THREE MONTHS HAVE GONE BY without the taste of Gabriel Storm in my mouth, the scent of his skin in my nostrils, the rush of his powerful body pounding into mine. In a few minutes, he’ll arrive for the closing of the SouthWind deal. Given an option, I would have scheduled a vacation, preferably one on the dark side of the moon. But I’m responsible for the closing documents and my presence is required. So here I stand, breathless with anxiety, heart pounding with anticipation.

This is not good for the child I carry. His child. Gabriel Storm’s, the powerful COO of Storm Industries. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. I never told him. There never seemed to be the right time to do so. And then at the end, I couldn’t let him know, because it would have meant the destruction of everything he cherished, everyone he cared for.

He’s made no attempt to communicate with me since the stormy summer night I walked out on him. No phone calls, no emails, not even a text. I don’t blame him, not really. What else could he do after I admitted to betraying him. It isn’t true, of course. I would never do such a thing. But I was forced to make a clean break, so he’d never want anything to do with me. Still, after everything we did, after everything we meant to each other, his silence hurts more than I care to admit. I shrug. Just as well. It will make him easier to ignore when I see him again.
Yeah,
I know, denial at its best.

“You look like you’re about to pass out. Are you okay?” CeCe. My rock. I don’t know what I would have done without her in the last three months. She covered for me while I puked in the bathroom, answered innumerable questions about pregnancy and childbirth, and most of all listened when I poured out my misery.

“Yes.” I’m not. But fake it ‘til you make it, right?

“Here.” She hands me a water bottle. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks.” I unscrew the top, guzzle half the container. The cold liquid feels good going down, and it gives my hands something to do besides shake.

A rustle of excitement outside the glass-enclosed conference room draws my attention. Many of the women from the law firm, and some of the men, have found an excuse to hang outside. They laugh, giggle.
Oh, please
. Don’t they have anything better to do? When Mr. Carrey frowns at them, some disperse but most remain right where they are.

And then Mr. Carrey’s new secretary is walking down the hallway toward the conference room, ahead of two people. One is Miranda Stone, Vice President of Acquisitions at Storm Industries, and the other . . .

I stop breathing.

He’s allowed his hair to grow. That fabulous kissed-by-the-sun golden mane reaches his shoulders now. He walks into the conference room, his glance bouncing around the room, landing on no one in particular. As ever, his gaze mesmerizes me. Was there a time when I wasn’t fascinated by those ocean-blue eyes of his? He’s wearing one of his killer two-piece suits, a dark blue one which caresses his broad shoulders and showcases his powerful legs to perfection. He’s the same.

And yet, he’s not.

He no longer walks with that smooth, sexy gait of his, but with a stutter step as he leans on a walking stick. Pain lines groove his face. His suffering guts me as much as it did when I heard he’d been injured. He never revealed the cause. And the tabloids never found out, even though they looked under every rock and hounded him for weeks. But clearly it caused major damage, to his right leg at the very least.

When somebody makes a comment about the cane, he jokes about his limp. Apparently, a tree ran into him during a skiing trip. But I spot something in the depths of his eyes that tells me he’s lying. Something else caused that injury.

Mr. Carrey steps up to him, shakes his hand and that of Gabriel’s VP before leading them around the room to reacquaint them with the members of the Smith Cannon team—Terry, Brian, Mark.

Me.

“And you remember Elizabeth Watson,” Mr. Carrey says.

Elizabeth, just like our queen.
The words Gabriel spoke so long ago, accompanied by that panty-melting grin of his, echo in my head.
Please say my name. The way you used to when you were so deep in me you stole my heart.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Watson.”

I dig my nails into my palm to keep from crumbling, because the glance he directs at me displays neither love, nor hate, but indifference as if I mean less than nothing to him. “Mr. Storm,” I manage to say even though I’m dying inside.

Although he’s shaken hands with everyone else, he doesn’t bother to do so with me.

“Everything ready, Liz?” Mr. Carrey asks.

“Yes, Sir.” I point to the papers on the conference table, vetted and approved by both sides.

A flurry of click-click-clicks from the financial media invited to the signing swirl around Gabriel Storm and the SouthWind owner when they take their seats at the conference table.

The contrast between the two men is startling. While the portly SouthWind owner looks like he’s been stuffed into his no-doubt high end suit, Gabriel, in his Savile Row custom-made jacket and trousers, appears to have just stepped off the cover of GQ. The disparity between the two men is brought home even further when they make it official. While Mr. SouthWind grabs a standard issue pen and signs on the dotted line with an ostentatious flourish, Gabriel Storm retrieves a classic gold-tipped Montblanc from the depths of his jacket and records his name with quiet dignity.

My fascination with his hands has yet to desert me. Big, masculine, tender. Barely three months ago, they worshiped my skin when he couldn’t get enough of me. And now . . .

My own hands tremble as I retrieve the signed papers and set them to the side to allow the ink to dry. More flashes go off when they and Mr. Carrey stand at the podium to make their statements. The good ole boy provides the press with a self-congratulatory speech which provides little in the way of substance, all the time grinning like a fool. But then why wouldn’t he? He just sold the rights to develop his Brazilian wind power farm to Storm Industries for a cool $600 million, most of it in cold, hard cash.

The cameras barely snapped when Mr. SouthWind blathered on, but they burst in blinding fury when Gabriel Storm steps up to the lectern to discuss the importance of renewable energy and the low cost of delivering wind-generated power. Surely, the environmentalists have no advocate more electrifying than him.

When reporters rifle off questions, he answers a couple before Miranda Stone steps in to handle the rest, giving him a chance to walk away from the limelight. The presentation concludes with a round of handshakes and more photos. And then Mr. Carrey leads Mr. SouthWind and Gabriel Storm, along with members of the Smith Canon team, two doors down to the Potomac Conference Room where a celebratory cocktail party will take place.

While the press corps collect their equipment, I gather the signing documents and head to Support Services to copy them. Once the signatory pages are bound with the rest of the closing documents, Smith Cannon will file the purchase agreement with the appropriate agencies.

Done with that, I head to my office, rather than the celebration. I’m being a coward, I know, but I can’t be in the same room with Gabriel Storm without falling apart. Back at my desk, I take deep breaths to slow my racing heart, still my nerves. But it doesn’t do any good. I let out a mirthless laugh. One would think a four-month pregnancy would cure me of my lust for him. Wrong. Even after all these months, even after the insulting offer he hurled at me, I crave him as much as ever.

My pumps pinch, interrupting my train of thought. Why, oh why, did I wear high heels today? With the baby bump, my center of gravity shifted, and I have yet to achieve the right balance in anything but flats. I’m reaching under the desk to ditch the shoes, when a knock sounds on my door.

"Come in," I raise my head to find Mr. Carrey’s secretary and the last person I expect to see. Gabriel Storm.

“Hi, Liz. Hope we’re not disturbing you,” she says with a bright smile.

“No, of course not.” I stand, grateful the desk hides my bare feet.

“Mr. Storm wanted to take a look at the closing documents.”

“Oh? Okay.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rodriguez. You’ve been so very kind.” He shoots her his dazzling smile which of course makes Jell-O out of Carrey’s AA.

“Yes, thank you, Carmen.” I bite out.

The door closes behind her, leaving Storm and me staring across my desk at each other, a desk not unlike the one I laid on while he pounded into me a mere day after we met. The day his condom tore and he more than likely got me pregnant. I swat away the unwelcome memory and glance up at him.

Without the high heels, we're even at more disparate heights. I always loved how my five seven felt next to his six three. Not that we spent a lot of time vertical. Most of our time we spent horizontal where height didn't matter. But other things did. Like the taste of him in my mouth, the scent of his skin in my nostrils, the
feel
of him buried deep within me.

A spasm of pain rolls across his face, and he points to a chair. "May I?"

I may not want Storm in my office, but my heart goes to out to him. "Yes, of course. Here, let me." Like any decent paralegal, my office is crammed with paper and the chair overflows with mounds of filings, research documents, library materials.

"Please don't go to any trouble."

His luscious Brit accent pours over me, scattering my senses. I cover up my unrest by shifting papers to my desk. "I'm used to this."

Once I clear the seat, he takes his time sitting down.

"Does it hurt much?" I ache for him. If I could take away his suffering, I would.

"Most of the time, it's manageable, but the travel . . ." He winces when he stretches his right leg.

"Made it worse."

"Yes."

A question about his accident trembles on my tongue, but I choke it back. Why would he tell the woman who betrayed his trust?

In the close confines of my tiny office, he seems larger than life, and, as usual, he smells of that maddening cologne and him. I indulge in a slight shiver before I turn to the purpose of his visit. "Let me get those documents for you.” I kept a couple of copies when I dropped the originals at Support Services.

“Please don’t bother. I don’t need to see them.”

I glance at him, confused. “But Carmen said . . .”

“It was just an excuse to see you. A small subterfuge if you will.” No smile accompanies his statement.

BOOK: Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy)

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