The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

My heart lurched to a stop.

FIVE

THE CHESS PIECES CRASHED LIKE STONES against the hardwood, some with a loud bang and others with barely a ping, but the noise was enough to startle Lucifer and send the cat running.

Macalister turned at the sound, and pale moonlight cast across his face. It made him look even less human. Like he was a statue of unmovable granite. Helping that idea was the fact he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Only a pair of loose black lounge pants that hugged his hips.

Not that he was ever the type of man to ‘lounge.’

It was the most casual and undressed I’d ever seen him, and I found it terrifying.

Beneath the dusting of dark hair on his chest, his muscles were toned, and his waist was trim. It didn’t look like the typical body of a fifty-one-year-old man, but one much younger. He obviously worked hard to maintain his physique. I’d been told he exercised religiously with weights, ate a strict diet and jogged on the treadmill most evenings after dinner, catching up on emails and watching the opening of the Japanese stock markets.

And he sometimes ran on the treadmill in the middle of the night because, unlike his son who was dead asleep down the hall, Macalister suffered from insomnia.

“Marist.” He looked as surprised to see me as I was him, but that was where our similarity stopped. He gazed at me as an unexpected gift, and I viewed him like I was the prey caught in his trap.

I didn’t want him to see the fear he caused in me, so I used a harsh tone. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He didn’t apologize. He simply watched me as I bent down and began to collect the scattered chess pieces. Hopefully, he didn’t see the nervous tremble working its way up my spine. It was impossible not to feel the danger that still lingered in the library. The memory of what had happened just three days ago clung to the air like sickly-sweet perfume. It hadn’t had enough time to air out.

“Did you come to play?” he asked.

“No.” I set one of the rooks—a Greek column—down on the board with too much force. “I wanted this out of my room.”

“You don’t like it?” It was impossible to tell if he was hurt or angry or offended.

“No, it’s just—” I put my hands on my knees, sat back on my heels, and gave him a hard look. “I don’t like the memories that goes with it.”

He nodded with understanding. “Ah. That was a difficult night for you.”

Of course, he thought I meant the part where I’d been drugged by his jealous wife, and not where he’d demanded I come to his room wearing only my masquerade mask.

You will give me anything I ask for, he’d demanded.

He crouched down in front of me, bringing our gazes level. “It was difficult for me as well.”

I opened my mouth to spew my angry vitriol at him, but he wasn’t done speaking.

“Are you aware I was the one who found Julia after her accident?” His expression was calm, but it was like beautiful ice over a river, hiding the dangerous current roaring beneath it. “I held her in my arms as the life slipped out of her.” The blue of his eyes deepened as he lowered the shield he typically held over himself. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to experience that again, but then I found you on the stairs.”

His statement filled me with both sadness and dread. No one should have to live through what he had. Watching the woman he’d clearly loved—and the mother of his children—fade away right before his eyes.

But to equate me with his first wife . . . was horrifying.

I scrambled to steer him away from the comparison. “I wasn’t talking about that. I meant what happened after you lost our chess match.”

His gaze turned down to the floor, and he picked up the upended Zeus, setting the king back on the board. “The craftsmanship on this set is excellent, don’t you think?”

My jaw hurt from how hard I had it clenched. Wasn’t he going to acknowledge what I’d said?

The answer was no. I snatched up the figure closest to me, and the sharp edge bit into my fingers. The words came out before I realized the double-meaning. “Hera’s broken.”

“Yes,” he said.

There was a treacherous current flowing through the room, and it grew stronger when his gaze pinned me in place. He held me hostage as he studied me, his focus gliding down from my eyes, coasting over my lips, and slipping down the line of my throat. I felt every flick of his eyes as they worked me over, taking in the hurried, uneven breath I drew in and the peaks my nipples made through my white tank top in the cold room.