The Dominant (24 page)

We shuffled into the house, Abby sniffling in wet clothes. I took her into the library and sat her by the fire while I went
upstairs to gather something dry for her to put on. I glanced into the kitchen on my way downstairs. She needed something
warm to drink as well. Should I make coffee?

I took the clothes into the library, and my eyes fell on the decanters I kept filled and displayed.

The brandy.

While Abby dressed, I poured, and when she settled back in front of the fireplace, I handed her a glass and sat beside her.

She sniffed it. “What is this?”

“Brandy. I thought about coffee, but decided this would warm us quicker.”

She swirled her glass. “I see. You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“I don’t, as a practice,
try
anything, Abigail.” I nodded at her glass. “But it is more than forty percent alcohol, so you’d better have only the one
glass.”

She took a tentative sip, choking slightly as the fiery liquid made its way down her throat. She looked at me, shrugged, and
took another sip.

“
Mm
,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear.

I leaned against the couch and closed my eyes as the alcohol slowly warmed my body. Apollo crossed the room and put his
head on my feet. A feeling of contentment swept over me—Abby was at my side, we were safe and warm in my house, and Apollo
was well. For just a moment, I could close my eyes and life was damn near perfect.

Abby’s voice broke through my reverie. “Did the library come with the house, or is it something you had added when you bought
it?”

I opened my eyes. She sat, still swilling her glass.

And she wanted to talk.

Finally.

“I didn’t buy this house,” I said, watching her. “I inherited it.”

Her eyes grew wide. “This was your parents’ house? You grew up here?”

“Yes. I’ve made major renovations, like the playroom.”

She moved closer to me. “Has it been hard to live here?”

Linda had asked me the same thing when I graduated from college and told her of my plans to renovate.

“I thought it would be, but I’ve redone so much, it doesn’t resemble my childhood home anymore. The library is very much the
same as it was then, though.”

Especially with her in it—it was once more the hub of the house. She filled it with light and warmth and life.

“Your parents must have loved books,” she said.

I looked around me. My parents had loved this library. I wondered if that was the reason I’d given the room to Abby—to somehow
capture for the house some of what had been missing since my parents’ death.

Mom and Dad would have loved Abby. They would have gotten along so well. Some part of me knew, even though I had been so young
when they died.

“My parents were avid collectors. And they traveled frequently.” I waved toward the section of the library that held maps
and atlases, remembering my father’s joy and my mother’s delight
whenever they added a new volume. “Many of the books they found overseas. Some had been in their families for generations.”

“My mom liked to read, but mostly she just went for popular fiction.” She set down her glass and hugged her knees.

“There’s a place for popular fiction in every library. After all, today’s popular fiction may very well be tomorrow’s classic.”

She laughed softly. “This from the man who said no one reads classics.”

Ah, she remembered.

“That wasn’t me.” I put a hand to my chest. “That was Mark Twain. Just because I quoted him doesn’t mean I agree with him.”

“Tell me more about your parents,” she said, and my memory shot back to that day in the hospital after her accident.

“The afternoon they died, we were on our way home from the theater.” I hadn’t spoken of my parents’ death in years. Not since
I was a boy and Linda sent me to counseling. “It had been snowing. Dad was driving. Mom was laughing about something. It was
very normal. I suppose it usually is.”

Mommy was so pretty. Daddy looked at her and smiled. She laughed at something he said
.

The car jerked
. . .

“He swerved to miss a deer,” I said. “The car went down an embankment and flipped. I think it flipped. It was a long time
ago, and I try not to think about it.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

But I wanted to tell her. I wanted to share this part of my life with her. This secret part.

“No,” I said. “I’m fine. It helps to talk. Todd’s always told me to talk more.”

The car fell for a long time. When it finally stopped, I wondered why. What caused it to stop? Would it start moving again?

“
Nathaniel?
”

“
Nathaniel?
”

Mommy kept screaming
.

“I don’t remember everything,” I said. “I remember the screaming. The shouts to make sure I was okay. Their moans. The soft
whispers they had for each other. A hand reached back to me.”
Mommy’s hand. I couldn’t reach it
. “And then nothing.”

Daddy wasn’t moving anymore. Why was he so quiet?

“They used a crane to pull the car out. Mom and Dad had been gone for some time by then, but like I said, I don’t remember
it all.”

I didn’t like the hospital. Everyone looked at me with sad faces and talked outside my room a lot
.

Someone brought me a bear. I was ten. I was too old for bears. I didn’t want a bear. I wanted Mommy
.

“Linda’s been wonderful. I owe her so much,” I said. “She was very supportive.” I swallowed more brandy. “And growing up with
Jackson helped. Todd, too. And Elaina, when she moved nearby.”

They were always so playful, so much fun.

“Your family’s the best,” Abby said.

“They are more than I deserve,” I said, standing. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get back to my work now.”

And finish the phone calls, for I was no longer ten years old. I was a man. I had responsibilities. My afternoon of play was
over.

She stood up, too. “And I need to start dinner. I’ll take that for you.” She held out her hand for my glass.

I looked deep into her eyes. I’d shared more with her today than I’d ever shared with another person. She’d sat and listened
and had just been there.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I finished calling my employees while Abby made dinner, made sure all my workers were accounted for and safe. Before heading
down for dinner, I called Jackson. His voice grew excited as he talked about how much he was enjoying his time with Felicia.
From his tone, it appeared he no longer had any doubts about whether or not what he felt was real.

Last, I called Linda. She’d been at home when the snow hit and had tried to make it in to the hospital but ended up having
to turn around and go home. I could tell from her voice she was still upset at being stuck at home and away from the action.

Mouth-watering smells met me as I walked down the stairs. Abby had made a meat loaf. I couldn’t remember the last time I had
meat loaf. It was a meal I enjoyed but never thought about making myself. I sniffed again. Mashed potatoes, too.

“Something smells good,” I said, sitting down.

“Thanks.” She carried our plates to the table. “It’s been ages since I’ve cooked meat loaf.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve had one.”

She stopped, halfway into her chair. “Do you not like meat loaf?”

“Please.” I motioned for her to sit down. “I love meat loaf. I just don’t cook it for myself.”

She placed a napkin in her lap. “I don’t cook it often, but it’s my father’s favorite.”

Her father—the opening I’d been looking for. “Tell me about your parents. What does your father do?”

She finished chewing, and I took a bite of the mashed potatoes—red potatoes, skin on, a bit of garlic mixed with a touch of
parmesan. Perfection.

“He’s a contractor,” she said. “He’s been building houses for as long as I can remember.”

“And your mother?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as possible. I was treading on dangerous ground.

Abby watched me with careful eyes. “Mom passed away. Heart disease.”

I hadn’t known that. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She was so young, though. And just starting to get her life back on track after breaking up with my dad.”

It seemed only natural to ask how her mother had gotten her life back on track, but I was afraid if I did, I wouldn’t be able
to keep my involvement secret. I took a bite of meat loaf instead and then quickly changed the subject.

Tuesday, after breakfast, we sat in the living room. Abby talked to her dad on the phone and I worked through my never-ending
e-mails. Yang Cai had grown more impatient—there was no longer any doubt I’d be going to China. The only question was when.
I glanced down at my calendar—June, perhaps. Or July.

Abby must have left the room at some point—I noticed she’d been gone only when I looked up and saw her return. A mischievous
grin covered her face.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Will you help me with lunch?”

She was planning something, I felt certain. But whatever it was would be better than worrying about Yang Cai. “Can you give
me ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes will be perfect.”

She left, and I strained my ears trying to hear something from the kitchen. More dancing, perhaps? Did she really want me
to help her cook?

Why had I told her ten minutes? I couldn’t concentrate on anything anymore. I sat at my desk staring aimlessly at my laptop,
and when eight minutes had passed, I went into the kitchen.

Abby stood at my counter, staring at two cans without labels.

“Abigail?”

She didn’t move. “I’m trying to decide what someone like you is doing with label-less cans in their kitchen.”

“The small one is Italian peppers.” I walked to the counter. “The larger one holds the remains of the last nosy submissive
who bugged me about my label-less cans.”

“Sign?”

“Sign.”

“Seriously,” she said, and her eyes were dancing, “what are you doing with label-less cans in your cabinets? Doesn’t that
break about a hundred different rules of yours?”

I smiled, pleased she felt so comfortable in teasing me.

“The small one really is peppers from Italy. The larger one should be tomatoes from the same company. I ordered them online.”

“What happened to the labels?”

I thought back to the day the cans arrived—months ago. “They came that way. They probably are peppers and tomatoes, but I’ve
been hesitant to open them and never sent them back. What if they’re pickled cow tongues?” I sighed. “I don’t have enough
faith, I guess.”

Her expression grew serious. “All of life is faith. Just because something has a label doesn’t mean it’s always going to match
the inside.”

Like your label, she was telling me.

“Trust me,” she said. “Sometimes it takes more faith to believe the label. Don’t be afraid of what’s on the inside. I can
make a masterpiece with the insides.”

I can make a masterpiece with you, she meant—but I knew better.

Oh, Abby. You can’t. You just can’t.

Part of me wanted to believe her, so I cupped her cheek. “I bet you could,” I said, and saw in her eyes that she believed
her words.

It was too much—I dropped my hand. “Now, what do you need my help with?”

She knew enough not to push it. Instead, she turned and opened the box at her side. “I want to do a mushroom risotto, but
I can’t stir the rice and cook everything else at the same time. Can you stir?”

She really just wanted me to cook with her? “Mushroom risotto? I’d be happy to stir.”

She set out chicken broth and white wine next to the vegetables already on the counter. “You might want to take that sweater
off. It’ll probably get hot in here.”

She wasn’t thinking we were going to . . .? In the kitchen?

I took the sweater off and draped it over the arm of a chair.

“I’ll chop up the mushrooms and onions,” she said. “You start the rice.”

The nonchalant way she said it. Her offhanded manner. Her command of the kitchen.

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” I teased.

She cocked her eyebrow and put her hand on her hip. “It’s my kitchen.”

Her words surged through me, turning me on more than I could have imagined.

I shoved her against the counter and rocked my hips against her. “No. I said the kitchen table was yours. The remainder of
the kitchen is
mine
.”

Her eyes grew dark, and I knew exactly what her plan was. The only question was, what would I do about it?

“Now,” I said. “What was that about the rice?”

I turned on the burner and readied the pan. Abby held up the bottle of wine.

“Yes, please,” I said, and she poured us each a glass before setting to work chopping the onions.

I added the rice to the pan, and stirred it a bit, coating the grains with olive oil. I poured in some wine from the bottle.

“You ready for this?” she asked, motioning toward the onions.

“I’m always ready.” I just wasn’t going to do anything about it. I shifted my hips. Damn my erection that thought differently.

She dipped under my arm and scraped the onions into the pan. “There you go.” Her ass grazed my cock and I grew even harder.

Then she was gone, dicing mushrooms, while I was stuck in front of the oven, stirring. I glanced over to the chicken broth.
Was it time to add some?

She noticed. “Want me to get that chicken stock for you?” Without waiting, she dipped under my arm again and got the pitcher.
Her arm brushed me as she poured.

Fuck. What was the plan?

No sex. Not during the week. Right. Back to the plan.

Maybe she saw my resolve and gave up—she spent the next few minutes dicing the rest of the mushrooms.

Until one dropped to the floor and rolled to where I stood.

“Oops,” she said. “Let me get that.”

She squeezed between me and the stove while I kept stirring and bent down to retrieve the mushroom, brushing against my thigh
and then grabbing me around the waist to steady herself as she stood up. I knew exactly what she was doing.