Читать книгу The Guardian's Virgin Ward - Caitlin Crews - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTHE LAST TIME Izar Agustin had seen Liliana Girard Brooks in the flesh, she’d been young and flushed and sobbing her eyes out. Not unreasonable for a girl who had lost her parents, but entirely outside his various areas of expertise. Then, as now, he’d acted entirely in her best interests—none of which could possibly have included welcoming her into his high-profile, business-focused, notably tearless life.
Liliana was the heiress to an unimaginable fortune and half of his company. She was his ward and his responsibility. In his head she had remained that chubby, awkward and sodden-faced child he’d met all those years ago, no matter that he’d been well aware she’d grown older in the interim. And tonight she was standing there before him entirely grown-up and dressed like a common whore.
And, moreover, had just talked back to him in a manner reminiscent of the streetwalking variety of the same, if his ears had not deceived him and his memories of the unsavory neighborhoods of his youth did not fail him.
Izar couldn’t quite take it all in. He couldn’t quite fathom it, because this level of crude defiance spoke to a failure on his part so deep it should have leveled him. And it was a simple fact that Izar was too unaccustomed to the experience of failure to tell one way or the other.
Her attire was not the worst part. Nor was the fact that she was here at all, apparently living in this ramshackle, flea-bitten flat four rickety flights up in a building she could have purchased outright with the change in her pocket—though that factored. It was that she’d deliberately lied to him about where she was living in this sinful city, making Izar’s trek into the hinterland of questionable neighborhoods in the Bronx, of all places, unavoidable on a night he’d intended to spend in more civilized pursuits, such as the theater with one of his current mistresses.
Izar Agustin—who prided himself on his iron control and ruthless focus in all things, from the fútbol pitch of his youth to his current domination of any boardroom he entered—had allowed this situation to get out of control. Clearly. Yes, Liliana had lied to him. Yes, she had gone to some lengths to deliberately mislead him, allowing him to believe that she’d spent these months since her college graduation living in her late parents’ brownstone in the deeply moneyed and far less dangerous West Village in Manhattan rather than here in this grotty hinterland. Still, he could blame no one but himself.
Not even the woman who stood before him, sulky-mouthed and flushed from what appeared to be equal parts defiance and drink, glaring at him as if he was the devil incarnate.
Izar supposed he was. As far as Liliana was concerned, he was far worse. And he was about to rain down a little brimstone all over her to cement that impression.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” He kept his voice soft. Low. He did nothing to conceal the harsh lash of it that regularly made his underlings and associates cower, stammer and fall all over themselves to apologize no matter if they were guilty of anything or not.
His ward only tipped up her chin as if he’d landed a glancing blow at best. And as if she expected—even welcomed—more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything like it. This was not how people treated a man of his stature. Ever.
“Nothing polite,” she retorted.
It took Izar one beat, then another, to understand that it was temper that wound through him, red and wild, at her bored and disinterested tone. Temper, when he hadn’t permitted himself anything close to such a display of emotion since he’d left fútbol behind him.
It was there in his tone when he spoke. “You cannot possibly imagine that adding insults, however vague, to your deceit and your dishonesty—to say nothing of your appalling disregard for your own safety—is the correct way to handle this situation, can you?”
He could hear the fury in his voice slice through the room, but Liliana didn’t flinch. She didn’t crumble or break. Izar had taken down whole companies with a far gentler tone than the one he’d used on her, but Liliana didn’t appear to notice it.
Izar couldn’t decide if he admired her or wanted to throttle her for that. He only knew that neither feeling was the least bit appropriate.
“The only situation I’m aware of is that there’s an uninvited guest lurking in my bedroom,” she replied, with a level of icy hauteur that would have done a queen proud.
It almost diverted his attention from the fact she’d accused him of lurking. He was Izar Agustin. He did not lurk.
Nor was she finished. “I’d like you to leave. Now.”
Liliana wasn’t a child any longer. The grown-up version stood before him with the carriage of the aristocrat she was, though one would hardly know it surrounded by the relentless, depressing squalor of this place. He’d grown up in a shoddy flat a great deal like this one, if across the world in the outskirts of Málaga, Spain, and he’d vowed he’d never sully himself in such places again. That he’d had no choice in the matter tonight only made his temper that much more precarious. Liliana was entirely too soft and vulnerable to be prancing about in a down-market flat in a questionable section of the Bronx, regardless of her net worth. But the fact that she was Liliana Girard Brooks meant that every time she exposed herself on the unpleasant streets in this neighborhood she made herself a juicy target for any enterprising fortune hunter or kidnapper or miscreant of any description who happened along.
It made him well nigh murderous.
But the questionable neighborhood wasn’t the only problem.
Maturity had brought out those pedigreed cheekbones of hers, which in turn made the seemingly haphazard way she’d styled her masses of golden hair on the top of her head look that much more elegant and chic. The kind of effortless style women the world over spent lifetimes trying and failing to attain. She’d shed her youthful roundness altogether and had finally grown into the interesting face that had been far too much for her at twelve, with all those edges and angles the camera would worship. Taller, slimmer, and far more at ease in her own body than he remembered her, Liliana was nothing short of mesmerizing. All her finely etched angles worked with the sophisticated sweep of dark lashes framing her faintly tilted blue eyes and the sleek curves of her lean body, hitting him like a sucker punch. Hard. And then there was that plump, sweet mouth of hers that, God help him, he felt like a carnal wallop in his gut. And lower still.
This could not be happening.
He never thought of Liliana as anything but his responsibility. His task to complete, nothing more. Her parents would have wanted her to have the business and fortune they’d left her, and so Izar had honored them by making sure both not only existed but thrived. Her looks hadn’t signified. She’d been a child in his mind all this time, entrusted to his care and in need of his firm, if distant, guidance.
But she wasn’t a child now.
Liliana was truly and indisputably beautiful, little as he wished to acknowledge such a thing. She was more than simply beautiful, if he was being honest with himself. Without his permission and entirely against his wishes, Liliana had blossomed into one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen in his life. He thought she surpassed even her own mother, the lost and much-lamented style icon Clothilde Girard, who was still held to be one of the great, elegant beauties of her time a decade after her death.
Maybe it was the fact Liliana was flouting his authority by her presence here at all. It was the first shred of defiance he’d ever had from her, ever, and for some reason, it changed everything.
Or perhaps it was only Izar who had changed. Perhaps, he thought with a certain grudging fury at his own failing, he was perverse enough that defiance attracted him. It was, after all, so very rare.
No one defied him. He was Izar Agustin. No one dared.
If Liliana had been any other woman alive, Izar would have handled her much differently. He would have used his hands against her bared, silken flesh. He would have sampled that sulky, insolent mouth and he would have had her on her back on that bed without a moment’s pause as he sorted out the variety of ways he disliked being spoken to in that provocative, insulting manner. He would have made her beg and then, when he was good and ready, he’d have made her scream.
But she was his goddamned ward.
Izar told himself the tightness in his chest and that raw expanse inside him were more of that unexpected temper, that was all. He focused on the fact this woman, his ward, who should have been somewhere far, far away from this grimy little apartment and the ghastly party taking place in all the other small, tatty rooms, was choosing to defy him while dressed like a trollop.
It was insult upon injury, really.
Tonight she’d chosen to wear something that was more a gesture toward a tunic than any kind of dress, baring her arms despite the mid-November cold outside. It flowed from a distractingly low neck to graze her upper thighs, leaving an unnecessary expanse of smooth skin between its hem and her over-the-knee boots. Perfect for a bit of pickup trade, he thought sourly. And perhaps unfairly.
That it was how all young women dressed these days wasn’t lost on him. But Liliana wasn’t any young woman. She didn’t have the option to careen about through her early twenties like the rest of them, stacking up questionable evenings and choices and then writing it all off as “experience” once she settled down into a dreary suburban existence somewhere. Her sins would be neither forgiven nor forgotten—they would be trotted out at every opportunity by tabloids and business rivals alike. She wasn’t like all the other, interchangeable girls cluttering up the living areas of this flat.
She was legendary. And she was his.
His responsibility, he amended after a moment. A searing, unhelpful moment with nothing but her intoxicating beauty in his head.
“Is this how one dresses here in the toilet of New York City?” he asked edgily, letting his gaze move with cold disapproval from her face to her toes. Then back. “The better to blend in with less-fortunate women on street corners? I must applaud you. How enterprising to attempt to avoid the predators milling about the gutters out there by dressing as if they could simply buy you instead of bothering to go to the trouble of mugging you.”
Liliana sucked in a breath. Izar felt something like remorse—another emotion he was largely unfamiliar with, and he certainly didn’t care for the experience now—swell in him when her bright gaze dimmed, but she only squared her shoulders. As if she thought she was tough enough to fight him head-on.
Izar didn’t care to examine how that notion careened around inside him. The way it left marks.
Liliana frowned at him but didn’t break the way she would have even six months ago. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call me a prostitute in the first conversation we’ve had live and in person in a decade.”
“I said you appeared to have dressed like one. Is this a costume party? That could certainly explain the number of tarts on parade, yourself included.”
She pressed her lips together. He didn’t want to think about her lips.
“You’re a very small and unhappy man, aren’t you, Izar?”
“When confronting my wayward ward in a flat built on lies and a fake name she thinks makes her fireproof and somehow invisible at once?” She finally blinked at that. That belligerent chin of hers dropped a few notches. He was aware that there was no reason these things should have given him quite so much satisfaction, as if he’d scored some kind of decisive victory. “Yes. You could call this unhappiness, if you wish. If I were you, I would be less concerned with my happiness and more concerned with your own hide.”
“I’ll be really, really scared when I get your letter on the subject three months from now, I promise,” she told him after a moment. With deep and unmistakable sarcasm and no apparent recognition of the precariousness of her situation.
“Careful,” he warned her, and he hardly recognized his own voice.
She sniffed. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then you are even more foolish than you appear.”
He saw some sort of strong emotion he couldn’t quite identify wash over her then, making her stand straighter and cross her arms beneath her breasts which was...not at all helpful.
She—is—your—ward, Izar snapped at himself.
What was wrong with him that he couldn’t seem to remember that tonight? She and her stake in the company were his responsibility until she turned twenty-five or married, whatever came first. The weight of that had been at the forefront of his thoughts since the day her parents had died. It was why he’d dedicated himself with such ferocity to the business all this time. Why had it deserted him entirely tonight?
But he knew why. It was the way she stood before him, beautiful and wholly unimpressed with him, which was a true novelty. It was that mouthwatering expanse of her thighs, bared for all the world to see. Worse, for him to see. It was the sad truth that, apparently, he really was that twisted, after all. That ruined, from the inside out, exactly as he’d always suspected.
“I told you I would bodily remove you from this city the moment you became any kind of scandal,” he bit out at her, and it was an effort to keep himself from raising his voice. He didn’t entirely succeed. “Congratulations. You lasted longer than I thought you would, but that day has finally arrived.”
Liliana frowned. “You told me that when I was eighteen and setting off for college. Newsflash, I survived. The city didn’t burn down around me and your precious company is fine. No luxury brands have been harmed by my attempt to have a life, Izar. You can exhale.”
Yet another unfamiliar sensation washed over him then, and once more, it took Izar a long moment to recognize it. It had been a while since anyone had gotten under his skin like this. Or at all. Not since his days on the pitch, in fact, where he’d been a bit of a hothead and his opponents had sometimes used that against him. He’d thought he’d locked that side of himself away for good when he’d left the sport.
Why Liliana, of all people, should have the power to needle him when no one else alive could or would dare, Izar could not imagine.
Nor did he care for it.
When he spoke again his voice rivaled the cutting November winds outside.
“You remain my responsibility, whether you like it or not. That means that you cannot live in an unprotected slum like this, no matter how bohemian you currently imagine yourself to be. You are entirely too wealthy for these games.”
“I’m not bohemian.” She laughed as if he’d told her a joke. “At all.”
“On that we agree. It was one thing to hide behind a false name while you were in school. This is not school any longer, Liliana. How long did you really think it would take for someone to discover who you are and use it against you? And let us be clear. When I say against you, what I mean is against the company, which is the same thing as against me.”
She shook her head at him as if he was being ridiculous. As if he, Izar Agustin, renowned the world over for his business acumen and corporate vision, was capable of being any such thing.
“I moved in here five months ago and, so far, the only undesirable person to discover me is you.”
“That is where you are wrong.” He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but he saw her stiffen. He tried and failed to regret the fact he clearly got to her, too. “Why do you think I am here?”
“Because you live to stamp on dreams and ruin lives, I assume. Mine in particular. You know, the usual.”
“Of course.” It was amazing how hard it was to hold on to his temper tonight, truly astonishing. “And because I was approached by a piece of tabloid journalist scum who told me he intended to run a vile little article on how I took over the company and consigned the much-adored if seldom-seen Brooks heiress to a life of poverty and toil. Right here in this grimy little hellhole.” Izar did nothing to soften his scowl. He didn’t even try. “I assured him that was not possible, as no one would describe your parents’ perfectly good brownstone in Greenwich Village as grimy, much less a hole of any kind. Imagine my surprise to discover that you did not live there, as you had assured me you did following your graduation. In writing. I was forced to track you down. To this place. Which is so much worse than a mere grimy hole it defies description.”
He didn’t know what he expected. But it wasn’t for Liliana to do nothing for a moment. Then, after another long moment, blow out a breath and roll her eyes as if what he’d said was...annoying. Nothing more than annoying.
He felt his entire body go taut in disbelief.
“The Brooks heiress can go to hell,” she announced, and Izar noticed she swayed ever so slightly on her feet as she made this proclamation. He’d thought she’d looked a bit flushed before, hadn’t he? “And so can you.”
“Liliana.” Her name was a grim thing in his mouth. “Are you drunk?”
“Certainly not.” She moved across the room and placed the mostly empty wineglass she’d been clutching in one fist on her desktop. With rather more theatric care than was strictly necessary. “I may have had a glass of wine. Like any grown-ass woman over the age of twenty-one in this country, not that it’s any of your concern.”
“I think you’ll find it is, in fact, my concern. As is everything else you do. This is unacceptable, all of this. I trusted you.”
“You did not trust me.” Her back was an unfortunately fascinating line, graceful and supple and—stop this. Now. “You delivered a set of instructions you expected me to obey because I always have before. Your failure to notice that I’m not actually as spineless and obedient as you’d like me to be is your issue, not mine. But that’s what happens when you abandon someone for a decade.”
“Again, it appears I must correct you. My issues are your issues when and if I say they are.”
She turned back to face him then, her gaze dark. “Enjoy yourself while you can, Izar. The clock is ticking. You only have two years left to bully me. What happens when your time runs out?”
He had the urge to put his hands on her and show her exactly what could happen—
But no. Of course he did no such thing. He was her guardian, not an animal. And he hadn’t let passion rule him so completely since he was a small boy kicking footballs against crumbling, graffiti-covered walls in his run-down neighborhood, imagining that might transport him out of his dreary life as the unwanted charity case in his resentful uncle’s overcrowded home.
He wasn’t about to backslide now. Not even for the surprisingly intriguing woman his ward had gone and become without his permission.
“This conversation is over,” he informed her, with the expectation of instant obedience. “I’m taking you out of this place at once. I’d suggest you pack a bag now, while I’m feeling generous.”
She didn’t move. She didn’t react at all, in fact, which was far more intriguing than it ought to have been. An alarm went off inside him, deep and low.
“I’m not a grieving twelve-year-old any longer, Izar,” she said mildly enough, though her blue eyes flashed. “I’m not going to meekly bow my head and let you toss me away into some mausoleum on a mountaintop because you find my existence troublesome. Not again.”
“Will you not?” he asked with soft menace. “Are you quite sure?”
He thought she shivered slightly at that, but if she did she covered it in an instant.
“You control the company. My birthright.” Did he imagine the edge in her voice on that last word? He knew he did not imagine the way her eyes flashed at him. “But you no longer control me.”
Izar could think of any number of ways to control her—but none of them were the least bit appropriate. He gritted his teeth.
“Careful, Liliana. It is up to me, after all, to determine whether or not your claim to your shares should be honored when you turn twenty-five. If I think you’re not up to the challenge of it, I can keep you at arm’s length for another five years. Or did you not bother to read the fine print of the birthright you are suddenly so interested in?”
“Is that a threat?” she threw right back at him. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. It doesn’t matter. Threaten me all you want. I’m not letting you lock me away in another prison. It’s not going to happen.”
“Then throw a fit,” he invited her. “Like the stroppy child you are so determined to pretend you are not. It will not affect the outcome in any way.”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care what she did. Because he never had before and he shouldn’t now, damn it. He slid his phone out of his pocket and dialed his driver, then lifted the phone to his ear.
Only to watch in sheer astonishment as Liliana closed the distance between them as if she wasn’t at all intimidated by him, lifted her slender hand and then swatted his mobile out of his grip.
The phone hurtled through the air, making an arc across the quiet bedroom. It seemed to take a lifetime, or perhaps that was simply his disbelief. But then it hit the hardwood floor with a clattering sound and skidded out of sight beneath the bed.
For a moment they both stood there and stared. Her chest rose and fell, threatening the neckline that was already too low for Izar’s peace of mind. The color was high on her cheeks and there was something hectic in her gaze, making her eyes entirely too blue. She looked wild, untamed. Golden and gorgeous.
She looked like something straight out of his favorite fantasies.
He was losing his grip.
“That,” Izar said distinctly, and through his teeth, “was unwise.”
“I want to live here,” Liliana told him fiercely, too much passion in her voice, her eyes. And she was much too close to him, besides. “In two years I’ll have to take my place at the company the way my parents intended, but until then, I want to be normal. I don’t want to live in a fishbowl. I don’t want the world commenting on every move I make and every piece of clothing I put on as if it’s their business.”
She threw up her hands in emphasis or maybe to illustrate how strongly she felt these things. God help him, but Izar did not want to feel. He did not want to be near anyone who did. Feelings were no good. They led nowhere he wanted to go. He indulged the passions of the flesh because they were easily sated by his ever-revolving selection of mistresses and because he was, after all, a man. But he didn’t feel. He had sex, then moved on. Passion like this was lethal. He’d excised it a long time ago.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to someone who fairly oozed it.
And she was still speaking. “I want to be a regular person. I want to complain about my job all week, then stand in loud, tacky bars or binge watch television all weekend with my friends. I want the whole experience. Where’s the harm in that?”
Some distant voice inside him told him to step back. To remove himself from the temptation of such a ferociously earnest expression on such a beautiful face. The way she tilted her head back so she could stand that close to him and still look him in the eye, as if it was necessary she confront him this way. Her faint scent, maddeningly vague, that was somehow a part of the heat of her skin and its softness at the same time, tangling inside of him and making him long for things that were impossible. More than impossible.
He didn’t understand how any of this had happened. But he couldn’t make this situation any worse than it already was tonight. He couldn’t.
“I sympathize.” He did not touch her. He did not bend his head to taste that full mouth and he did not test the smoothness of her bared arms with his palms. But he also did not back away. “But that is not a choice you have.”
“It should be my choice.”
“Perhaps. But, instead, it is mine.”
“I don’t—”
“Do you really think this is wise, Liliana?” he bit out, cutting her off before he stopped remembering why he should. “Do you really think pushing me is going to get you what you want?”
“What will?” she demanded.
And later he might very well rip this moment apart. He might dig through his every motivation and question what the hell he’d been thinking—but here, now, he wasn’t sure he thought at all. It was as if she was a cliff when he’d expected a long, flat, familiar meadow, and he’d plummeted straight over the side without any warning. And there was nothing to be done for it now. He should have shut this down and bundled her off into his waiting car the moment she’d walked into the room and confirmed every last thing that smirking cockroach had told him. He shouldn’t have engaged with her. He shouldn’t have listened to a word she said, because how could it matter? And who cared if the woman who was still his duty had gone and transformed herself into the physical manifestation of his deepest desires? That he noticed at all was appalling. He’d have to add that to his laundry list of reasons to loathe himself. Later.
But in that moment, Izar did more than notice. He let his eyes drift down to her lips and linger there. Almost as if he was powerless to help himself—or stop.
“Oh,” she said softly, and the word was ripe with too many meanings. Revelation and understanding. Something like wonder. A touch of daring besides, and it poured through him, molten hot and impossible to resist. “Honey, not vinegar. I should have realized. The great and terrible Izar Agustin only acts tough.”
She threw herself forward and into him, catching herself with her palms flat against his chest even as his hands came up to grip her upper arms. Automatically, he told himself. To push her away, he told himself—but he didn’t.
Her skin was every bit as smooth to the touch as he’d tried not to imagine. The contact was like fire, surging through him, making him insane enough to understand he was hot and hard and unwilling to do a damn thing to change it—
And then Liliana surged up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
