Page 6 of A Man of Wealth

“Yes. My house.” I don’t say another word as I walk to the door and open it, holding it for a second to see if she’ll follow me. I give her five seconds, counting slowly because some sick part of me wants her to come along. Five. Four. Three. Two. I feel her standing at the threshold and I glance back. She adjusts her coat and steps through as I release the door. We walk in silence to my car.

I grin when I see her face. I have three cars. One for play. One for fun. One for work. My pickup truck is my work car. Because my truck was one hundred percent tax-deductible. It’s not the car people would think of me driving, but it’s my favorite of the cars. Albeit it’s not the most practical city car.

I open the door for her and watch her attempt to get in. I offer my hand for assistance, but she bats it away and ungracefully launches herself inside. I smirk as I walk around the vehicle.

“Comfortable?” I ask with a sugary smile as I watch her attempt to pull the seat belt across her lap. It catches and she jerks on it in frustration. I can’t help myself. I reach over her and gently glide the belt over her body, the back of my hand grazing her breast. She breathes in deeply as I fasten the buckle. I wait until I hear the click to let go.

“Thank you,” she mutters and looks away from me as though the sidewalk outside is the most interesting thing in the world.

I’ve gotten under her skin, and nothing brings me more pleasure than to poke the bear, especially since I’m a much larger bear. I hate admitting that this fiery little pain in my ass is providing a much-needed distraction from the current events in my life.

I drive us out of the city and back to Kensington Place. She watches the road the entire time as though making eye contact with me might cause her to combust. God, I love making her squirm. I start concocting a list of things I can say to make her angry. It brings a smile to my face.

“What the heck are you so happy about?” she asks, her face still fixed on the windshield.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I quip.

She groans and crosses her arms, which only serves to push her breasts up, giving me a better view of them in her V-neck sweater. She sees her mistake too late and sets her hands in her lap. Smirking, I pull up to the gate and it opens, allowing us entry into my exclusive neighborhood. I wonder if she’s ever been here before. She runs in our circle. She may have very well attended a holiday or birthday party for one of my brothers.

I sense no shock at the wealth surrounding us. I don’t know much about her upbringing, but considering who her grandfather is, I assume opulence was part of it.

I pull up the drive to my home through a canopy of trees that create a tunnel effect. I purposefully had a landscape architect design my yard so that the house cannot be seen from the street. When the leaves are in full bloom, you don’t see any part of my home until you clear the driveway and pull up to my castle.

I grin as I watch Vivienne’s reaction. Yes, my home resembles an actual castle. When my architect asked me what style of home I wanted, I showed him a picture of a French chateau that I had visited as a child with my mother. My happy memories with my mother are limited since I spent a great deal of my childhood at a boarding school. But that day was magical. The chateau looked like something out of a storybook with its towers, stone, and gardens. I half expected a knight to ride up on a horse. It was a family friend’s property, and they had invited us for the day. I played in the gardens with his children, skipped rocks in the pond, and ate cookies under a tree. It was one of the most normal days I had ever had, and I cherished each and every moment of it. My mother was happy that day, so relaxed. And I was able to be a normal child, living out a fantasy filled with heroes, where good conquered evil.

I pull up to the front door. I don’t use it often, but today I feel like impressing. I park my car in the circular drive. She’s out of the car before I can round it to open the door. I walk up to the entrance and the door opens automatically once it scans my eye and reads my vitals. Yes, my smart home is filled with items that read my vitals. It’s a safety precaution. If my body says I’m scared or nervous or injured, it will automatically alert the police if I don’t override it.

The door swings open, and I step inside followed by Vivienne. She pauses as I tell the house to turn on the entry lights. An antique chandelier from a castle in Germany that I bought at auction five years ago hangs above us. Matching sconces dot the hallways on either side of the grand entrance. I decide not to show her every part of my home. To be fair, the house is nearly ten thousand square feet and would take several hours to adequately show someone all the features, art, and antiques. Several architecture magazines have requested to photograph it, and I’ve denied every request. I like my privacy. Instead of giving her a tour, I walk us into my library.

I can only guess what type of man or monster she thinks I am. And the pleasure that I might be able to shock her is probably more than I’d like to admit. I lead her to the room and push open the large hand-carved double doors to reveal my favorite part of my home.

Chapter4

Vivienne

“Renoir…”I trail off as I stare at painting after painting hanging on the walls of the two-story library. There are at least a half dozen of them, and they are paintings of families. I only recognize them from an art history class I took as an elective in college.

“Yes,” he mutters as he walks over to a cart and pours a glass of scotch. He raises it to me, but I shake my head. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. How can drinking be so seductive?

“I didn’t know you collected art,” I admit. How did I not know this? I thoroughly researched this man. I should know everything.

“It’s not something I share. This is my own private collection,” he states as he surveys his art.

“Are they…” I trail off because I realize my question is silly. Of course, they are real.

“Yes. I only buy original artwork.”

Nodding, I walk up to one and look at it as though in a museum, only I’m not in a museum. I’m in a man’s home, a man I despise.

I run my fingers over the spines of the books as I peruse them. They look to be arranged by topic. Glancing up at the two stories of shelving, I can’t help wondering who cleans this room.

“Why do you pretend to be an ignorant brute?” I ask, my back turned to him.

He doesn’t reply, so I swivel to find him walking toward a shelf where he pulls down a book. He saunters across the room, a slow stroll as though he hasn’t a care in the world. I take in his tall frame as he approaches me. Everything about Conner Sterling screams “run away,” yet I don’t, because I’m too mesmerized by the way his arm muscles flex as he walks. How can a beastly man be both scary and sexy all at the same time?

He stops in front of me and hands me a copy ofThe Art of Warby Sun Tzu. I take it, turning it over once before handing it back.

“Read it. Then you’ll understand,” he says, not taking the book from my hands.

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