arms.
When I glance up at Travis, the way he’s looking at me scares me.
“What family?” he asks, crossing his arms.
Huh.
Good question.