Kept by Him (The Billionaire's Club 4)

LISA AND CARLTON DAVENPORT FOUND DEAD BY SOLE HEIR!

His eyes scanned the article, and they related once again how their eldest daughter had called 911 after finding them in their bedroom, dead, with their wrists slit.

Daniel rubbed his forehead and leaned back, remembering all the drama. Monica had breathed it, lived it, from up close, and it still pained him to think of her having gone through that alone.

They’d been normal people, Lisa and Carlton Davenport.

Hell, he still remembered them on the Lexington’s Queen yacht, laughing and having a good time. You’d never imagine they would do what they did. Apparently, Carlton had a slip, a passing affair with his flight attendant. He confessed when Lisa found out and had begged for forgiveness. But she couldn’t, and ended up having an affair as well. After an ugly divorce battle, it all escalated until their Romeo and Juliet finale.

The autopsies had revealed Carlton died before Lisa. It could have been a murder-suicide, or a double suicide. Whatever it was, it had rocked the city.

It especially rocked Monica.

He zoomed in on another picture of her at the funeral. In this image, she stared straight at the camera, her dark sable hair contained, but not too tightly, her ice blue eyes tired and vacant, her lips closed and almost turned downward at the corners. God, she was so beautiful his heart ached. She looked like her mother, some said. Lisa had been smart, like Monica, alive and passionate, but Monica had tried to kill every bit of passion inside of her since the whole debacle of the divorce began.

But Daniel had awakened her passions tonight. He knew it. He’d seen it, was still, hours later, burning to ashes from the flames they’d created.

And if Monica was lying awake tonight, feeling the same starving need for him as he was, then she was going to run again.

He stroked a finger down her face on the floating screen, knowing he couldn’t let her. Wouldn’t.

Not anymore, Monica. Not this time.

Chapter Three

Monica awoke thinking of a particular set of eyes. Green eyes. Like forests, emeralds, clovers. She showered to that same pair of eyes, drank coffee to that same pair of eyes. On her way to Davenport’s, they were there, in the back of every thought. Sexy and knowing, dark with arousal, watching her as he brought her to orgasm.

Scowling at herself, she pushed the thought aside as her driver pulled over right in front of Davenport’s glass doors. The store was half a block in size and swept six stories high, and the sight of the elegant store windows filled her with an almost overwhelming sense of pride.

She’d loved her family’s store since she was a little girl and came to “work” with her father on Saturdays, the clerks spoiling her by allowing her to ring up a couple of amused customers. This Davenport’s location on the Magnificent Mile was the first store among forty-eight across the country, and it had been in business for over sixty years. Monica knew every doorman, every security guard, every attendant.

Her heart warmed in satisfaction as she went straight through the shopping area, aware of dozens of shoppers already milling about. Two teenage girls started pointing in her direction, as though they recognized her from a magazine or newspaper article, and Monica gave them a smile as she headed to the elevators for the upstairs offices.

Manufacturing had always been taken care of overseas, in Scotland, where the best cashmere was woven and washed, and the business side of the product was handled in the floors above. Security, merchandising, conference rooms, and executive offices were all spread from the second floor upward. Ever since Monica had taken over five years ago, she’d slept and dreamed about cashmere and merchandising, worker’s compensation, product liabilities, profit margins.…

When her parents had died, Monica had decided that she’d marry nobody but Davenport’s. The store always gave her back exactly what she put in. And Monica had put in everything to this store.

She’d inherited a rapidly dwindling business and had taken control at twenty-four, when the shares hit rock bottom and nobody wanted “in” except Monica. She’d removed the old management and brought in new people, took out a bank loan to start expanding, and as the share price rose, she’d sold a large percentage of Davenport’s to her board members to keep financing its growth. She’d still managed to remain holding the majority of shares along with keeping an amazingly successful board, and now the company showed solid growth and impressive profit margins.

Today, she was especially excited as she headed to the third floor, where the photo sessions for their winter catalogs took place. They had a special session planned this morning, which had been scheduled with a Chicago top ad agency months before.

Her marketing staff was intent on using Monica’s iconic face for a publicity shot they expected would boost sales dramatically. The team wanted to interplay her Ice Maiden nickname with the warmth of cashmere, so rather than standing behind the photographers and watching them shoot the models, Monica soon ended up spread on a bed of cashmere, their finest two-ply from China, where the Capra hircus goats produced the softest hairs known.

Tons of cashmere pillows were tossed out behind her while Monica lay in nude-colored panties and golden heels, her only cover an earthy cashmere throw that matched her glossy earth-toned lips. In the background, a winter wonderland showcased enough fake snow to rival an Aspen ski slope.

Monica hadn’t realized how difficult it was for models to look into a camera lens and willingly, openly transmit their emotions into the lens.

It seemed to be an art—and one at which she was not a natural.

She clutched the cover to her chest and tried to look warm. Chris, an amazingly talented photographer who always did their most successful ad campaigns, rubbed his bald head in exasperation a half hour later. “Go for more warmth, soften your expression, Ms. Davenport.”

Monica tried fixing her expression for a couple of more minutes, first and foremost attempting to calm her frustration, for it didn’t made her feel necessarily warm or giving, much less sensual.

She did her deep breathing exercises, but the more she thought about being closed off, the more she actually closed off. She didn’t mind being physically naked as much as showing some inner vulnerability, which she usually dared not show anyone.

“I still need you to relax, Ms. Davenport.”

“Can’t we tweak in Photoshop, Chris?”