The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

Once I had come, he let himself loose. He moved at a faster tempo. The hand on my hip squeezed until my flesh dented around his fingers. Behind me came the sounds of his approaching orgasm. The slew of tight, short breaths followed by a lengthy groan and shudder while his hips jerked to a stop.

It was quiet besides our heavy breaths and the soft hum of the gas fireplace.

“I love you,” I whispered in the silence.

He captured my chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned my head into his needy kiss. It was so powerful, it was overwhelming, and he carried me to bed.

Where I curled beside him and slept the whole night through.

The dining room of the Hale’s Aspen house was similar to the one in Cape Hill, only here it was warm and open and less formal. It still had high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and a rectangular table big enough to seat twelve, but the back wall was a window, allowing for more light. It meant there were fewer shadows, both metaphorically and literally.

We’d assumed the same seating arrangement we’d used for our weekly family meals at the Hale house before Alice and her lily of the valley tea had shredded the dynamic. Macalister sat at the head of the table, his murderous wife to his right and his plotting eldest son to his left. While I wasn’t directly across from her, she was only a few feet away, and I spent most of the dinner looking toward my parents seated beside me, or down at my dinner plate.

The Thanksgiving meal was prepared by a Michelin star chef, but the food tasted bland in my mouth. There was too much tension everywhere I looked. Macalister’s gaze was always fixed on me whenever I made the mistake of looking his direction. Across from me, Vance was seated between his former and current lovers, although Jillian was oblivious to the undercurrent in the room.

My parents were for the most part too. They didn’t speak much during dinner, probably worried about saying anything that could draw Macalister’s attention or ire. I was glad they were here, but I wasn’t sure why he’d invited them. Was it to remind them who held the purse strings and make them feel small?

Plates of mini pumpkin pies were set before us on our chargers, and Jillian cleared her throat. Her voice was hesitant. “So, my family has a tradition when the dessert is served, and I was wondering if we could do it tonight?”

It came from me before I could think better of it. “I’m sure. Macalister’s a big fan of traditions.”

A choked, strained laugh came from Royce that he tried to play off as a cough.

Hot irritation simmered in Macalister’s question. “What is it?”

Jillian was visibly regretting her decision to speak up, but there was no going back now. “We go around the table and each say what we’re thankful for.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go first. I’m thankful to the Hale family for inviting me to dinner.” When she realized that wasn’t enough, she tacked on more, but it wasn’t the least bit convincing. “And . . . for being so welcoming to me.”

I pressed my lips together to stop my mouth from running away.

She turned toward Vance expectantly, who gave her a blank look. When she didn’t break, he reluctantly shifted in his seat. “Yeah, okay.” He wiped a hand over his mouth while he struggled to come up with something. “I’m thankful Professor Robuchon didn’t call on me in class on Monday because I didn’t do any of the required reading.”

Cold annoyance wafted down the table from Macalister, but Vance was indifferent.

Jillian scrunched her mouth to the side. It wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, but she wasn’t going to say so. When the table went quiet, she peered around. “Um . . . anyone else?”

Awkward silence answered, and I scrambled to save her. “Sure, I’ll—”

“I’m thankful for my husband,” Alice announced, her chin lifted high as her gaze zeroed in on me, “who knows what we have is unique and special, and will always be my partner, no matter what happens.” Her smile was devoid of emotion. “And, of course, this family too.”

It was Alice’s classy way of spitting in my path, marking her territory, which was totally unnecessary. I wanted nothing to do with her husband. Beneath the table, I dug my nails into my thigh, letting the pain distract me from losing my head.

“Then, I suppose I’m next,” Macalister said. “I’m thankful for Marist.”

If there had been a record playing, the needle would have dragged loudly across it. I could hear the what the fuck echoing through Royce’s head, and see it visibly on Alice’s face.