“You’re sure you won’t drive her away before her time is up?” I glance down at my hand on the desk, forcing it to uncurl from a fist. My fingers are stark, bloodless. More like bones than fingers currently. “Isla will be very unhappy if that turns out to be the case.” I’m surprised how even my voice sounds. How unconcerned.

“Are you suggesting I can’t keep a woman happy, your grace? I think we both know there are no issues on that score, are there? I’ve only got two weeks. I intend to use them, and her, very well.”

I rue the day this man walked into my life. I’ve tried to like him—I really have. Tried to do the right thing by him. Tried to include him in our family life. But it has all been for nothing because the die was already cast when he walked into our lawyer’s office after our father’s heart attack.

I realise he’s still talking, and I find myself wondering about the length of jail terms for fratricide.

“In fact, now that I come to think of it, the last time we were intimate with a woman in the same room, you were a fair bit younger.”

No, I could never like him, and I could certainly never love him.

“I expect you’re not long away from filling your wallet with those little blue pills.”

I don’t reply though I do glare his way.

“And I completely understand why you didn’t want to share Holland. Because now that I have her, neither do I.”

An interesting slip of the tongue.

Now that I have her.

Not now that I’ve had her.

Quite an interesting distinction for him, I think.

Of course, none of this cools my heated blood. None of it offers me solace at all as I growl two words in my brother’s direction.

“Get out.”

“Not until you give me your word you won’t try to fuck this up for me.”

“I will give you nothing, and I think we can both agree that this will be a first.” From ice cold to burning, flames of anger lick at my insides. “Leave or, so help me, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

Griffin rises slowly and shrugs. As he gets to the door, he turns back, but I’ve already opened my laptop, effectively dismissing him.

I hammer the keys aimlessly, typing out a response to an email as I mentally count to ten, then to twenty. I stand, closing the screen again. Crossing to the drinks trolley at the other side of the room, I consider it has already gone five in the afternoon. Not that it matters. It could be five in the morning, and I’d make an exception right now.

I lift the decanter and pour out two fingers of single malt. The amber liquid burns my gullet on the way down, its potent warmth spreading through my veins. It doesn’t help calm me at all, even as I pour and down another.

I knocked on her door last night. Maybe she wasn’t there.

Maybe she was with him.

I don’t for one moment believe it, even as I hurl the crystal glass across the room.

36

Holly

Sometimes, the philosophy of I just want to see what I can get away with is the worst philosophy ever invented. Even if it is my invention. But this is the nightmare I’ve created for myself.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter, pulling my hand from Griffin’s for the second time. “I didn’t ask you to rub his nose in it.”

“Come on, Holly.” Turning to face me, he slides me a bored look. “If you want him to take this seriously, he has to see it with his own eyes. Besides, the kids keep saying they miss you. Didn’t you used to eat with the family?”

“Yeah, at the kitchen table,” I mutter, unmoved by his poor and obvious emotional blackmail. There were just four of us then—Isla, me, and the boys. And it’s not like it happened every night.

“Well, it’s only the family dining room, not the fancy one. And I’m hardly wearing a tux.”

I don’t care, and I don’t like it, and I ignore what I expect was his invitation for me to tell him how good he looks. He does look cute, but I’m in no mood for his version of cute.

“Isla is going to hate me,” I complain, yanking my hair behind my ears. Next, I abuse the dropped waist of my polka dot print dress, twisting and pulling on it. I wish I was back in my room eating crackers.

“What did you expect?” he snaps. “You can’t have it both ways.” He reaches for my hand again, this time almost dragging me along behind him. “If you want to make an omelette, you’ve got to smash a few eggs.”

The man has no compassion.

And I have few scruples.

And I’m so gonna put a peacock in his room before I leave. Somehow.

Tags: Donna Alam Billionaire Romance
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