Before this situation with the club, Nolan’s biggest concern with his twin had been his seemingly hell-bent course with destruction, as if he were trying to punish himself with the pursuit of pleasure until he died of exhaustion. But now, they had this situation with the club to contend with and it made him edgy and freaked out for the sake of his family.
“What are we going to do?” he asked Dillon, looking to his older brother for advice. “He’s determined to do things his way but I’m concerned he’s not caring around how his way affects others.”
“That’s Vince in a nutshell, isn’t it?” Dillon countered dryly and Nolan couldn’t rightly disagree. Vince had always carried an attitude that shouted, “my way or get the fuck off my highway,” which was one of the main reasons he and Dillon had always clashed. But Dillon didn’t seem as concerned as Nolan about their brother. Instead, he was focused on the bigger picture. “We need to more information about what happened the first time around. And I need to know more about this club, Malvagio. Is it operating under the Buchanan Enterprises umbrella?”
“No, we have it housed under its own LLC so as to create a little distance but everyone knows it’s our club.” Nolan swallowed an aggrieved sigh. “We wanted people to know that we owned it. We enjoyed the notoriety.”
“What happens at this club?”
“Anything but it’s all consensual. That’s the one cardinal rule — that and no scat play.” He grimaced at the idea. “Some people are bigger freaks than we are.”
“So basically, it’s a sex club with some heavy BDSM elements in play.” At Nolan’s nod, Dillon digested the information. “Anyone else involved?”
Nolan hesitated but he knew it would come out sooner or later and frankly, Nolan wanted all of this to go away so he could wash his hands of it all. “We have one other partner, Laird Tiechert.”
Dillon did a double take. “Of Tiechert Construction? The developer giant?”
“Yeah.”
“Junior not interested in going into the family business?”
“No. Laird and his father don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on anything.”
“Sounds familiar.”
Yeah, their mutual hatred for their fathers had been the bond between them. But even though Laird’s father was a dick, no one could come close to the Buchanan patriarch — he’d inspired the Craptastic Father of the Year award.
“So how’s it going to affect Laird if his involvement comes out with the club?” Dillon asked.
Nolan didn’t even want to think what would happen. Laird’s father was a religious zealot, one of the many reasons Laird and his father couldn’t stand each other. “He stands to lose a lot,” Nolan answered grimly. “But Laird is one of many who could lose a lot if their involvement became common knowledge. Vince is right about one thing: we need to keep this as quiet as possible.”
He needed to tell Shannon about the club but he didn’t even know how to start that conversation, particularly when he’d been working so hard to be a different man, the kind who deserved a woman like Shannon and his daughter Aubrey.
Dillon caught the shame in his expression, which wasn’t a surprise because, honestly, it felt as if it were oozing from his damn pores, and gave him a short clap on the shoulder, saying, “ Stop beating yourself up for the past. Trust me, I spent years doing it and nothing changed. You aren’t the same person you were six months ago so remember that. Shannon will understand. She’s a smart woman.”
“I don’t want to lose her, man,” Nolan said with raw emotion. He’d never known the love he felt with Shannon and his darling little girl Aubrey and like a starving man who’d been gifted with a full-course meal, he was desperate to hold onto them. “I wish we’d never opened Malvagio.”
Dillon’s mouth quirked. “Now you’ve got me curious about this place. How bad can it be?”
Nolan barked a mirthless laugh. “It’s as the name suggests…wicked.”
“In another life…sounds like my kind of place.”
“Yeah, me too. Before Shannon, it was my favorite playground. Now? It just appears sordid and fake. I can’t believe I ever saw anything of value. I wish I could get Vince to realize that we’ve outgrown it.”
“You’ve outgrown it,” Dillon corrected mildly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Vince isn’t the least bit interested in following our path to respectability. In fact, he seems to abhor the very idea. I suspect even if he were to find someone, he’d do everything in his power to push them away.”
Nolan agreed. The ghost of a woman that they didn’t need to name floated between them and Nolan wished he knew how to finally put that poor girl to rest so that Vince could, at last, know true peace and move on.
But if tonight’s show of stubbornness was any indication, Vince was digging in his heels, quite comfortable in his misery.
Vince was changing into a bitter, angry, cruel man — all because of a woman he couldn’t forget.
Eventually, there would be little left of Vince that was Nolan’s beloved twin.
And that scared Nolan senseless.
-4-
Emma awoke, her throat scratchy from disuse and her vision still swimming but at least the bone-shattering pain ricocheting through her body had abated to a mild rumble that she could handle. She forced her eyes to focus and when she realized she was hooked to an IV, she made the assumption that she was in a hospital but it only took a second later to realize she wasn’t in a hospital, but rather in a stranger’s house.
And more specifically, in a stranger’s bed.
“Careful, you’ll rip out your IV,” a low voice instructed with authority, the sound at once familiar yet foreign and sending sparks of awareness though her abused body. She swung her gaze in the direction of the sound and she realized a man sat in the shadows of the room, watching her. She didn’t know why she knew the man was Vince Buchanan but she did. She worked to swallow, her dry throat resisting the movement until she fumbled for the water cup at her left and gulped the liquid with little grace or finesse but she didn’t care. Why was she tucked into Vince Buchanan’s bed? After what’d happened, she should’ve been hospitalized. Her question must’ve echoed in her expression for Vince rose from the chair, unfolding his solid muscular frame like a predator stalking his prey. Good God, he was terrifying. Emma had never been one for the pretty boys or the ones who’d arrogantly taken from the pick of the ladies. She’d always found the bookish, smart guy with the oddly endearing quirks more attractive, if not a little on the predictable side. Vince Buchanan was the antithesis of every man she’d ever dated and even if she’d known that intellectually, watching him stalk toward her with twin eyes burning with something she couldn’t quite define, made her realize her research had completely failed to prepare her for the reality. She shifted in the bed, trying to put as much distance between them as possible but he didn’t seem to care and stopped close enough to smell his aftershave. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice hoarse and small sounding. She cleared her throat and tried again with more confidence but she was at an obvious disadvantage. “Where am I ?”
“You’re in my penthouse. I brought you here to recover so as to afford some privacy. You’ve been out for two days,” he answered, his gaze traveling from the top of her head to the length of her body beneath the sheets as if he could see that was fairly naked beneath the covers. “I will have suitable replacement clothes brought to you,” he said, reminding her of that night. Her cheeks burned with the knowledge that she’d been brutalized and left hanging like a slab of beef for anyone to find.
She wanted to tell him not to bother but that posed a bit of a problem as she couldn’t very well walk from his penthouse wearing nothing but his oversized shirt. She took a surreptitious sniff. Yes, definitely his shirt. Her nose tingled from the faint scent clinging to the collar. Her cheeks burned at the realization that he’d likely peeled the shirt from his own body that night and put it on her. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly, nearly unable to form the words. H
er bottom lip was still sore from where that asshole had clocked her and as she darted her tongue along the bruised flesh, she winced when the pain reminded her not to touch.
“Who are you?” he asked, his gaze as hard as each bicep straining beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. “What is your real name and why were you in the club the other night?”
Straight to the point with no detouring down Niceville for appearances sake. She supposed she could expect nothing less from the Buchanan known for his vicious temper when crossed and downright cruelty to those who thought to best him. “I don’t have to answer you,” she said, lifting her chin. “I want to talk to the police. I have rights.”
At that his brow lifted as if amused and he leaned further into her space, sending her heartrate to skitter like a jackrabbit trying to evade a hawk. “You will answer me and you’ll be quick about it,” he said in a steely voice that brooked no argument.