CHAPTER TEN — ONE TABOO NIGHT
Marnie
The city’s alive in a way that’s almost too vivid, every window blazing with stories, every street smeared with red tail lights, every dark alley a gaping mouth.
I stand at the curb, phone clutched in one hand, brown bag in the other, and tell myself for the tenth time that I can still back out.
But I don’t. I take a deep breath and step into the lobby of Brent’s luxury high rise.
The air smells rich somehow, like polish and money, as the concierge smiles politely.
“Go on up, Ms. Williams. He’s expecting you.”
Oh my god, Brent gave them special instructions!
But I teeter to the elevator bank in high heels, and like magic, the burnished doors part soundlessly and swallow me whole.
My reflection stares back in the mirrored walls, not quite me but not quite not, either.
I look taller than I remember, all legs and hips and mouth, hair loose and glossy from the kind of blowout you only buy when you’re about to risk it all.
The elevator whisks me upward at a speed that does something weird to my organs, and for a split second I imagine I’m being launched to the moon, or heaven, or the place where women go when they want to lose themselves.
The doors open on the private landing leading to Brent’s penthouse, and in a moment, the alpha male appears.
He’s framed by the glow of the apartment like a Renaissance oil, all harsh bone structure and blue-black shadow.
He’s not in a suit, for once, but expensive jeans and a shirt that shows off his chest—broad, tanned, perfectly ridged—on proud display.
There’s a gold watch on his wrist. He’s barefoot, and somehow this makes him twice as dangerous.
“Marnie,” he rasps, as if he’s been waiting all week for this exact second. His voice is a velvet trap.
I blink. “Hi,” I manage. “It’s good to see you.”
He glances past me, then back. “You bring what I asked?”
I hold up the brown bag. “Sixteen-year Lagavulin. As requested, sir.”
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, and for a second my knees forget their job. His touch is rougher than I expect, but the gratitude in his eyes is real. “I like a woman who follows instructions.”
“I wasn’t aware there were instructions,” I quip, but the joke’s hollow, all my bravado gone to hell.
Brent motions me inside. The penthouse is as beautiful as before, but I hardly see it: slate floors, leather so dark it eats light, and sculptures that look like they were forged by warring gods.
The art is original, and every window is floor-to-ceiling, making the whole place feel like it floats a mile above the city, untethered from gravity.
But of course, I’m completely focused on the alpha male before me.
He hands me a flute of champagne, poured from a bottle so cold it stings my palm.
The glass is thin enough to shatter with a look.
“Take a seat,” Brent says, indicating the sectional sofa, which is wide enough to sleep a rugby team. “James will be here in a minute.”
I perch at the edge, careful not to let my skirt ride up past indecency, and sip the champagne.
The bubbles are tiny, the flavor like apples and something else, something expensive.
I smooth my hands over my lap, double-check that my blouse is still covering the essentials, and make a mental note that I’m here.
I’m excited. And I can’t wait for the evening to begin.
Brent watches me from the bar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler.
He doesn’t talk, just studies me, blue eyes tracing my throat, my mouth, the way my legs cross and uncross.
It’s not the cold, analytical gaze of a boss.
It’s more intimate than that. It’s the look of a man who’s read the blueprint and is now planning the demolition.
“Nice shoes,” he says after a long silence.
I look down, startled. “Thanks. The stilettos are new.”
“They look like trouble.”
I feel the urge to say something clever, but my brain short-circuits. “That’s the idea,” I hear myself say.
He smiles, the kind that crinkles the edges of his eyes. “Good.”
There’s a buzz at the door. Brent strides over, opens it without breaking eye contact with me, and James steps in.
James is in charcoal slacks and a black T-shirt, the sleeves hugging biceps that are, frankly, absurd for a lawyer. His hair’s a little mussed, like he just rolled out of a fight or a bed. He’s carrying a battered leather folder, thick with documents.
“Evening, sweetheart,” he says, dropping the folder on the glass coffee table with a thud. “It’s good to see you.”
“Hi,” I murmur. “Nice to see you too.”
James’s black eyebrow goes up. “Nervous?”
I shake my head. “No, of course not.”
He sits, sprawling out next to me, close enough that our knees almost touch. Brent brings over his whiskey, sits on my other side, and the three of us form a loose, charged triangle. For a minute, no one speaks.
Then James says, “You want to see it?”
I look at him, not sure if he means the evidence or something else.
He nods to the folder. “The stuff about your father.”
I reach for it, but before my fingers touch the leather, James catches my wrist, gentle but immovable.
“Not yet,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Let’s have a drink first. For courage.”
He lets go, but the imprint of his hand lingers, a heat that crawls up my arm and settles in my chest.
Brent pours a fresh flute of champagne and hands it to me. “To truth, whatever that is,” he says.
James raises his glass. “To honesty, even when it’s ugly.”
Oh shit, why are they speaking in riddles already? Nonetheless, I take a drink. The champagne is sweeter this time, or maybe my tongue is numb.
Brent leans in, his thigh pressed against mine, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You know you can still walk away.”
I shrug helplessly. “You both keep saying that. I’m starting to think you want me to.”
James smirks, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “Sweetheart, if we didn’t want you here, you’d know.”
I look at them: Brent, all contained power and careful distance; James, loose and hungry, his eyes never leaving my face.
The tension is a live animal, pacing just under the surface.
I cross my legs again, my skirt riding up an inch, and both men watch the movement like cats eyeing a canary.
I take another drink, draining the glass. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s see what you have here.”
James opens the folder and flips through the pages.
He extracts a single sheet and places it in front of me, careful not to touch my hand this time.
It’s a witness statement, the signature at the bottom blurred out.
I lean in, tracing the lines with my finger, scanning for the clue that will redeem my father or destroy him completely.
The men watch me read. Brent’s hand rests on my knee, casual, but it’s a promise and a warning at once. James sits back, arms folded, his gaze more tender than I expect.
I look up. “Why are you giving me this?”
James shrugs. “Because you earned it.”
Brent says, “Because you’re brave enough to want the truth.”
I read another page, and another. My throat goes tight; my eyes sting. I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall.
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice, and I mean it.
James closes the folder, then takes my empty glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. “We’re not monsters, Marnie. Just men.”
Brent’s grip tightens on my knee, then lets go.
I sit back, heart pounding, the evidence heavy in my lap.
For a minute, we’re just three people on a sofa, no office, no city, no past.
Then Brent says, “Are you ready?”
My body says yes before my mouth can catch up.
I glance at James, who gives me a slow, knowing nod.
“I’m ready,” I whisper.
And there’s no turning back because our taboo night has finally come … and I can’t wait.
Brent stands first, one hand outstretched, and I take it because the alternative is to fall into a heap and admit how badly I’m shaking.
His fingers are rough and warm, and he draws me up off the sofa with a gentleness that doesn’t match the rumors.
James follows, slow and easy, as if he already knows where this is going and wants to savor the journey.
Brent’s hand stays on mine as he walks me through the apartment, past the steel kitchen and into a hallway that seems to go on forever. At the end is a double door. He opens it and ushers me inside.
The bedroom is massive—no, not massive, because the word doesn’t do it justice.
It’s a command center, with a California King in the middle, slate walls, and the city fanned out in a thousand sparking dots beyond the glass.
The sheets are black, the pillows so plush they look criminal.
There’s nothing girlish, nothing soft, except for the single vase of lilies on a table by the bed, starkly beautiful in the low lights.
James closes the doors behind us, a deliberate click that makes my pulse skip. He comes up behind me, his hands heavy on my shoulders, massaging through the thin fabric of my blouse.
“You’re beautiful, Marnie,” he whispers in my ear, his bulk pressed up against my back. “You’re more than we deserve.”
Brent moves in close, so close I can smell the smoke and spice of his skin, the whisky on his breath. He lifts my chin with two fingers and holds my gaze, then leans in and kisses me.
“Don’t hold back, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Not tonight. Give us everything.”
Then his tongue pushes into my mouth. There’s no warning, no soft open.
He’s all control, tongue teasing, lips demanding, and I melt so fast it’s almost embarrassing.
James’s hands keep massaging my shoulders, then drift down to the small of my back, pinning me between the two of them.
I’m aware of every nerve ending, every spot where their bodies touch mine, even through the layers of clothing.