More Than A Vow: Vows of Revenge / After Their Vows / Vows Made in Secret

He shot a wary look her way, genuinely shaken by the way she’d slithered past his shields.

She’d rolled onto her side, but was still diagonal on the bed, knees together now, shirt pulled low to hide her nudity, head pillowed on her curled arm. Her big eyes blinked in sensual shock as she offered him a tentative smile.

“I’ve always wanted to be swept away by passion.” Her languid tone was a caress and an invitation, as alluring as a drug to an addict. She made him want to join her, to lock out the world and let her become everything he needed.

Which was probably what she had planned. First, dull his senses with the kind of sex that reset the bar. Then lower his guard so he’d let her wander his home so she could, what? Dig through his files while he slept?

He had not meant to touch her. He hated himself for being weak enough to do so. He’d been on the verge of coming downstairs to spell out exactly how he was taking his revenge, but she’d come to him and coldcocked him with seduction.

A mix of emotions rose in him: contempt for both of them, fury, disappointment, a kind of defeat that took him back to a time when he’d been completely powerless... He hated feeling these things, especially all at once. With ruthless discipline, he shut himself down, refusing to be drawn by her sultry afterglow. Women were as vulnerable after sex as they were during, but he closed himself off to that, too.

Melodie must have read something in his look. Her lashes quivered and one hand tugged her shirttail down a little more. “Maybe it’s always like that for you,” she murmured self-consciously.

“It is,” he lied flatly, unable to stomach how he’d let lust, for her, sweep him completely beyond himself. “I know who you are,” he continued, before her flinch of defenselessness could have an impact on him. He strode across to gather his pants and stamped his feet into them, straightening to tie them into place with jerky movements. “You’re wasting your time.”

“What...? What do you mean?” She tucked her legs to the side as she sat up, brow furrowing.

“Charmaine Parnell-Gautier,” he pronounced without inflection, as though they were exchanging information over a boardroom table. “I know your father and brother sent you here. Whatever you thought you could do to me isn’t working. I’m three steps ahead of all of you.” He picked up her discarded bikini bottom and brought it to the bed, placing it near her knee. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Her plump lips parted and her skin went so pale he thought she might faint. His heart lurched with alarm.

But she gathered herself quickly, drew a shaken breath and straightened her spine, shoulders going back.

“You think my father sent me here?”

“I know he did.”

“You’re wrong.” Tilting her head at him in an admonishing stare, she looked him right in the eye. “My birth certificate says Garner Gautier is my father, but I don’t have anything to do with him.” Bitterness flashed in her expression. “I’m not surprised you might have a bone to pick with him. He buys friends and makes enemies, but whatever he’s done to you has nothing to do with me.”

Wow, he thought distantly. She certainly knew how to shuffle her hand and play a new card. He was supposed to be reassured, he imagined, by her pretending they had a common adversary.

“What he did was steal my work and lose me my home. I might believe you had nothing to do with his crimes if I hadn’t spent yesterday afternoon reviewing recent photos of you two together.”

Her lip curled in revulsion. She shook her head. “That’s not what—”

“Melodie,” he interrupted coldly. “This isn’t a conversation. I don’t care what you have to say. I’m simply telling you that your idea to use my PA to infiltrate my home has failed.”

“I’m not infiltrating! I’m planning her wedding—”

“No. You’re not,” he informed, oddly empty of feeling as he served up the next slice of his revenge. This should feel good, but it just made him bitter. “I’ve instructed Ingrid to fire you. If she wants to hold her wedding here, which she does, she will find another planner. One who actually does this sort of thing for a living.”

* * *

Melodie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Clammy fear was pulsing through her, killing her afterglow and beginning to make her feel dirty and cheap. She was sitting here half-naked, a very personal tenderness reminding her of what they’d been doing a few short minutes ago.

Snatching up the bathing-suit bottom, she tucked her feet into it and worked it up her legs, giving Roman her back as she pulled it into place. Her skin felt flayed under his regard, her inner self yanked into the open, kicked and spat on.

It was such a shock her mind could hardly make sense of it. All she knew was that this had something to do with her father and Anton. She knew all too well what a bitter taste they left in one’s mouth. She clung to reason with her fingernails, tried to regain her poise and some semblance of control over this crazed situation.

She didn’t sleep with strangers. She didn’t—

Think, Melodie.

“You can’t fire me,” she said firmly. “I have a contract.” She reached through the neckline of the shirt to straighten the bikini top. Where was her power suit when she needed it?

“Do not charge any cancellation fees,” he warned. “If you try to recover any costs from this trip, if you so much as contact Ingrid to plead your case, I will make this worse than a job loss and eviction. Now go home, tell your father you failed and never come after me again.”

“Stop,” she insisted, spinning to confront him with an upraised hand, barely able to process what he was saying—eviction? She knew the cold fury and bloodlust that came of dealing with her father and half brother. Better than he ever would. She just needed to make him realize they were on the same side. “Roman, listen. I have nothing to do with him or Anton. Firing me will not impact them at all.”

“It’s time to leave,” he said with quiet frost.

“They’re not even going to know,” she asserted, hearing the crack of growing emotion in her voice and clawing hard to keep her cool. It was really hard when voices in the back of her head were saying, They’re still doing it. They’re still able to hurt you. “What you’re doing impacts me, not them.”

“You’re all one and the same.” The Gautier lack of mercy left a virulent flatness behind his eyes. Broader understanding began to hit. He really thought she was some kind of spy. That she had been put up to this by her father and brother.

Oh, she vaguely knew what her brother did for a living. She’d never understood how. He was the furthest thing from a techno-genius, and now pieces were falling together. Of course Anton would have stolen the product that had filled his bank account. Of course her father would have covered for him and profited along with him.

“I don’t know how to convince you, but you’re wrong. Before you go through with all this, stop. Think about what you’re doing. Give me a chance to explain.”

“There’s no stopping. It’s done,” he said matter-of-factly.

She swallowed, barely breathing, not wanting to believe him.

“You’ve already told Ingrid—”

“I emailed her before you reached the top of the stairs.”

She shook her head, absorbing the magnitude of losing this contract. This wedding was supposed to put her on the map. She was finally starting a real job. A career she could feel excitement about. No more juggling two or three minimum-wage jobs at makeup counters or bistros. Her aspirations of finally moving into a decent apartment, maybe traveling because she wasn’t tied down by her mother and debt, dimmed and doused like a candlewick gutting out, leaving only a wisp of smoke to sting her nostrils.

“You can’t do this,” she insisted numbly. Her mind leaped to wondering if she could start over somewhere, but as he’d pointed out, there was an investment in starting up a business like this. Without Ingrid’s payment, she was in a very deep hole. Then there was the loss of Ingrid’s circle of contacts. Starting over meant starting at the bottom, not stepping into a tony crowd with money and taste. “You’re destroying my life,” she informed him, heart beginning to tremble in her chest.

“Be sure to tell your father exactly how it feels.”

He wasn’t going to hear her on the lack of communication between her and Garner. She wouldn’t bother mentioning it again. This was happening. She could see his resolve and, if dealing with her father had taught her nothing else, she had learned to accept that there was evil in this world. The best you could do was mitigate the damage.

Exactly what was the damage?

“What...?” She was afraid to ask. “What did you say about eviction?”

He folded his arms, feet planted firmly. “I’ve made an offer to the owner of your building, one he can’t refuse. It’s on condition that your unit be made available immediately.”

Fury closed her fists into painful knots. “You can’t do that.”

He didn’t react beyond saying, “Your things are being removed as we speak.”

“To where?” she cried.

“The nearest Dumpster?” he offered with a pitiless shrug.

“You—” Her voice caught and realization began to squeeze her in its icy fingers. Fine quakes accosted her. She shook her head in convulsive denial as the buildup of emotion threatened to break the walls of her control. One thought formed and clung like a teardrop to a lash. “You’re having my mother thrown in the Dumpster. Is that what you’re saying? What the hell kind of man are you? There are laws.”

His brows jerked together, the first sign of emotion since they’d been writhing with passion. “What do you mean?”

“My mother’s ashes are in my apartment. You can’t just throw someone away like that. You can’t even—” Oh, what the hell did a man like him care about how hard it was to make the arrangements for scattering ashes?

Anxiety brought tears to her eyes, and she dashed them away, furious that she was breaking down, but this was the last straw. Losing things, starting over, having nowhere to live... Those were all problems she’d overcome before. Defiling her mother’s remains was more than she could withstand. Her breath hissed in her pinched nostrils while her mind raced through all the hours of travel it would take to get back to Virginia to save her.

“I’ll make a call,” he said.

Because the wheels were already in motion.

It hit her that he’d been making these arrangements yesterday, long before he’d kissed her in the cabana. He had set up all these horrible things, consigned her mother to the Dumpster, then had sex with her. She recoiled as she realized he’d already been filled with hatred and thoughts of revenge as he’d carried her to this bed.

Her revulsion must have shown. He reacted with a dark flinch.

“I will,” he assured her, glancing around as though he was looking for the nearest phone.

“You’ll make a call,” she repeated as she edged toward hysteria. “You’re just full of consideration, aren’t you, lover,” she spat. The word tasted like bile.

“Do you want me to do it or not?” His gaze flashed back to hers with warning.

She was ready to take him apart with her bare hands and he must have known it. He tensed with readiness, stance shifting as he balanced his weight on his planted feet, darkly watchful. His lethal air should have terrified her, but she was pulsing with the sort of protective instincts that drove people to lash out in a blind rage. Her mother’s well-being throbbed in her brain, urging her to injure and incapacitate in order to save. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. So badly.

Don’t, a voice whispered in her head. Don’t be like them.

“As if I’d trust you,” she managed, voice wavering, whole body beginning to rack with furious shakes. “I will make a call,” she said raggedly, knocking her breastbone with her knuckles. “I’ll keep her safe. I’m the only one who ever has. The only reason I went back there was for her,” she cried, throwing the truth at him like a grenade. “I swore I’d never set foot in that house again, but my father wasn’t going to let me have her ashes unless I put on a state funeral and gave him those damned photos you’re so convinced prove I’m here on his behalf. You think you’re the only person they’ve ever hurt, Roman? Don’t be so arrogant. You’re not that special!”

She spun toward the door.

“Melodie,” he ground out. “I’ll call to make sure—”

“My friends call me Melodie. You can call me Charmaine. Like they do. Because you’re just like them.”

She went through the interior of the house. It was faster and allowed her to avoid going anywhere near him as she made her exit. She ran down the hall, blind to anything but a blur of yellowed marble and red carpet, barely keeping her footing on the stairs before she shot out the front door.

She heard her name again, but didn’t look back. The paving stones were hot on her bare feet, burning her soles, but she barely felt the scorch and cut of the pebbles. Her only thought was that she needed to get away from him. Needed to get to her mother.

CHAPTER FIVE

THREE WEEKS LATER, Roman was in New York, conscience still smarting from everything that had happened with Melodie. Her final words—you’re just like them—kept ringing in his head, growing louder as time progressed, cutting like a rope that grew tighter the more he struggled against it.

Initially, he’d thought she was merely twisting things around as she’d seen her plans falling apart. He’d had very little pity for her in those first postcoital moments, too angry with himself to hear that he might have computed things wrong.

The bit about her mother’s ashes had bothered him, though. He had nothing of his own mother except vague, poignant memories of a woman who had seemed broken and defeated, voice filled with regret as she promised to get him back. Given how hard she’d tried to turn her life around, he’d felt doubly cheated when she had died before she was able to regain custody. The fact he’d only been informed of her death as an afterthought had been insult to injury.

He quickly turned away from those painful memories, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to keep his mind plugged into work. It had always been his escape from brooding and he needed it more than ever.

Yet he found himself rising and stepping away from his desk to look over his view of Central Park. At least his eviction plans hadn’t actually put the ashes in danger. As Melodie had pointed out, there were laws. His ability to have her things removed required thirty days’ notice. She’d arrived home and cleared out within days, according to the building manager. Her mother’s ashes had been safe the entire time, and Melodie had taken them with her when she’d left.

Twelve years ago, he had been thrown out of his home overnight, losing everything. The locks had been changed while he had hitchhiked from Virginia to New York, still nursing broken ribs and two black eyes after confronting Anton at his father’s campaign office. His meager possessions had been gone when the super had let him into his apartment, not that he’d cared about anything except his custom-built computer. Taking that had been pure malice. They’d already had the files. They’d wanted to set him back, quite literally disarm him, and it had worked.

Roman hadn’t dared go to the police. Not after Garner’s threats of charging him with hacking. Roman had that prior conviction and no money to hire a lawyer. No time to wait for the wheels of justice to turn. Survival had been his goal.

Living on the streets, really understanding what his mother had been up against, he’d not only come to understand and forgive her, but he’d even considered a form of prostitution himself. The temptation had been high to sell his skills to the highest bidder and embrace a life of crime. Honest work hadn’t been paying off.

Somehow, though, he’d found himself outside Charles’s house—the security specialist who had helped him all those years ago. He’d walked as though he was being pulled toward a beacon, arriving without understanding why or how his feet had carried him that direction. Charles hadn’t been there. He’d been in a home, suffering dementia. But his wife, Brenda, had let him in.

Until then, as a product of the foster system, Roman hadn’t really believed things such as friendship and kindness and loyalty were real. He’d seen Charles’s singling him out as a mercenary move, a specialist developing a skilled apprentice for his own benefit. Anton had befriended him to exploit him, as well. That was how it was done, Roman had thought. Nothing personal. People used people. That was how life worked.

But as Charles’s wife had taken him in for no other reason than because Charles had always spoken fondly of him, Roman had begun to comprehend what one person could mean to another. Not that he took advantage of her. No, he had carried his weight, taking out the garbage and giving her what he could for groceries and rent every week.

She hadn’t needed his money, though. She wasn’t rich, but she was comfortable. She had grown children she saw often, so she wasn’t lonely. The house had been well alarmed in a good neighborhood. She hadn’t needed his protection. She’d had no legal obligation to help him.

She’d done it because she had a generous heart.

It had baffled him.

He still wondered what he might have resorted to if she hadn’t taken him in for bacon and eggs. Told him to shower and provided him with clean clothes. If she hadn’t listened to his story and believed him.

He’d been wary, not allowing her to be as motherly as she had wanted to be. Almost his entire life to that point had been a reliance on strangers. He hadn’t wanted to go back to that kind of setup, but her unconditional caring had been a glimpse of what he had missed in losing his own mom. Parents, good ones, were a precious commodity.

So the thought of Melodie’s mother’s ashes being mistreated still bothered him, even though nothing terrible had come to pass. It had been more than the basic indecency of such a thing. He simply wasn’t that cruel.

Meanwhile, the claim Melodie had made about how she’d come to have those ashes had shaken his assumptions about her and her family. He had needed to know more, to understand if what she had claimed about her estrangement from her father could be true. He’d made a number of calls over the ensuing days, first talking to her building manager at length.

Melodie, it seemed, was a perfect tenant who paid on time, lived quietly and took care of minor repairs herself. In fact, until the recent passing of her mother, she’d spent most of her days out of her apartment, working or visiting her mother at the clinic.

When Roman had looked more closely at her finances, he’d learned that she’d been living simply for years. Her income was low, especially for the daughter of a senator who received dividends from a global software company. For six years she had worked in a variety of part-time and minimum-wage jobs, only taking on debt to improve her mother’s care and then to start her wedding planning business.

He’d spoken to Ingrid’s mother, too, learning more about Melodie’s mother than Melodie herself, but even that had been an eye-opener. Patience Parnell had been a fragile sort at college. She’d been given to tears and depression over the tiniest slight. She’d quit school when a modeling agency had scouted her, but after the initial boost to her self-esteem, that sort of work had ground her down. She’d left that career to marry a rich widower, expecting to be a homemaker and help him raise his son. Instead, she’d been his trophy wife, constantly on display as he set his aspirations on Washington. The demands of networking, campaigning and entertaining had grown too much for her. She never really recovered from postpartum depression after having Melodie. She’d checked into a sanitarium six years ago and, it was whispered, had checked out under her own terms.

When she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, she had refused treatment, letting it take her life in a type of natural suicide.

Every time he thought about it, he saw Melodie before him in that ridiculous outfit. Her anguish had been so real as she’d said, I’ll keep her safe. I’m the only one who ever has.

That crack in her control was the thing that niggled most. She had been such a coolheaded fighter up to that point. He’d seen it in the way she’d doggedly tried to argue with him. At any other time he would have admired such a quick, clear ability to reason her way out of conflict. Hell, he probably would have tried to hire her. People who could step past emotion to straighten out a tense situation were gold.

All he’d seen at the time, however, was an attack. A cold-blooded one. His mind had been so skewed by his experience with her father and brother he’d stayed on the offensive, refusing to hear her, especially because she’d been so levelheaded in her defense. He’d read her wrong because, until those last moments, she hadn’t flinched or broken down.

That strength in her had thrown him, making him see her as an adversary. Now all he could think about was how it would feel to put all one’s energy into fighting for someone, for your mother, and lose her to a lack of will to live.

He swallowed, pushing stiff fists into his pockets, knuckles coming up against the string of pearls he should have returned to Melodie by now. He kept thinking she might contact him, but, in her shoes, would he want to talk to him?

If there was a good enough reason, he thought she would.

The beads rubbed mercilessly against his knuckles, the way a certain question kept rolling around in his mind, rubbing and aggravating.

Did no condom mean no birth control?

A lead blanket descended on him each time he recalled his fleeting moment of sobriety, as he had recognized the mistake he was about to make.

He was a man of logic. He didn’t believe in giving in to feelings. He still couldn’t understand how he had, especially with his view of Melodie as dark as it had been. He’d been appalled in those first seconds afterward for so much as touching her.

Yet it had been the most profound sexual experience of his life.

Had it been the same for her? Had their physical attraction been real? Please, Roman, please. His entire body clenched with tension and his breath drew in and held, savoring the memory of skin and musky scents and hot, wet welcome pouring over him like a bath. Behind his closed eyes, another question, the most burning question, glowed brightly.

Was she pregnant?

* * *

Beggars can’t be choosers. It was a truth Melodie had learned to live with the day she’d come home six years ago to discover her father had badgered her mother into a hospital she couldn’t leave.

She’s an embarrassment, he’d said.

He was the embarrassment, Melodie had informed him. Terrible words had followed, ending with her nursing a bruised cheek, a sore scalp and a wrenched shoulder while she’d begged through choked-back tears for permission to see her mother. He’d forced her to stay silent on his abusive behavior if she wanted so much as a phone call.

After striking that deal, Melodie had walked out, going to a friend’s house and never returning. Her privileged life had ended. She’d learned the hard way how to make ends meet, taking whatever job she could find to survive.

Of course, there was one job she had refused to stoop to, but today might be the day she completely swallowed her pride. They’d noticed at her temp office job that she had a flare for organization. They wanted to offer her a permanent position with a politician’s campaign team. Become a handler. A political gofer. Barf.

But the money was significantly better than entry-level clerk wages.