His scrutiny dropped to his arm, where her fingers still lingered. He didn’t move out from under her touch, and though it would’ve been the smarter option, she didn’t remove her hand.
“Heading back to hell?” he repeated, not acknowledging her condolences. She got it; after her mother died, she’d wanted to talk about anything other than her death. “Other than the obvious, where is that?”
She winced, her shoulders lifting to her ears. “Promise not to be offended?” He arched a dark eyebrow but nodded. “That reception. Large social events are my definition of cruel and unusual punishment, but that in there...” She shook her head. “I’m from a big, loud Italian family, so I’m not a stranger to repasts that turn into noisy gatherings with food and laughter. But not like that. There’s no one talking about your father, remembering him. There’s no sense of sadness that comes with losing someone you love. There aren’t any tears with the laughter. There’s no comfort from family and friends. What I escaped in there is...ghoulish.”
She lowered her hand from his arm and braced herself for his rebuke. Prepared herself for the same chiding smirk she’d received from her father when she’d voiced the same thoughts before seeking a place where she could get a break from the avarice and phoniness of it all.
But the ridicule didn’t come.
Instead, Cain studied her with an impenetrable stare that revealed nothing. That must be a handy skill.
She fought not to fidget under his regard, but just as she parted her lips to apologize for her insensitive words, he murmured, “Thank you, Devon.”
“For?” Being inappropriately blunt? Trespassing? Handing him secondhand wine? He had to be more specific.
“For having the courage to be honest when the truth isn’t pretty.” A small, half smile that struck her as a shade grim briefly curved a corner of his sensual mouth. “And for giving me a few minutes’ reprieve from my own hell.” He stretched the glass of wine back toward her, and as she accepted it, he lifted his other hand and shocked her by stroking the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I appreciate that more than you know.”
He stepped away, leaving her skin burning from his caress. She didn’t move—couldn’t move—as he sharply pivoted on his heel and strode away, disappearing as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared.
Only then did she graze her trembling fingers over the spot he’d touched so tenderly. With gratitude. Because surely, she’d imagined the flash of heat in his eyes. It’d been only a wishful reflection of the unwise and wistful desire that had coursed through her.
Yes, that’s all.
Still, what was the harm in believing in that fantasy?
It wasn’t like she would see Cain Farrell again.
Nope. No harm at all.
Three
A year.
That was the length of time required of him, and he could endure it. Hell, he’d endured his father for thirty-two years. Twelve more months was child’s play.
He could damn well do this.
The mantra marched through Cain’s head like a regiment of soldiers on a deadly campaign, and he clenched his jaw so tightly it throbbed. Either that or let loose the string of curses flaying his throat. And he would never give his father that satisfaction. Dead or alive.
“Mr. Farrell, you had several messages while you were in your meeting. I placed them on your desk and emailed them to you as well,” Charlene Gregg, his executive assistant, informed him as he stalked past her desk. The polished brunette had been with him for the last five years, and she was a godsend. Her protective, six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound bruiser of a husband and adorable two children thought so as well.
“Thanks, Charlene,” he ground out. Another perk of having an assistant who’d been with him so long. She ignored his bad moods. “Hold all calls for the next twenty minutes.”
“Of course.”
He entered his office, barely managing not to slam the door behind him. Control. He’d spent the formative years of his childhood developing it. Growing up in a chaotic household where the slightest offense—real or imagined—could earn him a verbal, soul-stripping assault or a punch to the chest, he’d been a quick study on reining in his emotions and reactions.
But coming out of a meeting with his... Hell, he still couldn’t call them his brothers. Achilles Farrell, the brooding giant who shared his last name, and Kenan Rhodes, the charmer with the wide smile and steely eyes, were strangers. Strangers who, only a week after their initial meeting during the funeral reception, were carving a piece out of his company for their own.
He hated the intrusion.
Guilt thrummed inside his chest, but the simmering anger that had become his constant companion prevented it from sinking a foothold. Logically, he got that his rage was directed toward a dead man who’d screwed him over, but Barron wasn’t here. His illegitimate offspring were.
Thrusting a hand through his hair, Cain circled his desk and dropped into his chair. His gaze lit on the thick file he’d been studying for the past week. Immediately after the will reading, Cain had contacted Farrell International’s private detective and had him open investigations on Achilles and Kenan.
Achilles Farrell. Born in Boston, but raised by a single mother near Seattle, Washington. Software developer and something of a genius. And an ex-con who’d spent two years in jail for assault. Seemed like a chip off the old block.
Kenan Rhodes. Born and raised in Boston by the wealthy family who’d adopted him. VP of Marketing in his family’s business and brilliant at it. And a consummate ladies’ man, according to the number of times he appeared in society gossip pages. Again, chip off the old block.
And once both men had agreed to Barron’s terms, they’d informed Cain they didn’t plan on sitting back as figureheads while the year crawled by. Each intended to make their mark on the company. Achilles with the IT department and Kenan in Marketing. Everything in Cain howled at handing over the reins of any part of his business to strangers. But, because of Barron’s will, Cain couldn’t object. Couldn’t do anything but sit there, fuming. And powerless. That grated the most. As soon as he left his father’s house, he’d vowed never to be weak, vulnerable again. And yet...
He raised his arm, his fingers curled into a fist, and aimed it toward his desktop. But at the last moment, he halted the swift downward motion before his hand could slam onto the wood.
Control. He couldn’t lose it.
Heaving a sigh, he leaned back, squeezing his eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose. Unbidden and inexplicable, an image of Devon—he never did ask her last name—wavered then solidified across the screen of his mind.