Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
marlowe
A fterward we lay wrapped up in a blanket on a big plush rug in his sitting room. The only light comes from the low fire crackling in the stone fireplace.
Gunner holds me in his arms, my head cradled against his warm chest. We’re both quiet, listening to the soft strains of Tchaikovsky’s Souvenir de Florence . I’ve never been with a man who shares my appreciation for classical music. But then, Gunner Ransom is no ordinary man. He’s older, wiser and far more experienced than me. He’s seen worlds and traveled to places I can only dream about. Being with him is thrilling. Intoxicating. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I just hope to God he won’t break my heart.
“What’re you thinking?” he murmurs into my hair.
“Not much,” I say softly. “Just enjoying the music. Tchaikovsky is one of the first composers my father introduced me to.”
“Yeah?” Gunner traces lazy circles on my hip. “What’s your favorite piece?”
“Hmm. It’s hard to say. I mean, the 1812 Overture is his most famous work. And Swan Lake , The Nutcracker and The Sleeping Beauty are his most popular ballets—all amazing, obviously. But if I had to pick a favorite piece, it would have to be the Pathétique Symphony . That’s the song I performed at the spring concert during my senior year.”
“I’m impressed,” Gunner says warmly. “ Pathétique is considered one of the greatest symphonic masterpieces of all time.”
“I know,” I say with a quiet smile. “It was Tchaikovsky’s last work and such a powerful piece. I chose it because I wanted to challenge myself, the way my father would have if he were still alive. I was at a recital when he died, so performing in front of audiences has always been particularly emotional for me. During my performance at the spring concert, I imagined him up in heaven grinning and cheering me on.”
Gunner kisses the top of my head and hugs me closer, whispering against my hair, “I know you made him very proud.”
My heart expands at his words. “Thank you,” I whisper, nuzzling my face into the curve of his neck.
He strokes his hand up and down my back, a tender caress that leaves me tingling and warm. “I have season tickets for the Austin Symphony. Maybe I’ll take you to a concert this fall.”
My pulse leaps with excitement. “Like a date?”
“Like a date.” Amusement threads his voice. “Would that be okay with you?”
I smile against his skin. “I think I could manage.”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, deepening my smile.
I circle his flat nipple with my finger, fascinated by the tiny bumps on the outer edge. “Speaking of dates . . . I lied to you.”
His hand stills on my back. “Lied about what?”
“My date with Dawson.” I bite my lower lip, feeling foolish. “I didn’t have a good time. It was horrible.”
“Horrible?”
“A disaster.”
“Damn,” Gunner drawls. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
I tilt my head back to eye him suspiciously. “You don’t look sorry.”
“I am.” His grin belies his words as he shifts his head on the pillow to meet my gaze. “What happened?”
I scowl. “He was an asshole. Boring, shallow, conceited. When he wasn’t bragging about himself, he was fawning over you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you .” I roll my eyes. “Apparently he’s your biggest fan. He was hoping I’d introduce him to you, the scheming prick.”
Gunner’s grin turns smug. “I hate to say I told you so?—”
I poke him in the ribs, and he lets out a rumbling laugh that echoes around the room.
When I pull away in a snit, he hauls me back into his arms, imprisoning my body against his. I surrender with a dramatic huff, fighting a grin as my head resettles on his chest.
His fingers sink into my hair, gently kneading my scalp and sending a new flurry of tingles over my skin. “I’m sorry Dawson turned out to be a pathetic loser. Want me to kick his ass?”
“No,” I grumble. “He’s such a fanboy, he’d probably enjoy it.”
Gunner laughs, nuzzling my hair with his cheek as Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major starts playing.
I trace the ridges of muscle on his chest, working up the nerve to broach one of the topics that’s been on my mind since that morning. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.” He sounds wary.
“What happened with your previous housekeeper?”
I feel his body tense beneath me.
After a few seconds, he says tightly, “Why are you asking about her?”
“I’m just curious. You said it didn’t work out. I’d like to know why so I don’t repeat any of her mistakes,” I say half jokingly.
He’s not amused. “She didn’t have the right temperament for the job. So I fired her.”
“I see.” But I don’t see. Not without specific details, which he’s clearly unwilling to share. “Your mother said your housekeepers are getting younger and younger. How old was my predecessor?”
He hesitates. “Twenty-seven.”
I run a finger down his chest. “Was she pretty?”
“Dammit, Marlowe,” he growls in frustration. “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re wondering. I told you last night that I don’t fool around with my employees, and I meant it. You’re the only exception I’ve ever made.”
His anger makes me feel guilty for doubting him. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I guess I let your mother’s words get under my skin.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he says darkly. “She thrives on exploiting people’s fears and insecurities. It’s her lifeblood.”
I recognize the bitterness in his voice. It reminds me of my own tangled feelings toward my mother. “Is that why you two aren’t close? Because she’s cold and spiteful?”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
I can tell it’s a sore subject for him, just as it is for me. I should probably drop it, but I want to get to know him better. I want to know what makes him tick, what drives him, what excites him, what scares him.
And secretly, I want to know if I could ever make him happy.
“So what’s the story with you and your mother?” I gently probe. “What else poisoned your relationship?”
He’s silent for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally does, his voice is so low I can barely hear him.
“She thinks I’m too much like my father, and she resents me for it.”
I draw a musical note on his skin. “How are you and your father alike?”
There’s another long pause. “We’re both hardheaded. Ruthlessly ambitious. Single-minded.” His voice lowers. “Restless.”
The last word has me tilting my head back to look at him. But he’s staring into the fire, his face brooding and unreadable.
I lay my palm against his hard pec, feeling the rigid tension in his body. “How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Fifteen.”
I stroke his heated skin. “That must have been very difficult for you and your brother.”
He gives a barely perceptible nod.
Getting him to open up is like pulling teeth. But I’m a very determined woman. “What happened after the divorce?”
His jaw ticks. “Mom pulled Maverick and me out of school and took us to Dallas.”
“Is that where she’s from?”
“Yes.” He’s still staring into the fire, the flames casting shadows over his face. “Her parents welcomed us back with open arms. They never approved of their daughter running off with some redneck from a podunk town. Even though Dad was a rising star at Chevron, he didn’t have the right pedigree for the Billingsleys.”
“Your mom’s family is rich?”
Gunner nods. “They’re old Dallas money. My great-grandfather raised thoroughbred racehorses before reinvesting his fortune in banking and insurance. Mom was a beauty queen and a debutante. She wasn’t supposed to marry someone like Dale Ransom.”
“How did they meet?” I ask with fascinated curiosity.
“Mom was participating in a parade at the Fort Worth rodeo. Dad was visiting friends for the weekend. As the story goes, when Mom came out on the parade float, Dad took one look at her and said, ‘I’m gonna marry that girl.’ When his friends laughed and told him she was out of his league, he took it as a challenge to prove them wrong. He finagled an introduction and then wooed her, showering her with attention and expensive gifts. They had a whirlwind courtship and were married within three months despite her parents’ strong objections. Dad bought her a big house, furs, jewelry—all the trappings of wealth she was used to. They were madly in love . . . until they weren’t.”
I watch his expression darken, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “When did he start cheating?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know.” His voice is hard. “But it wasn’t just the cheating that ruined their marriage. He also had a serious gambling addiction. He gambled away our money and pawned all the family valuables. We lost damn near everything but the clothes on our backs. But even then, when we were on the brink of bankruptcy, he was too proud and stubborn to seek help from Mom’s parents. They’d practically disowned her for marrying him, so he refused to accept one dime from them. That was one of the many things he and Mom argued about. Sometimes their arguments got so ugly, my brother and I would intervene before they came to blows.”
I stare at him in horror. “Your father hit your mom?”
“No,” he says darkly. “Maverick and I would have killed him, and he knew that. But Mom had a pretty nasty temper. When she slapped him, he usually just stormed off. But whenever he got really drunk, there was no guarantee he could restrain himself. Unfortunately, he was drunk more often than sober. So Maverick and I were always on edge, prepared for anything and primed for the worst.”
My heart breaks at the pain in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Gunner,” I say softly. “No child should ever have to go through that.”
“I agree.” His chest rises and falls as he drags in an uneven breath. “After the divorce, Dad followed us to Dallas. Mom had full custody, but she honored Dad’s visitation rights. That was probably a mistake, in hindsight. He couldn’t keep a job or stay sober, and his gambling got worse. When Mav and I left home for college, our grandparents filed a restraining order against Dad to keep him away from us. He ignored it, of course, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to turn our backs on him. So we gave him money whenever he came sniffing around, and we believed him every time he promised to stop drinking and get his shit together.” Gunner’s jaw tightens. “For the past twelve years, we’ve taken turns bailing him out of trouble. It’s an endless fucking cycle.”
I lick my lips, almost afraid to ask. “Where is he now? Is he still in Dallas?”
“No,” Gunner says coldly. “He’s here in Austin. Two years ago, he totaled his car and got arrested for drunk driving. It was his third DWI, so the judge revoked his license and sentenced him to rehab instead of prison. Once he was released, he refused to come stay with me or Mav. He said he needed his independence. We knew we couldn’t leave him to his own devices, so we put him up in a senior living community for recovering addicts. He has his own private bungalow, and the property is staffed with the best medical professionals and round-the-clock security. He can’t leave the premises without getting our permission first.”
“Wow,” I say quietly. “I’m really sorry it has to be that way. But he shouldn’t be drinking and driving. My father was killed in a hit-and-run, possibly by a drunk driver. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on any family.”
Gunner squeezes me gently, offering silent comfort.
“Your father is very lucky to have you and Maverick. You’re saving lives, including his.”
“Which is more than he deserves.” Gunner rakes his fingers through the mussed locks on his forehead, his bicep bulging with the movement. When I reach up and cradle his cheek, he turns to look at me. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw tight.
“Thank you for opening up to me,” I say softly.
He turns his face into my palm and kisses the center of it, staring into my eyes as a tremor passes through me. “I don’t want to be a stranger to you, Marlowe. I want you to know who I am, where I’ve been and how far I still have to go.”
My heart squeezes at his words. “This is a good start,” I whisper to him.
He studies me intently, his eyes roving over my tousled hair and makeup-free face. Just when I’m starting to feel self-conscious, he rolls over on top of me, settling between my legs in a way that sends heat rushing through my body. I stare up at him as he stretches my hands above my head and pins them to the floor, his strong fingers shackling my wrists.
My heart rate thunders in my veins. “Gunner?—”
“I’ve never considered myself a jealous man,” he says in a low growl. “That changed the moment I watched you climb into that motherfucker’s car. The thought of him sitting close to you, touching you, breathing the same air—it drove me fucking crazy. I had to find something to do to distract myself, or I would’ve torn the city apart looking for you.” His eyes darken in the firelight. “Please don’t put me through that again, Marlowe.”
I smile slowly. Reveling in my power. “What are you saying, Mr. Ransom?”
“No more dates with other men.”
“What about study dates with male classmates?”
His eyes narrow. “No.”
“Seriously?”
“Mixed-gender study groups are fine. One-on-ones with guys? Not a fucking chance.”
I bite my twitching lip. “You’re very possessive, aren’t you?”
“Only with you.” He flexes his hips, the broad head of his cock nudging my entrance. “Do we have an agreement?”
Pinned beneath him with my wrists bound in his hands and my body aching for his, there’s only one answer I can give: “Yes.”
His eyes flash with satisfaction. Then he wraps my legs around his waist and slides into me, and everything else fades away . . . .