Page 11 of The Billionaire's Bargain
Twenty minutes later, with keys snatched from the valet stand and car successfully located, she exited onto the freeway. Though with every mile she steadily placed between her and the mansion—and Darius—she couldn’t shake the feeling of being pursued.
Couldn’t shake the sense that she could run, but couldn’t hide.
But that damn sure wouldn’t stop her from trying.
Three
Darius stood outside the weathered brick apartment building, the chill of the October morning not having evaporated yet.
At eight thirty, the overcast sky didn’t add any cheer to this South Deering neighborhood. The four rows of identical windows facing the front sported different types of shades, and someone had set potted plants with fake flowers by the front entrance, but nothing could erase the air of poverty that clung to this poor, crime-stricken section of the city. Foam cups, paper and other bits of trash littered the patch of green on the left side of the apartment complex. Graffiti and gang tags desecrated the side of the neighboring building. It sickened him that only thirty minutes away, people lived in almost obscene wealth, a good many of them willingly choosing to pretend this kind of poverty didn’t exist. He’d been born into those rarefied circles, but he wasn’t blind to the problems of classism, prejudice and ignorance that Chicago faced.
Still... Gage’s son was growing up here, in this place that hovered only steps above a tenement. And that ate at Darius like the most caustic acid.
Stalking up the sidewalk, he approached the front entrance. A lock sat above the handle, but on a whim, he tugged on it, and the door easily opened.
“You have to be kidding me,” he growled. Anyone off the street could walk into the building, leaving all the residents here vulnerable where they should feel safest. Aiden being one of the most vulnerable.
Darius stepped into the dimly lit foyer, the door shutting behind him. Rectangular mailboxes mounted the wall to his right, and to his left, the steel doors to an elevator. In front of him, a flight of stairs stretched to the upper floors. With one last glance at the elevator doors, he headed for the stairs. He wasn’t trusting the elevator in a building this damn old.
According to the information his investigator had provided, Isobel lived on the third floor. He climbed several flights of stairs and entered the door that led to her level. Like the lobby, the hallway was clean, even if the carpet was threadbare. Bulbs lit the area, and the paint, while not fresh, wasn’t as desperately in need of a new coat as the downstairs. The broken lock on the front door notwithstanding, it appeared as if the landlord, or at least the residents, cared about their home.
Seconds later, he arrived in front of Isobel’s apartment door, standing on a colorful welcome mat depicting a sleeping puppy. It should’ve seemed out of place, but oddly it didn’t strike him that way. But it did serve to remind him that a young boy lived behind the closed door. A boy who deserved to live in a home where he and the puppy could run free and play. A place with a yard, a swing set.
A safe place.
Anger rekindled in his chest, and raising his fist, he knocked on the door. Moments passed, and it remained shut. He rapped on the door again. And still no one answered.
Suppressing a growl, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat and narrowed his gaze on the floor.
“Isobel, I know you’re home. I can see the shadow of your feet. So open the door,” he ordered.
Several more seconds passed before the sound of locks twisting and disengaging reached him, and then she stood in the entrance.
He deliberately inhaled a calming breath. For the entire drive from his Lake Forest home, he’d tried to prepare himself for seeing her again. It’d been a week since the night of the blackout. A week since he’d suffered a panic attack, and she’d held his hand and dragged him back from the edge with her teasing, silly conversation and lilting laughter. A week since he’d feasted on her mouth, experienced the tight-as-hell grip of her body spasming around his fingers, and her greedy cries of pleasure splintering around his ears.
A week since he woke and the piercing anticipation of finally glimpsing the face of the mysterious woman he’d embraced faded into a bright, hot anger as he realized her true identity.
Yes, he’d tried to ready himself for the moment they’d face each other again. And staring down at her now, with all that long, thick hair tumbling over her shoulders, framing a beautiful face with fey eyes that should have existed only within the pages of a fantasy novel, his attempt at preparation had been for shit. Even in a faded pink tank top and cotton pajama pants, with what appeared to be fat leprechauns and rainbows, she knocked him on his ass.
And he resented her for it. Hated himself more.
Because no matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget how she’d burned in his arms that night. Exploded. Never had a woman been that uninhibited and hot for him. She’d scorched him so that even now—even a week later—he still felt the marks on his fingers, his chest, his cock. He had an inkling why his best friend had been driven crazy because of her infidelities.
Because imagining Isobel aflame like that with another man had a green-tinted anger churning his own gut.
Which was completely ridiculous. Gage had tortured himself over this woman. It would be a breezy spring day in hell before Darius allowed himself to be her next victim.
“What do you want?” Isobel asked, crossing her arms under her breasts. Her obviously braless breasts.
“To talk,” he said, trying and failing to completely keep the snap out of his voice. “And I’d rather not do it out in the hallway.”
Her delicate chin kicked up, and even though she stood almost a foot shorter than his own six feet three inches, she continued defiantly standing there, a female Napoleon guarding her empire. “We don’t have anything to talk about, so whatever you came here to say should be a very short conversation. The hallway is as good a place as any.”
“Fine.” He smiled, and it must have appeared as false as it felt because her eyes narrowed on him. “But the private investigator I hired to find you also spoke with your neighbors. Including a Mrs. Gregory, who lives across the hall. A lovely woman, from what he tells me. Seventy-three, lives alone, never misses an episode of theYoung and the Restlessand is a terrible gossip. At this very moment, she probably has her ear against the door, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. So if you don’t mind her finding out where you spent the night of the blackout—andhowyou spent it—I don’t either.”
Her head remained tilted at that stubborn angle, and the flat line of her mouth didn’t soften. But she did slant a glance around him to peek at the closed door across the hall. Whatever she saw made her lips flatten even more.
“Come in.” She stepped back, allowing him to pass by her. When he moved into the tiny foyer, she called out, “Good morning, Mrs. Gregory,” and shut the door. “I swear that woman could tell the cops where Jimmy Hoffa is buried,” she muttered under her breath.
