Page 3 of Vows in Name Only
He’d been mourning his father, and she’d been ogling him as if he’d been Mr. December in a Billionaires of the Year calendar. Maybe her father was right, and he reallycouldn’ttake her anywhere.
A piercing longing stabbed her in the chest, and she pressed a palm over her heart, rubbing the phantom soreness. Ten years she’d been in this world of wealth, and she still didn’t fit in. No amount of etiquette classes or designer wardrobes could remedy that.
What she wouldn’t give to be gone from this Beacon Hill home, hell, fromBoston, and be back in their old house in Plainfield, New Jersey, that had been full of family, with her and her parents on one side of the duplex, and her uncle, aunt and three cousins on the other. Their home had been crowded, relatives flowing from one apartment to the other with slamming doors, loud voices and laughter. Their home had been happy.
That had been before her mother had died from a lingering cough that she’d refused to see the doctor about. A cough that had evolved into a severe case of pneumonia. That had been before her father had channeled his grief, anger and ambition into growing his chain of electronics stores, eventually selling to a larger company. That had been before he’d invested profit from the sale in a tech company that would lead the industry in defense-level security and go from respectably wealthy to filthy rich.
That had been before he decided Plainfield was too “boorish” for him and his daughter—his words, not hers. She loved her hometown, loved her family. But he’d cut off all ties and moved them to Boston where his job had become infiltrating the rarified ranks of the blue bloods of high society. Ranks into which all his nouveau riche money couldn’t buy entrance.
Didn’t stop him from trying though.
Hence, their presence at Barron Farrell’s funeral. Her father hadn’t been able to pass up an opportunity to rub elbows in this affluent circle of businessmen, socialites and celebrities. But to be fair, he wasn’t the only one treating the billionaire’s death like a tea party.
Heaving another sigh, she picked up her glass and rose from the bench. She’d better head back inside before her father came looking for her with his constantly disappointed and disapproving scowl. Her fingers tightened around the stem, and she briefly closed her eyes, weathering the momentary vise on her heart. God, she remembered a time when only affection, love and pride had brightened his dark eyes. That had been when he’d been a husband and father, content with a couple of stores. That’d been before death had cleaved their lives in two.
Staring at the pointed toes of her black Louis Vuittons, she stepped back on the paved garden path, dragging.
“Damn you.”
The low, rumbling growl reached her seconds before a tall, powerful figure stalked around the row of hedges, pausing inches away from her. The corner of the shrubbery offered her flimsy cover, and she clung to it, gaping at the man pacing back and forth. From the bench she’d just vacated to the wall across the slim path and back again.
Not just a man.
Cain Farrell.
Anger seemed to vibrate off his large frame in humid waves. No, not anger.Fury.With his black hair, black suit and dangerous stride, he resembled a predator. Sleek, dark and lethal. Waiting for the right prey to cross his path so he could pounce...devour.
Did it make her foolish that she couldn’t ascertain if she wanted to avoid becoming said prey, or...or surrender to the insane need to soothe him? To pet his hair, stroke those broad shoulders? Yes, it did make her a fool. Because one didnottry and comfort a beast on the hunt.
Even if he was an incredibly sexy beast...
Cain jerked to a halt, pinning her with a narrowed but brilliant stare and jamming her breath in her lungs.
Damn.
“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was constructed of midnight, the most expensive Scotch...and dark chocolate. Yummy.
“Me?” she rasped. Oh God. She mentally shook her head, but then made the mistake of looking into the absolute beauty of his eyes. Wow. Given the distance between them, she hadn’t determined the color at the cemetery. But now... “I’d wondered,” she breathed.
Dark, arrogant brows slanted down over his startling, blue-gray eyes. A wolf’s eyes. The sense of being in the presence of a predator grew, but instead of fear, excitement tinged with nerves hummed under her skin.
Don’t be silly.
“You wondered what?” Cain asked, impatience a tight snap in his voice.
“Your eyes,” she blurted out, inwardly wincing and cursing her decision to pick up that third glass of wine. Shrugging a shoulder, she added, “I couldn’t tell the color at the graveside service. But now, I, uh, know,” she finished. Lamely. Scrounging for a smile, she moved forward, erasing the scant distance separating them. “Devon.”
She stretched her hand toward him—the hand not clutching the wineglass for dear life. For several taut seconds, he glared down at it, then slowly lifted his arm.
His long, elegant fingers engulfed hers. Branding her. Fire licked at her palm, blazed up her arm and swirled in her chest like a star seconds from imploding. His gaze rose from their clasped hands and traveled the path the flames had taken. Only his gaze dipped lower, taking in the rest of her petite frame before finally landing on her face again.
Extricating her hand from his, she fought the need to rub her tingling palm against her thigh. She hiked up her chin to meet his wolf’s gaze. She knew what he saw. What everyone saw. Short. Nondescript features. She’d overheard one “gentleman” call her forgettable. Breasts and hips too heavy and rounded to be fashionable. Her best feature was the thick, caramel curls that were wrapped in a knot at the back of her head now, but when loose, reached the middle of her back. Her mother’s hair.
No, she wasn’t a great beauty, and no doubt he dated women whose faces belonged on big screens and whose bodies graced swimwear magazines, but screw it. One of her first lessons after moving to Boston had been never,everlet anyone know they could intimidate her. The first whiff of weakness and they circled like vultures over a carcass. Being on the receiving end of that attack one too many times, her motto was now,Fake it until you get home and barricade yourself in your bedroom with chips, ranch dip and Netflix.
It worked for her.
Cain stared at her, silent and brooding. And even though she shook inside, she didn’t waver. But, damn, those eyes. Eerie in their beauty. Like he could see past flesh and bone, down to her soul...
