A Billionaire's Redemption

“Now, will you make love to me?”

He’d love nothing better. But he was still worried about her emotional scars. He’d never dealt with anything like that before.

“Willa, are you sure you’re ready for this? Do you need more time to trust me?”

Her gaze narrowed in irritation. He laughed reluctantly. Although the notion of her tearing his clothes off didn’t sound half-bad.

“Refill?” he asked her. Now that the moment was upon him, he had no idea how to proceed with her. Yet another first for him. He pressed a full glass into her hand and nudged the bottom of it toward her mouth.

“A little liquid relaxation first, Mr Dawson?”

“Something like that.” She was so damned open and forthright. It was disconcerting. Most women were so busy maneuvering into his pants by this point they weren’t stopping to talk about his tactics to achieve the same.

“I have faith in you, Gabe.”

And there it was. That damned trust of hers. What if he let her down? If she freaked out in the middle of sex and he did the wrong thing? Fear gripped his chest in sharp talons.

“Now what?” she asked.

Now what, indeed.

Vengeance in Texas: Where heroes are made.

About the Author

CINDY DEES started flying airplanes while sitting in her dad’s lap at the age of three and got a pilot’s license before she got a driver’s license. At age fifteen, she dropped out of high school and left the horse farm in Michigan, where she grew up, to attend the University of Michigan. After earning a degree in Russian and East European studies, she joined the US Air Force and became the youngest female pilot in its history. She flew supersonic jets, VIP airlift and the C-5 Galaxy, the world’s largest airplane. During her military career, she traveled to forty countries on five continents, was detained by the KGB and East German secret police, got shot at, flew in the first Gulf War and amassed a lifetime’s worth of war stories.

Her hobbies include medieval reenacting, professional Middle Eastern dancing and Japanese gardening.

This RITA® Award-winning author’s first book was published in 2002 and since then she has published more than twenty-five bestselling and award-winning novels. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at www.cindydees.com.

A Billionaire’s

Redemption

Cindy Dees

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to my fellow authors for making this

experience such a joy. Y’all are as big-hearted and

talented as Texas itself!

Chapter 1

“…We commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground—earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

The preacher’s voice droned on, but Willa Merris’s heart hurt too much for her to hear the rest. Her father, Senator John Merris, was dead. Truly gone. Murdered. And even though his body had been discovered nearly two weeks ago, the finality of it had waited until this exact moment to slam into her like a ton of bricks.

Despair weighed on her until she could hardly breathe. What were she and her mother going to do? He had always been the center of their universe, the two of them pale moons orbiting his brilliant life.

A thud startled her. Her mother had just tossed a tightly balled clod of red Texas clay on top of the casket. The dirt in her own hand was cold and moist, squishing out of her clenched fist. Blinded by tears, Willa tossed her clod of dirt into the hole that contained her father’s mortal remains.

She shuddered as dozens of other mourners stepped forward to toss handfuls of dirt on her father’s grave. Some of them appeared genuinely sad, but the majority ranged from indifferent to covertly satisfied to bury the bastard. She had no illusions that her father had been a saint. Far from it. He’d been a mean man in a mean business—two mean businesses—a wildcat oilman carving a fortune out of the oil sands of West Texas, and a United States senator, brawling in the halls of Congress.

A comforting arm slipped around her shoulders. She leaned into the embrace for a moment, but then caught a whiff of the aftershave and stiffened. No. Surely not. Horror flowed through her. That, and sheer, frozen terror. She glanced up at the sympathetic face of James Ward, the son of her father’s longtime business partner.

“Get away from me this second,” she cried. “Don’t touch me!”

The people around her jolted, shocked by her outburst. She slipped out from under Ward’s arm as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Right. Like he didn’t know exactly what she was talking about.

Flashes of his big hands tearing her clothes… viciously slapping the fight out of her… shoving her to the floor of her living room… and, oh, God, the pain of his big body slamming into hers over and over. His grunts… the maniacal gleam in his glittering blue eyes… the humiliation and utter degradation of it.

She’d wanted to die. Right there where he’d left her on the floor like some piece of tossed-off garbage. She’d wished desperately to disappear, to just cease to exist. But no such luck. Instead, her father had checked out of his mortal coil and left behind the mess of his life for her to unravel in addition to hers.

“Honey,” Ward murmured, “you’re overwrought. Let me drive you home. Put you to bed.”

Overwrought? Something inside her cracked. She’d show him overwrought! “Get away from me!” she screeched.

Backpedaling from him with her hands outstretched to fend him off, she registered vaguely how everyone had gone stock-still around her. It was as if time had stopped with everyone in funny poses, staring at her slack-jawed as if she’d grown a second head.

“I swear, if you lay a hand on me again, I’ll kill you!” she shouted at Ward in rage she didn’t even know she had inside her. “Do you hear me? I’ll kill you!”

The vignette unfroze all at once with a rush of reaching hands and concerned faces closing in on her like macabre, black-clad clowns. Camera bulbs flashed, cell phones whipped out to arm’s length, pointed at her. Even the local news reporter frantically gestured at her cameraman to get all this on film.

Appalled, humiliated and so irrationally furious she scared herself, Willa batted away the hands, shoved through the crowd and broke into a stumbling half run toward her car. The grass and her high-heeled shoes were a lethal combination and she nearly broke her neck before she fetched up hard against her car door breathing heavily. She felt dirty. A driving compulsion to wash away the feel of James Ward’s filthy touch overwhelmed her. She had to get home. Take a hot shower. Scrub herself clean.

Willa stabbed at the car’s ignition button and nearly ran down the news reporter as she accelerated away from her father’s disaster of a funeral, frantic to escape this nightmare from which there was no waking.

Gabe Dawson watched the slender, black-veiled woman race away from John Merris’s grave. What was that all about? He hadn’t been close enough to hear the commotion, but it had been hard to miss. An angry buzz of gossip hummed around him… something about the senator’s daughter threatening to kill someone….

Quiet little Willa Merris? Alarm blossomed in his gut. Was she in danger? The girl he remembered wouldn’t say boo to a mouse. But then, he hadn’t seen her in over a decade. She’d been a skinny, awkward teen the last time he’d visited the Merris home. Before his falling out with John Merris. Before the two of them became mortal enemies.

At least Willa’s outburst had drawn the attention of the rumormongers away from his arrival at the funeral. As it was, he was sure to be topic number one in the gossip columns for showing up at John Merris’s grave. He would probably be accused of coming here to gloat. In point of fact, he hadn’t wished the old man dead. Plenty of suffering and failure, yes. But not death.

The preacher mumbled a few more words into the suddenly circuslike atmosphere, but no one was paying attention. Seeming to sense it, the minister cut short and wrapped up the graveside service with unseemly haste. Gabe watched in sardonic amusement as the good ladies of Vengeance, Texas, wasted no time texting and calling their friends to report the latest scandal surrounding the lurid death of John Merris. Vultures.

He jolted as a microphone materialized under his nose. “Have you got any comment on Willa Merris’s outburst, Mr. Dawson? You’re Senator Merris’s former business partner, are you not?” a female reporter demanded.

She looked as avidly entertained as the vultures. More so.

“No comment,” he growled. He strode away from the woman, but she walk-ran beside him, continuing to shove that damned microphone in front of him.

“What do you have to say about John Merris’s murder? Some people are saying you’re more pleased than anyone that the senator is dead. Is it true you two had a violent argument just a few weeks ago?”

He stonily ignored the reporter and her sleazy innuendos.

“Is it true that the police have asked you not to leave town, and that you’re a person of interest in the senator’s murder?”

He stopped at that, turned slowly and gave her the flat, pitiless stare that had earned him his reputation as a hard man among hard men. The reporter recoiled from him with a huff. Smart girl.

“What did you say your name was?” he called after her as she stomped away from him.

She half turned and snapped, “Paula Craddock. KVXT News. Are you going to give me a statement?”

“Nope. Just wanted to know who to sic my lawyers on the next time you harass me.”

The journalist’s gaze narrowed to a threatening glare.

Yeah, whatever. Better women than she had tried to get a rise out of him over the years. But he wasn’t the founder and CEO of a billion-dollar oil conglomerate for nothing. He chewed up and spit out self-serving leeches like her for breakfast.

Meanwhile, the alarm in his gut refused to quiet. What had caused Willa Merris to blow up at her own father’s funeral? She and her mother were always the souls of decorum, quiet props in the background of Senator Merris’s many public appearances. Willa had been trained practically from birth how not to draw attention to herself. It was unthinkable that she would cause a scene, ever, let alone in public, in front of the press, and most definitely not at a somber occasion like this.

What had gotten into her?

Worry for the unpleasant conversation he had yet to have with young Willa flashed through his head. Maybe he should wait awhile to break his own bad news to her and her mother. But it wasn’t like there was ever going to be a good time to tell them John Merris’s last, nasty little secret.

He sighed. Lord, this was going to suck. He might as well go find Willa Merris now and make her misery complete.

Chapter 2

No matter how long she stood under the water, nor how hot the water was, Willa never felt entirely clean anymore. But as the shower went from tepid to icy cold, she reluctantly climbed out. She felt like the fragile little handblown glass horse figurine she’d gotten somewhere as a child. At the slightest touch, she was going to shatter into a million knife-sharp pieces.

She’d give anything not to have to face the world for a good, long time. Or better, to leave this place and never, ever come back. But duty drove that rebellious thought back into her subconscious nearly as quickly as it had surfaced. God knew why, but her father had named her executor of his estate, which meant she was trapped in this town for months to come.

The doorbell echoed far away in her parents’ mansion. Someone else would get it—Louise, their longtime housekeeper, or maybe Larry Shore, her father’s new chief of staff and right-hand man since the old one, Frank Kellerman, wound up in jail for covering up her father’s sins.

Despite the ninety-degree weather, an impulse to cover as much skin as possible overcame her. She pulled on a pair of light wool slacks and a long-sleeved cashmere sweater. She skipped her usual French twist and merely pushed her strawberry-blond hair off her face with a simple headband. My, my. More rebellion, Miss Merris? Leaving your hair down? Scandalous. Making a wry face at her reflection in the mirror, she put on just enough makeup not to look like a corpse, herself.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her. “Miss Willa. You’ve got a visitor,” Louise announced, her voice laced with heavy disapproval.

Willa allowed herself a mental groan. Decorum dictated that she receive each and every one of the endless stream of her father’s business associates offering condolences and, of course, the avid gossip seekers disguised as neighbors and family friends. But the strain of it was getting to her. The constant visitors never gave her a moment’s escape from the oppressive grief pervading the house.

If they would all just give her a minute to breathe, to blank her mind and forget everything, maybe she could get her mental feet under her. Start tackling the mountain of decisions piling up around her. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather strength and replied, “Show our visitor into the library. I’ll be right down.”

She checked her appearance in the mirror and drew up short. She looked… haggard. Father wouldn’t approve at all. Her train of thought derailed. Her father was dead, and she was no longer obligated to look like a poster child for his endless political campaigns. A surprising and overwhelming sense of relief flooded her. She could go without makeup if she wanted. And wear sloppy T-shirts and jeans. She could say what came to mind without first checking the comment against her father’s political platform. So giddy she almost felt ill, she giggled a little hysterically.

Pull it together, girlfriend. There were still a few social boundaries she would not cross. Like not acting properly bereaved at her father’s passing.

She hurried down the grand, sweeping staircase to the marble-tiled foyer. Her parents’ house was designed for maximum “impress the guests” factor. Personally, she found it gaudy and overbearing. But then, that had been her father. She much preferred her sweet two-bedroom cottage across town by the college.

She opened the oversize walnut doors into the library and stopped cold as she spied her visitor. She would recognize those broad shoulders, that rugged profile, the casual confidence anywhere. Gabe Dawson.

It had been years since she’d seen him. A wash of memory heated her cheeks. As a teen, she’d had the mother of all crushes on this man. He had been by far the most handsome and dashing male she’d ever laid eyes on. And good golly, Miss Molly, he still was. Of course, he’d never given her the time of day. When he had bothered to speak to her at all back then, it had been to ruffle her hair like she was an amusing puppy, and call her something demeaning like “squirt.”

But that had been a long time ago. She wasn’t that innocent kid anymore. And he—he wasn’t that impetuous, up-and-coming geologist who dared to challenge the established rules for how oil was explored.

He was standing with one elbow propped on the mantel, staring down into the cold, gray ashes of the fireplace. A half-consumed glass of bourbon dangled in his other hand. In this unguarded moment, he looked sad. Worried. Lonely, even.

Her heart went out to him before her conscious mind registered the irony of this man’s presence in her father’s inner sanctum. Gabe Dawson and John Merris had been like matter and antimatter. Any time they crossed paths, they erupted in a fiery explosion that consumed everything and everyone around them.

She stepped farther into the room, clearing her throat as she did so. Gabe turned sharply to face her with the barely contained energy she remembered. Being in the same room with him was still like standing next to a hurricane.

She registered a few changes, though, as he met her in the middle of the spacious library. His clothes were more expensive, and fit better these days. His hair was shorter but still looked tousled like someone had just run a hand through it. His eyes… oh, my. They were still that dark, mysterious shade of green that looked right through her. Although at the moment, she saw reticence in them.

An urge to stutter and blush like a schoolgirl nearly won out over a lifetime’s worth of ingrained manners, but she only fought it off by dint of long years of concealing her true thoughts and feelings.

“Gabe Dawson. What a pleasant surprise,” she said smoothly. “Can I get you a refill on your drink? Is it still Kentucky bourbon, neat?”

He waved off the drink offer and set down his glass on a side table. His gaze slid down her body to her toes and back up to her face quickly enough not to be offensive, but with enough thoroughness to send a wave of heat coursing through her—and a shiver of apprehension. He always had skirted the edges of impropriety in the most delicious way. Rhett Butler, move over.

“How are you doing?” he asked, his voice every bit as potent as she remembered. The passing years had given it a richness, a maturity, that tasted good on her tongue. Oh, my.

She sank onto the edge of one of the big leather wing-back chairs and gestured him into the matching one. He leaned forward in it, propping his elbows on his knees to study at her intently. It was unnerving being the subject of such intense scrutiny. But then he’d always had that effect on her. She restrained an urge to pat her hair and tug at the neck of her sweater. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and nearly crushed her own fingers.

The monstrous impropriety of his being here occurred to her. How dare he intrude upon her family on this day of mourning and loss? He’d hated her father. Done his damnedest to ruin John Merris. Abruptly, his presence grated like sandpaper on her skin. He had no right to be here.

She gritted her teeth, her training in being polite to everyone in all cases rubbing raw against an urge to scream and rail at this man. Although truth be told, her need to scream at the top of her lungs wasn’t all about him. She risked a glance at him, and felt awkward heat bloom in her cheeks. Lord, this man discombobulated her.

She stared down at her tightly twined fingers and very belatedly answered his question. “My mother and I are doing as well as expected after such a shock,” she said automatically, for the hundredth time. “Thank you for coming.”

“You don’t have to put on a show for me, Willa.”

Her gaze snapped up to his. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not here to pay my condolences. I wouldn’t insult you or your mother by pretending to be sad your father is gone.”

She leaned back hard, shocked at his bald honesty. This was the deep South. Old-school Texas. People didn’t admit to being delighted that their archrival had kicked the bucket. The rules of polite behavior were observed. Leave it to Gabe Dawson to flout even the most basic societal convention.

“I need to speak to you and your mother about a business matter. Is she up to joining us?” he asked.

Minnie Merris had been so doped up on tranquilizers before the funeral, it was a miracle she’d been able to stand. Willa had no doubt her mother had added a handful of sleeping pills to the cocktail of medications by now and was passed out cold in her bed.

“I’m taking care of all business decisions at the moment,” she answered smoothly.

“Minnie dumped it all on you, huh?” he asked sympathetically. “She never was much for taking care of herself.”

Willa’s spine went rigid. He might be absolutely correct, but she didn’t need this man pointing out her mother’s flaws to her. “If you’ve come to gloat over our loss, Mr. Dawson, you can leave now.”

He threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Willa noted wryly that he didn’t apologize for calling her mother weak and unable to care for herself; he’d merely apologized for saying it aloud. She waited, irritated, as he took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

“No matter what your family thinks of me, I am sorry your father was murdered. Even he didn’t deserve an end like that.”

She pursed her lips. “Even he? Mr. Dawson, are you bent on offending me?”

He exhaled hard and shoved a hand through his hair, standing it up in a sexy mess all over his head. An urge to reach out and smooth it crossed her palm. She dismissed the impulse with dismay.

He swore under his breath. “I’m going about this all wrong. Please let me start over.”

She settled deeper into the embrace of the leather chair, waiting to see where Gabe was taking this. She kind of enjoyed watching him squirm. She’d had to spend most of the past decade listening to her father rant about how this man had stolen Merris Oil’s future, and done his best to run her family into the ground. And while her father had been a hothead, prone to making generalizations, he also got things right, sometimes.

“Willa—Miss Merris. I truly am sorry your father has passed away. No matter what our disagreements might have been, I did not wish the man ill personally.”

She blinked, studying him anew. His sincerity surprised her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“I do have another reason for coming to see you today beyond expressing my sympathy for your loss.”

“Indeed?” Curiosity stirred in the midst of her caution. What on earth could he want here? She flashed back for a second to her teen years when she’d nightly dreamed of him sweeping her into his arms and eloping with her. The absurdity of the notion now almost made her smile. Gabe Dawson was a well-known playboy and self-avowed bachelor. He’d been divorced for many years, in fact. Plenty of time had passed for him to find a wife if he was planning on having another one. Not the marrying kind, obviously. Just as well. He’d probably be a completely insufferable control freak in a relationship.

She tuned back in to what he was saying so earnestly. “…tried to speak to your father about a sensitive business matter a few weeks ago, but that conversation… didn’t go well. Unfortunately, the underlying issue remains unresolved.”

A snort escaped her. The way she heard it, the two men had engaged in a violent shouting match that ended with her father throwing a punch at Gabe in the middle of the prestigious and private Petroleum Club in Dallas. What on earth could have provoked her father so horribly? John Merris had been a highly intelligent man, and he knew darn good and well not to make such a scene in the middle of a tough re-election campaign.

Gabe continued doggedly, “As you may recall, I started life as an oil geologist. And as such, I have more than a working knowledge of assessing oil fields.”

Her brows knit in a frown. Where was he going with this? Assessing oil fields? “Mr. Dawson, I have nothing to do with the day-to-day operation of Merris Oil. Perhaps you should be having this conversation with Larry Shore. I believe he’s going to take over as temporary CEO in my father’s place. Or you could speak with the Ward family. They hold a significant minority share in my father’s company.”

“Please. Hear me out.”

She nodded her somewhat confused assent and he continued. “I happen to own the mineral rights to a parcel of land next to Merris Oil’s Vacarro Field.”

Even she knew what the Vacarro Field was. It was Merris Oil’s cash cow—a stretch of oil field about an hour’s drive west of Vengeance that churned out millions of barrels of oil each year and was the main source of her family’s income.