It wasn’t the first time the woman who’d appeared in his mother’s garden like a pinup version of a fairy featured in his thoughts. Petite, with breasts he suspected would spill into his palms. A cinched-in waist that those same hands could easily span. A delicious flare of hips that completed a wicked hourglass figure. The stilettos she’d worn should’ve added height to her small frame, but they hadn’t. Yet, damn had they done amazing things for her toned, thick thighs.
Yes, Devon possessed a body that made a man jerk awake in the middle of the night, sweating, his dick strangled in his fist. But her body couldn’t compare to the beautiful emerald eyes that seemed so innocent yet contained age-old secrets in their depths. Or to the gentle slope of her elegant cheekbones that he hadn’t been able to resist touching. Or the lush, damn near indecent curve of her mouth that even now had a dull ache throbbing in his hardening flesh. That top lip–heavy mouth had combatted the impression of purity that stubbornly clung to her.
What man could look at her and not lust to be the one who thoroughly corrupted her?
He wasn’t that man.
Objectively, he acknowledged that some men might call her features plain or unremarkable.
And those men would be fucking blind.
Yet... Out of all that, it was the humor, the self-deprecation, the sympathy and selfless comfort she offered in her guileless words and wine that calmed him. A week ago, she’d unknowingly given him the strength to return to that library and face his father’s mess.
Cain, who lauded himself on needing no one, clung to the memory of a woman he’d met once and would most likely not see again. The irony was not lost on him.
“Mr. Farrell.” Charlene’s voice through his phone’s intercom ripped him from his thoughts and he jerked forward with a grimace. “I know you instructed me not to interrupt you, but there is a Gregory Cole here requesting to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he claims it has something personal to do with your father.”
Tension streaked through him, and for a moment a terse “no” burned his tongue. Who just showed up uninvited at the executive offices of a billion-dollar company asking for an unscheduled meeting with the CEO? It could be one of the many journalists he’d turned away with a barely polite “No comment.” Hell, it could be another brother.
He jabbed the reply button, irritation swirling in his gut. No, whoever it was could turn around and walk out the way they came in. And if it was that important, he could set an appointment before he left.
“Send him in, Charlene.” Releasing the button, he rose behind his desk, growling, “Dammit.”
His father. And personal. He wanted to resist the lure of that bait, but couldn’t.
Moments later, Charlene entered his office, an older man following close behind her. Tall and distinguished with neatly cut salt-and-pepper hair and clothed in a perfectly tailored suit Cain knew cost at least three thousand dollars, he strode forward, hand outstretched.
“Mr. Farrell, Gregory Cole,” he greeted. “I’m glad to meet you, although I wish it were under different circumstances. I was very sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
The words were appropriate but his gaze, green and somehow familiar, didn’t hold the solemnity that matched. Disquiet crawled beneath Cain’s skin as he quickly shook the man’s hand and dropped it.
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.” He nodded at Charlene who quietly closed the office door behind her. “My assistant said this had to do with my father,” he said, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his pants.
No, he didn’t invite Gregory Cole to sit down in one of the visitors chairs or on the dark brown leather couch in his sitting area. Call it intuition or plain old superstition, something about the man unnerved him.
“Please, call me Gregory. May I?” He didn’t wait for Cain’s agreement, but settled into the wingback chair in front of the desk. Crossing one leg over the other, the older man smiled. And superstitious or not, Cain couldn’t suppress the shudder that rippled down his spine. “I have a matter regarding my...relationship with your father but decided to wait in deference to your mourning before approaching you.”
A whole week. Yes, he was a saint. But given most journalists had been camped out on Cain’s doorstep the night of Barron’s death, maybe Gregory had been magnanimous.
“Did you have a business relationship with him, Mr. Cole?” Cain questioned, deliberately using the man’s surname.
If the slight irritated Gregory, he didn’t reveal it. If anything, his smile deepened slightly, and a gleam brightened his gaze.
“I would call it more of an understanding,” he drawled, brushing an imaginary speck of lint off his immaculate suit. The gesture was contrived. Deliberate. And annoying. Impatience hummed inside Cain even as Gregory continued, “Mr. Farrell, or Cain. Can I call you Cain?”
“No.”
This time the other man couldn’t control the brief tightening around his mouth or the flash of anger in his eyes. The telltale signs were there and gone in seconds, but Cain caught them. From the way this man had strolled into his offices with a sense of entitlement, he obviously didn’t like hearing the word no. Too fucking bad.
“As I was saying... I am a self-made man. I grew a chain of successful electronics stores on my own before selling them and investing the profit in even more lucrative projects. Now I own an exclusive financial and investment firm that has earned my clients and myself millions for the last few years,” he bragged.
“Your hard work and determination are very admirable. But I fail to see what that has to do with me or my father. Mr. Cole, I don’t want to appear rude and rush you, but I have meetings, so if we could conclude this one...?”
Actually, he didn’t give a damn about appearing rude or rushing him.
Again, he caught a glimmer of irritation before something else replaced it. Satisfaction.
Cain’s stomach tightened, and though it defied explanation, he braced himself. Because something was coming. And whatever put that gloating shine in Gregory Cole’s eyes couldn’t mean anything good for Cain.
“By all means,” Gregory purred, linking his fingers across his torso. “Before your father died, he entered into a contractual agreement with me. Now that he’s gone, it’s your responsibility to honor it.”
Cain frowned. “That’s what we have a legal department for,” he said. “If you want to leave the contract with my assistant, she’ll make sure it’s forwarded to the correct channels—”
“I can do that, Cain,” he continued, emphasizing the usage of Cain’s first name with no small amount of delight. “I thought you might want to keep this particular piece of business private. But if you don’t mind your company’s attorneys reviewing a wedding contract, I don’t either.”