Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy) (2 page)

“Oh?”

His gaze wanders around my office, my walls, my filing cabinets, so different from his ‘I'm-going-to-fuck-you-silly-first-chance-I-get’ he used to pin on me. He clears his throat, rests the cane across his thighs. Why, he's uncomfortable. Strange. That’s one emotion which never surfaced between us. Lust, anger, transcendental joy, yes, but self-consciousness? Never.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" I’m not about to address him formally, not in my office.

He again clears his throat and finally, finally his gaze, filled with businesslike purpose, focuses on me. "We need to talk."

My shoulders cram with tension as one overwhelming question races through my brain. Does he suspect the baby is his? Well, there’s only one way to find out. “About?”

He brushes a hand across his brow. "Not here. In my hotel. Tomorrow—"

Alone with him in his hotel room? Hell, no. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why not?" And here's the Storm I know so well. The one that doesn't take no for an answer.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for me—”

He waves aside my objection. "Do you have a scheduling conflict?"

"No, but—

"If you're worried about me doing anything . . . improper, don't. I only want to talk." He leans forward on the seat, and a twitch of pain skitters across his face. For a second, his eyes scrunch close.

“Do you need to take some medicine? I have water here if you do.” I open a desk drawer where I keep extra bottles.

“No, thank you.” In the past, he would have flashed that devastating smile of his, the crooked one I loved, but now all I see is a bloodless white slash across his lips.

"What do you wish to talk about?" I ask again, but in a much softer tone. No sense adding to his grief.

"Brianna . . .” He drops his voice, even though the door is closed and no one would be able to hear even if they were standing right outside. “She told me about the child.”

Of course she did. She’s his sister after all. And she figured it out when she saw those prenatal vitamins in my room the weekend I spent at Winterleagh Castle, their family’s country seat. I should have called her, asked her to keep that detail to herself. But then I would have had to tell her about the devil’s pact I struck with her mother.

Lady Winterleagh demanded I keep quiet about the baby in exchange for her silence about something which, if revealed, would destroy Gabriel, his family, his company. Worse than that, she ordered me to break Gabriel’s heart. And God help me, I did.

The last time I saw Gabriel he accused me of copying his confidential documents on the SouthWind deal and handing them to my boss to gain favor with him. I admitted it, even though I had done no such thing. But what choice did I have? If I hadn’t, his mother would have ruined Gabriel, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

But now he’s here, wanting to talk about the child we created, which is going to be difficult, because I can’t let him know it’s his. “What about my baby?”

His brow rises and, in that very proper British voice of his, he cuts me off. Again. "
Our
baby, is it not?"

God give me strength to deny it. The facts haven’t changed. His mother can still destroy everything he cherishes. “Maybe, maybe not.” I shrug, looking down, unable to meet his gaze.

“Beg your pardon? Didn’t you tell Bri the child was mine?”

I can’t lie about that. “I did, but I spoke prematurely. If I may be blunt, you were not the only man I had sex with during the time in question. As a matter of fact, there were several men.” Not true. I lived the life of a nun after he left.

His nostrils flare; his mouth curls in distaste. “Still, there’s a chance.”

I bite down on my lip to keep from blurting out the truth. What must he think of me? “If it’s your child, I need nothing from you. I want nothing from you."

His phone rings, interrupting us, and he retrieves it from his jacket. "I'll be right there." He clicks off. "A reporter from
The Wall Street Journal
wants to interview me.” He offers by way of an explanation.

Eager for him to leave, I stand. “You should go then.”

“I will as soon as we’ve settled this. Sit down, Ms. Watson. Please. I can’t remain seated while you stand.”

I want to say no, but I can't. He’s in enough pain as it is. I plop back on my chair.

He breathes hard for a couple of seconds, probably trying to get his pain under control. “We need to discuss this situation, but we can’t do it here. Meet me tomorrow for brunch, say eleven, at my hotel, the Four Seasons."

Much as I want to avoid this discussion, I can’t. I’ll need to do as he asks. "Fine."

"Samuel Taylor will pick you up at your home. He's my—"

"I know who Samuel is.” My voice rises. “Did you think I'd forgotten him in the last two months?"

"No, of course not. My apologies.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he painfully comes to his feet while I slide my shoes back on. “Until tomorrow, Ms. Watson."

It’s against firm policy to allow an outside guest to roam around the office alone. “I need to accompany you.”

“Fine.” He bows his head.

We wander down the hallway, in silence, not once exchanging a word, as if we’re nothing but business acquaintances. This from the man whose passion burned with such intensity I feared I’d be consumed by his flame. Clearly, whatever we had is gone, never to return. And I want nothing more than to return to my office, lay my head on my desk and cry over everything I lost and can never be regained.

Chapter 2

______________

Gabriel

MY LEG THROBS IN AGONY, but I get through the interview with
The Wall Street Journal
reporter and even manage a half hour of the cocktail party before I say goodbye to Carrey and his team. Leaning heavily on the cane, I head toward the lift, immensely grateful for my VP’s presence. If I start to keel over, Miranda will cover for me.

Somehow I make it out of the building without any mishap and into the limo where Samuel Taylor, my driver and security guard, waits to whisk us to the Four Seasons. Once we arrive at the hotel, we go our separate ways—Miranda to a dinner she’s arranged with friends, I to my room, where I can give my leg a rest.

Alone in my hotel suite, I pour a scotch from the mini bar and sink into the sofa to rest my injured leg. Clicking the remote, I twirl through the telly offerings, stop at a Washington Nationals game. Half an inning later, I'm gritting my teeth from the excruciating pain. The alcohol alone is not cutting it. I reach for my pills, knowing damn well the danger of mixing them with booze. But what choice do I have? I won’t last the night without both.

When I float pain free, my mind wanders back to the events of the afternoon. Somehow the closing took second fiddle to meeting Elizabeth Watson, the woman I didn’t know existed until a week ago when Brianna told me about our relationship and my alleged role in her pregnancy. Something I find difficult to believe since I always use a condom. Or used to anyway. That much I remember. So I can’t comprehend how she could have become pregnant by me.

According to Ms. Watson, I may not be the father of the child she carries. That statement tallies up with the care I usually took to prevent conception. And yet, I don’t believe her. Something about our conversation strikes me as odd. Months ago, she told Brianna I was the one responsible, but now she’s waffling on her statement. Why would she do that? Is she trying to throw me off the scent? Or did she speak the truth when she admitted to multiple sex partners? I don’t buy it. Her refusal to look at me when she mentioned other men seems to indicate a lie of some kind. Which baffles me. Why prevaricate about something that can be proved with a simple blood test?

A remnant of a memory fleets across my mind—gardenias and the lush body of a woman beneath me. But it’s gone before I can examine it for further clues. Is it her? No. It can’t be. I didn’t detect a floral scent in her office, and in that confined space, I would have noticed. Wish I could remember her. She’s lovely, truly lovely. Mounds of dark hair, green, green eyes. And curves plump enough to get a rise out of a dying man.

Ironic, I know.

I’d schooled my features to reveal nothing when I met her today, for I didn’t want my face to give away my thoughts. Still, I’d hoped for something, anything, to clue me in to the woman who, according to Bri, captivated me in a way she’d never witnessed before. But when I saw Ms. Watson, I felt . . . nothing. Not even a spark. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

Two months after the accident, and I still have major holes in my memory, with Elizabeth Watson being the biggest one of all. With careful coaching by Miranda Stone, whom I was forced to take into my confidence, I managed to recall and understand enough of the SouthWind deal to muddle through today’s closing and interview. When the article and photos make the business papers, everyone will think I have things under control when quite the opposite is true. I’m half the man I used to be. Mentally, emotionally, physically.

Even though I abhor the wreck I’ve become, the accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for the head injury prompted the doctors to take a serious look inside my head. They discovered tumors, non-cancerous, but still large enough to cause the migraines. If they hadn’t been removed, they could have proved fatal. Hell, they would have proved fatal the day of the crash, but for whatever guardian angel watched over me that fateful night.

While I convalesced in hospital, barely aware of my name, much less anything around me, Bri resisted the Countess’s efforts to wreck the SouthWind deal. Without my sister, everything I’ve fought for the last few years would have been dismantled. So I can’t very well yell at her over her decision to withhold information about Elizabeth Watson until a week ago. Not when she did it because I had enough to deal with at the time. A broken leg, amnesia, various bodily injuries. The night of the car wreck my blood alcohol content was way beyond the legal range. So I have no one to blame but myself for the state I’m in.

My mobile rings. Brianna.

“Darling, how are you?”

I’m not about to share my level of pain. “Fair to middling.”

“Leg still hurting?”

“Yes, but it’s manageable.” Only through the combination of liquor and drugs.

“How was the closing?”

“We’re now the proud owners of the rights to develop the Brazilian Storm Industries Wind Farm.” I knock back the rest of the scotch. “Is everything in order for your trip?” Along with Jake Cooper, my head of security and her own personal bodyguard, Brianna will travel to Brazil to perform the necessary leg work before the construction project can begin. Even though SouthWind shared their reports, she needs to perform her own investigation and plan the best way to erect the wind turbines which even now are being built by one of our subsidiaries. The new machines will withstand wind forces of near hurricane strength making them superior to the current ones manufactured by other plants and making us the place to go for new wind power generators.

“Yes, but I can put off our departure date for a week if you need me.”

“I’m fine, Brianna.”

“Are you sure, Gabe?”

“Yes, darling girl. You’ve taken care of me long enough, now go do what you love to do.”

“All right.” A pause. “How did it go with Elizabeth Watson?”

“I didn’t recognize her, Bri.” I sound disappointed and, damn it, I am.

“That’s too bad.” She seems just as despondent as me.

“I invited her for brunch tomorrow so we can come to some sort of an arrangement about this child.” If in fact it’s mine.

“It’s your baby, Gabriel. She said so.”

I swirl the ice in the glass and another memory races across my consciousness. A cube of ice, luscious tits. I roll the glass across my brow. Why can’t I bloody hell remember? “I can’t blindly believe it just because she told you it was.” Especially after she placed my paternity in question. “I need proof.”

She sighs. “Very well. Keep me informed.”

“I will. Goodnight. And Bri?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“Oh, Gabe. You’ve done enough for me. It’s about time I returned the favor. Goodnight.”

Hours later I wake, still on the couch, telly blathering with an infomercial. By my watch, it’s 3:18. I grab my cane and stumble my way to the bedroom, strip and fall exhausted into the king-sized bed. My dreams torture me with images of a gardenia-scented female body, mine pounding into hers. Something bound to live only in my imagination, for such an event will never come my way again.

Chapter 3

______________

Elizabeth

THE FOLLOWING MORNING comes around a bit too soon. After dressing, I fidget about my townhouse, straightening pillows on the couch, alphabetizing spices on the spice rack. Having developed an aversion to strong scents, I stay away from the more fragrant ones. Even a whiff of my gardenia perfume makes me gag. So I gave it up rather than barf.

There are a lot fewer spices since Casey Jackson, the foster brother who raised me since I was six, moved out a month ago. The place seems so quiet without him. Strange, since he rarely spent time here toward the end.