Storm Ravaged (Storm Damages 2) (Storm Legacy) (4 page)

He stops pacing and faces me, as if he’s come to a resolution. “Whether I proposed or not is immaterial. The facts remain the same. You’re pregnant, and I don’t want my child to be born a bastard. So the offer stands. Marry me.”

The urge to run away from him, from his proposal, prompts me to my feet. “I don’t want to marry and you have no proof the child is yours.”

He stalks to where I stand, driving the cane so hard it leaves a dent on the rug. “It won’t be forever. Only long enough to make the child legitimate. I’ll make it worth your while.”

My breath catches. A lump grows in my throat. “What do you mean?”

“The day we marry, I’ll put ten million at your disposal, for you to do with as you wish. When the child is born, I’ll add another ten.”

How could he? As if I would accept such a thing from him? “You think I would marry you for money?” I spit out.

“Wouldn’t you?” His eyes flash with fire as he towers over me. “You’re drowning in school debt. Having a hard time making your rent. And you’re expecting a child. How are you going to pay for it all?”

My breath grows short at the thought he knows so much about my life. No doubt how he found out. He probably asked Jake, his chief of security, to investigate me. How dare he? I grab my purse. “I’m leaving. And you’re not stopping me, not this time.” Swerving around him, I race to the door, sling it open, only to find Samuel on the other side, blocking my way. Confused, I turn back to Storm.

“You’re right. I’m not.” His arrogant grin tells me I’m not going anywhere. He nods toward Samuel. “But he is.”

Chapter 4

______________

Gabriel

SHE’S ANGRY, and why shouldn’t she be? If I’d discovered someone had been looking into my affairs, I would be as well. Her anger doesn’t faze me. She must be made to understand how important this is to me. If she still balks, I will follow through on my threat to talk to Thomas Carrey. I have an ace up my sleeve with him and Smith Cannon as well.

“Come sit, Liz. So we can discuss this like reasonable beings.” Fire flashes in her eyes. My barb about ‘reasonable beings’ stings. Excellent. I mean to keep her off balance to get her to do what I wish.

She stomps back from the front door and, after rescuing the plate from the floor, drops into the same spot she vacated on the couch. I do the same, except this time I sit next to her. Her eyes widen with surprise and a touch of wariness.

“Now, for the time being we will assume the child is mine. It will have to be proved of course, but I have no doubt of the finding.” Actually, I do, but I’m not about to let her in on my qualms. Easy enough to walk away if I’m not the father. “So let’s discuss the next step, shall we?”

“I’m. Not. Marrying. You.” She bites out between clenched teeth.

“Are you in a relationship?” I know damn well she isn’t, except for Brian Sullivan who keeps sniffing around her like she’s a mare in heat.

She crosses her arms against her chest. “No. I don’t have anyone in my life because I don’t intend to marry.” She enunciates the last five words with firm insistence which I ignore.

“Good. Another croissant?” I smile while bringing the plate to her.

She shoots me a dirty look, grabs a napkin and bites into the flaky crust. No doubt who she’d rather bite into instead.

"I know it requires a bit of thinking to wrap your head around it."

"I'm not doing it. I never intended to marry. Or have children, for that matter. Neither was in my plans." She’s breathing hard. Bloody hell, she’s starting to hyperventilate.

I don’t want her upset, only off kilter, so I ratchet it down a notch. "I'm sorry I took away those options." Even if I don’t remember how the hell it happened.

Her gaze takes a downward turn while she shreds the croissant into small pieces. "It took both of us to make this baby, Gabriel."

"If we marry—"

"No."

"Please listen to me." I cover her restless hands with one of my own. A zing travels up my arm from the contact. My nostrils flare, and I catch a whiff of her female scent. She may not wear perfume, but there’s a bewitching essence to her that ensnares my senses.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out and stares point blank at me. "I'm putting the baby up for adoption."

The hell she is!
My lips firm into a hard line. "Surely you realize that's no longer an option. I'm the baby's father. I have rights. And I will
never
consent."

"I can not take care of a baby. I have a full time job, law school. He deserves someone who has time to watch over him."

Joy shoots through me. “He? It’s a boy?” A boy would inherit the title.

She shakes her head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I won’t find out for another few weeks. Regardless, I don’t have the resources or inclination to take care of a child.”

“Liz”— I squeeze her cold hands, hoping to lend them my warmth— “you may not want to care for the babe, but I do. It’s my child, after all."

“I want an open adoption, where I will stay in touch with the adopting family, make sure my child grows up safe and loved. If you take him to England, I'll never see him."

She may be planning to place the child with strangers, but the babe means something to her. Bloody hell. Now what do I do? The child will live in London with me. Would she accept a location in the States? We’re opening up a branch in New York City, one which Miranda Stone will head. What if I told Liz it would be me in charge of that office? Would she be more amenable under that condition? Only one way to find out. "I'm not taking him to England.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” I soften my voice. The nature of what I’m about to share requires it. “There’s something you need to know, but it’s sensitive information which concerns not only myself and my family but Storm Industries and the thousands it employs. Can I count on you not to reveal what I’m about to tell you?”

“I wouldn’t, Gabriel. Not if you told me in confidence.”

She
has
kept silent about our liaison, but the reason is not hard to understand. If she publicized our involvement, she would have put her job in jeopardy.

“Very well. We're opening up an American branch of Storm Industries.” At least, this much is true. One thing I’ve learned about prevarication is to stick as much as possible to the truth. “I'll be in charge of the American enterprise. My cousin, William, will head the European one. We’ll locate the headquarters of Storm Industries America in New York City where I’ll live." I have a residence in New York City—The Brighton II. A gorgeous building on the West End. So if she demands proof of domicile, it won’t be a problem.

Her jaw drops. “Wow. That’s . . . huge. Why are you doing this?”

“Financial as well as logistical reasons. The company’s structure became so unmanageable we could not move as quickly as we wanted on certain projects. By creating a headquarters in the United States, we’re able to operate in this country without running aground of international laws, at least when it comes to developing projects within American soil.” Again all of this is the truth. The only lie is who’ll be heading the New York branch.

“What about your family? Your mother can't possibly be on board with this plan.”

I grit my teeth. My mother, the Countess. She’d thrown up roadblocks to my every attempt to grow the company, preferring to spend money on frivolous pursuits. “My mother’s no longer on the company’s board of directors.” My siblings and I voted our mother out after our father transferred his board voting power to me. “She doesn’t control Storm Industries. I do.”

She fiddles with a ring she’s wearing, a small peridot. Her birthstone. She deserves worthier jewelry, stunning as she is. “I'm not saying yes to the marriage, but . . . how would it all work?”

I ache to touch her again, to still her restlessness. But she’d rather handle this like a business transaction, so I cross my hands over my good leg to keep from reaching out for her. “Before the child is born, we marry. The ceremony can be a civil one. A clerk at the courthouse would do. All we need is a license.” Although this is true, the official ceremony will be held at Winterleagh Castle as family tradition demands.

"And after the wedding? My job and law school are here. I can't move to New York."

"You won’t have to. After our child is born, I'll bring him to live with me in my domicile in Manhattan—a duplex penthouse in The Brighton II. I’ll get a nurse, a nanny, whatever he needs. And you can maintain the same life you have." Our child
will
have a nanny. In London.

More ring fiddling. "I want our baby to have a stable home life—”

Our baby.
Does she realize what she just revealed?”

“—and you're always traveling." She continues.

Now fairly sure the child is mine, the tension within my body eases. "Not anymore. I don't intend to be an absentee father. I won't be traveling nearly as much." I let out a breath. At least this part of my farradiddle is true.

"I can see him whenever I want?" She truly has the most beautiful eyes. Green, luminous, and right now, moist with held-back tears.

"Of course. You're his mother." She can certainly travel to England any time she wishes.

“So how long would we stay married?”

“Let’s say a year and a month. After that, we part, amicably, citing irreconcilable differences. You go your way, I go mine. It’ll be worth your while.”

She bristles. “You think I can be bought.”

Damn it. I said the wrong thing, and after everything was going so well. “It’s not what you think—”

“I turned down your insulting offer in London to become your mistress. What makes you think I would accept money now?”

“I’m not asking you to become my mistress. I’m asking you to become my
wife
. It’s a dowry. It’s what we do when we propose marriage.”

“We? Who is we?”

“Aristocrats. Peers. Members of the nobility.”

“Ten million dollars?” Her voice lowers and her hackles settle.

“Pounds. It’s a tad high, but not unusual.”

“I thought the woman was supposed to provide the dowry, not the man.”

“You are, darling girl. My child.” I smile, caress her face with my thumb. She really does have the softest skin.

Her cheeks turn a soft pink. “Are you sure this is aboveboard?”

“Yes.” This much is true. “I can provide details of other marriage pacts if you wish.” Most of the information comes from the tabloids, but still, it’s a proof of sort.

Something flits across her face. And her expression goes from hopeful to despondent. She folds up the napkin with the remains of the shredded croissant, lays it on top of the empty plate and rises. “It’s lovely, really lovely. You have thought out everything. The only problem is . . . I can’t.”

She’d come to terms with it. What changed? I clumsily come to my feet using the cane for support. “What do you mean you can’t?” I grab her arm, hold on tight. “You must agree. What is it? Is there something holding you back? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

“You can’t fix this, Gabriel. Not everything’s within your control. I can’t marry you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Please don’t ask me anymore. I won’t tell you. I want to go home. Now.”

When she wrestles her arm free and heads toward the suite’s front door, the emotions I’ve buried over the last several months surge to the fore, overwhelming me with their intensity. Skidding clumsily on the rug, I hurry after her. Somehow I catch up and swing her around.

The turn throws her off balance, and she collapses against the wall. Eyes the color of crushed leaves after a spring rain stare helplessly at me. A lone tear drifts down her dewy cheek and finds refuge in the corner of her lips.

Something twists inside me. The strong girl of a few moments ago has disappeared, replaced by this fragile creature. And I drove her to this. Tossing my anger into the rubbish bin, I brush a thumb across the edge of her crimson lips to catch the tear. I lick the moisture from my fingertip. She tastes of sadness, agony and regret.

Seeking to comfort, I cradle her face, brush the wet from her cheeks. “Don’t cry, love.”

“Please don’t. It’s hard enough as it is.” Her heartfelt plea is lost on me, for I won’t be stopped from my chosen course.

I kiss her, softly, and taste the orange marmalade she spread on the croissant, mixed in with the heady flavor of her.

Before I have a chance to savor her, she pulls back. “D-don’t.” Her gaze is filled with heartbreak. “Let me go. Please let me go.”

“I can’t, darling girl.” We’ve said these words before, acted this way before. I wish I could remember her, remember us. Wish I could do as she asks, but I can’t because suddenly I feel something I haven’t felt in the last two months. My cock stirs with hunger . . . for her.

Ravenous for her taste, my tongue plunges into her mouth to ravish her sweetness. I tell myself to go careful because she’s pregnant with my child, because she just denied me. But nothing matters except the intoxicating flavor of her mouth, the racing pulse in my veins.

At first she resists, but then a wildness grows in her and she claws at my neck, her hands tangle in my hair, and she pulls me into her. Giving as much as she’s getting, her tongue tussles with mine, sucks at me, love bites me.