A Taste like Sin Page 2

  But I’ve never had a choice, have I?

  “You and my father can play your mind games,” I tell him tiredly. “But…”

  “But?”

  “Don’t ever do this again. Manipulate me like a pawn. I’m tired of power plays. I’m tired of being controlled. I would like to be in charge of my own damn life for once, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  He nods. “Sí. I apologize if I have offended you.”

  “No…” I’m partly alarmed to find that he hasn’t. Not entirely. Overall, my ex-father will learn tonight that I am at a sex club with Damien Villa of all people. How unfortunate that, all appearances aside, our visit has been rather platonic thus far.

  Merely a three-way orgy starring a woman being fingered.

  “What you said, about the woman being in control,” I start, licking my lips. “What did you mean? How could someone possibly be in control in that situation?”

  Such a scenario is the pure antithesis to everything I grew up believing about power. Like that it should be carefully controlled and kept on a leash. Never relished or flaunted.

  “Do you feel in control now?” he counters. “You are constantly ogled by hundreds, if not thousands of people, hounding your every waking moment, waiting for a single flaw to pounce upon. I can only imagine how exhausting that could feel.”

  “I do feel powerless,” I admit. “I am never in control—”

  “And yet that woman is in an environment where she can feel safe. Where all who enter come for her. She sets the tone, the pace. Without her enjoyment, there is no…entertainment, shall we say. Her partners, the audience are at her mercy. She wields her power over the entire damn room, whether the occupants admit as much or not.”

  “And do you want to do that to me?” I wonder for the second time. “Put me on display?”

  “No.” His hesitation is even more apparent in the careful clearing of his throat. “I am not sure it is the type of control you would enjoy having.”

  “Why not?” I cross my arms over my chest, envisioning his potential replies. “I’m too much of a prude? I’m too weak? Too sheltered—”

  “You are too haunted,” he clarifies. “Laying yourself bare in front of strangers may be an experience you are not ready for. I will, however, take you up on your first suggestion.” He steps forward, coming to my side. “Allow me to take you home.”

  “No.” I shake my head even as I take the hand he’s extended toward me and fall into step with his pace. “Not there.”

  Because police or not, I know Heyworth. He will have the SWAT team waiting to ambush my suite at the Lariat hotel the second I step inside it.

  “Take me… Oh, I don’t know.” My temples ache, making it hard to settle on one of the many hotels within the city. Which one would my father—or the paparazzi—most likely overlook? “The Harrison?” I guess, thinking out loud. “Or maybe the Madison?”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Damien murmurs. “I know someplace neither your father nor anyone else could enter. Not even the police.”

  “Oh?” It sounds too tempting. Another trap? “Where?” I ask, taking the bait regardless. Then, from the corner of my eye, I catch his teeth flash in a sinful, savoring smile.

  “I believe it would perhaps be more impressive if I just showed you.”

  Butterflies unfurl within my stomach as his driver pulls up in front of a building I vaguely recognize in the darkness. Multicolored streetlights illuminate an impressive skyscraper—one sporting an incredible glass greenhouse on the roof and owned by the man sitting stoically beside me.

  “You can stay with me,” he says, dropping all pretense. “My suite is large enough for you to have a section of rooms to yourself. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I will agree to stay within mine—”

  “Considering you bought my virginity for all intents and purposes, you sure are”—I mull over the right phrase—“beating around the bush.”

  He laughs. “How crudely apt, Ms. Thorne. Though I do fully intend to collect on my half of our wager,” he says with a fitting hint of malice. “But I believe my future plans may have a better reception if I tread carefully.”

  “Fine.” I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door. Before I even touch the handle, Julio opens it from the outside.

  Given the lack of a doorman and keycard entry, I assume this is yet another private entrance. Inside, a narrow black hallway leads to an elevator, but rather than the one for the roof, Damien strikes the button for the floor below it.

  My heart pounds as the doors finally part and I follow him out. Unsurprisingly, the décor is black, but the floor plan is more open than I expected, given his penchant for shadowy, decadent places. A modest living room consists of black leather chairs and chaises positioned in front of a massive window displaying a view of the city. Beyond that is an open kitchen with bar seating, a dining room, and then two hallways that branch off in different directions.

  Damien heads right. “This is the way to your suite,” he explains, throwing the term out as easily as some people might discuss a spare pair of shoes. “You should have everything you need. If not, Julio or I will see to it.”

  I hold my breath as I glance over his shoulder into the first of the rooms: a beige décor sets it apart from his typical color scheme.

  “Let me guess: You told your designer to have free rein in this section of the penthouse?” I snipe.

  “Oh, no.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Far from it. I told her to design a room that Juliana Thorne would be mildly comfortable dwelling within.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Neither can I muster up the energy to ask. Instead, I step into the room, spotting all the little details that would prove his remarks twistedly true. The décor, disregarding the beige, mimics that of my suite at the Lariat: simple though luxurious furniture and an open floor plan. On its face, it’s the style someone would assume the heiress daughter of a powerful judge might be used to.

  “Impressive,” I admit, aware of him advancing on me with slow, precise steps. “Though the color scheme is a bit more muted than I would expect.”

  “Oh?” His chuckle tickles the back of my neck, lingering even as his steps retreat toward the hall. “I hope you find the bedroom equally as…comforting. I’m afraid you may describe it as far too conservative for a woman of your talents. Alas, it should suffice. Goodnight, Ms. Thorne.”

  Wary, I continue through the suite as his steps fade, inching toward the room I assume the bedroom in question to be.

  For a second, I forget that Damien isn’t in earshot as I mutter, “Very funny. You think you know me so well.”

  Maybe he does considering he supposedly designed a room damn near tailored to make me feel entirely out of my element. Conservative my ass. The walls are red, the floors a plush, sensual black. A luxurious bed draped in red satin sheets serves as the most intimidating focal point.

  And on the ceiling is an enormous gilded mirror. Because of course there is.

  So the blind man has jokes. Very funny. I laugh to prove I’m unaffected as I shed my jacket and brace myself over the edge of the mattress. But without him here…

  I don’t have a barrier from the guilt. Not the pain or the crushing realization that the past twenty years of my life have been one monstrous lie. Only one person holds the answers.

  Why, why, why?

  As I fish my cell phone from my purse, I’m determined to discover that very fact once and for all.

  “Thorne residence,” a gruff voice demands from the other end of the line. “How can I assist—”

  “It’s Juliana,” I say over who must be a bodyguard. “Put me through.”

  “Of course, Ms. Thorne.”

  Not even a second later, a familiar voice drips into my ear. “Juliana? Sweet pea, please tell me what is going on—”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I counter. “Starting with who exactly he is: Simon. You’ve known all this time, haven’t you? Who he really
is?”

  “Darling…” The background noise shifts and mutes behind him. He must have secluded himself into another room. “We need to discuss this in person. Please. I’ve been worried sick about you. Come home and we can—”

  “If we talk, it will be somewhere public,” I blurt. “The Lariat. This time, maybe you can leave out the police?”

  An audible grunt escapes him. “Darling, can you really blame me?”

  “Tomorrow morning at nine,” I snap. “Be there and…and tell me everything. I mean it. Or…”

  I can’t even say it. Or consider me your daughter no longer.

  “I will,” he insists. “Just tell me where you are. That you’re safe. The police are—”

  I hang up and crawl beneath the sheets before I can regret contacting him in the first place. It’s pathetic how your entire identity can be wrapped up within one person. Their aura. Their persona.

  If that’s stripped away, they become a stranger, and you…

  You become a shadow.

  I creep from Damien Villa’s lair to the first floor of the building with him none the wiser—or so I think.

  A man’s lurking near the mouth of the building’s lobby. As the elevator doors part, he steps forward, and my knees buckle. Tall. Golden skin. Cropped raven hair. He could be Damien…if it weren’t for his whole, dark-brown eyes.

  “Mateo Villa,” I croak, inching back as the elevator doors close behind me.

  “Juliana Thorne,” he coldly replies. “How strange to find you here, of all places…” In lieu of his brother’s trademark suit, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a leather jacket. A mocking half-smile sets him further apart from Damien, but a steely nature reinforces his gaze, leaving me uneasy. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised,” he adds. “My brother did pay for the privilege to play with you in private.”

  “Privilege?” I fight to keep my chin in the air.

  “Sí.” He scoffs, his mouth quirked. “He didn’t tell you? Maybe I should have pressed him for more in our bargain?”

  “What do you want?” I consider running. Calling for help. Before I can make the decision, he turns and strolls toward a hallway.

  “Don’t bother calling my brother to heel,” he calls back. “And as for what I want? Why to warn you, of course.” He pauses and cocks his head.

  “Of what?” I croak when he doesn’t elaborate. “Trust and believe I’ll report every threat to the police.”

  “My brother is a dangerous man, Ms. Thorne. You should do your best to remember that. He may put on his charming act around you”—he flicks his gaze up to my face and chuckles—“but don’t be fooled by his blindness. You must have given him quite the roll in the hay. I’ve never seen him so fucking whipped.”

  Heat floods my cheeks though I fight to keep my chin in the air. “E-Excuse me?”

  “I’m surprised he got much use out of you, all things considered.” He nods pointedly toward my body in general. “You aren’t his type. Not a trophy, I think. Just a toy for his amusement. One he isn’t inclined to share though. Not yet. He damn near threatened to kill me if I touched you. But still.” He shrugs and heads farther down the hall, briefly turning to toss his parting words my way. “I pity you. Even I can find it in my heart to warn an easy mark. Your father is a selfish, moral-less cunt, but Damien thrives on vengeance. Don’t trust him. Considering that just by touching you he’s spitting on Mathias’s memory, the hijueputa has no loyalty.”

  He retreats, and my blood runs cold, my heart solidifying into a painful lump in my chest. With difficulty, I ignore him and focus on the task at hand: escaping.

  One fearful peek beyond the lobby reveals a familiar black car waiting for me along the curb. Damn. The moment I exit the building, Julio climbs from the vehicle and the jig is up.

  “Good morning, Ms. Thorne,” he declares, opening the door to the back seat. “Mr. Villa thought you might appreciate having him supply your transportation this morning.” His stoic expression reveals nothing. I can’t tell if he knows about my brush with Mateo—but I suspect that this “offer” isn’t by coincidence, either.

  “Does Mr. Villa have the room I stayed in bugged?” I ask without expecting an answer—because it’s obvious. Given his track record, I wouldn’t put another instance of espionage past him.

  Luckily for Damien, I’m not in the mood to resist him this time. Mateo’s little warning made it clear that navigating this uncertain landscape alone may not be in my best interest—especially where my father is concerned.

  So I climb into the car without complaint, and minutes later, Julio deposits me in front of the private residential entrance of the Lariat, safe from any prying paparazzi. It’s a short, unnerving trip up to my apartment.

  But Heyworth is nowhere to be found.

  Julio stands guard in the hallway while I wait, passing the time by alternating staring out the window and checking my phone. A quick scan of the top news stories doesn’t reveal any unusual traffic jams—but a flashing headline chills me to the core.

  The Borgetta Murder Case: five people connected dead within a month of overturned conviction.

  Perhaps my father’s security detail took extra precautions this morning, thus delaying him over thirty minutes?

  After nearly an hour, I finally breakdown and call.

  “Thorne residence,” the same man from last night announces.

  “Where is he?” I demand.

  “Mr. Thorne is…indisposed at the moment. I’m afraid he’ll have to reschedule.”

  “Reschedule?”

  The line goes dead without further explanation and my heart twists inside my chest. Could something be wrong?

  Or perhaps something more important has come up. More important than mending fences with me. A coveted interview? A donor meeting? The possibilities mount and each one feels increasingly plausible.

  Heyworth pushed me aside for yet another political calculation.

  It’s nothing new, but this time…

  Tears spill down my cheeks like liquid fire as I tear into the hallway, heedless of who may be spying from the shadows.

  “Ms. Thorne?” Julio calls after me as I surge into an opening elevator. “I suggest we take the private exit—”

  The elevator doors close behind him and part seconds later to reveal the lobby, where a sea of flashing cameras stops me dead in my tracks. Reporters—too damn many of them to be here by accident. Panic renders me frozen as a million shouted questions descend in a barrage of clashing voices.

  “Miss Thorne! Is it true that you are in a relationship with Damien Villa, the brother of the man your father sentenced to death?”

  “Miss Thorne, care to comment?”

  “Juliana! Do you have any comment on the fact that people related to your father’s case have died recently—”

  “Juliana!” A balding man with a beer gut comes from nowhere to shove a microphone in my face. “Your father has been accused of racial bias. Given your birth mother’s heritage, did you witness anything of the sort growing up?”

  I don’t know what happens. One second, I’m staring down at my trembling fingers. The next, my knuckles are connecting with something alarmingly flesh-like and blood is flying through the air. Alarmed cries go up as the reporter crouches, clutching his nose.

  “You crazy bitch!” he shrieks as he, and the rest of the world, come back into focus.

  Crazy bitch. Those two words are all I hear as I push through the mass of people and somehow make it out of the building. Blindly, I run, crossing traffic and intersections until I reach some semblance of quiet what seems like an eternity later. A park, I assume, judging from close-set trees and scattered benches.

  Here, I can hear myself think. About how much of an idiot I am. Gullible. Desperate. Pathetic.

  And worthless, apparently. I sure hope Daddy’s meeting or television appearance was worth it.

  At least I keep it together until I find a bench tucked within a copse of trees. Only now do I fi
nally break, burying my face in my hands.

  I don’t hear him until it’s too late. By the time I stiffen at the sound of approaching footsteps, he’s already close enough to swipe his finger along my cheek.

  “You know how to make quite the scandal,” he murmurs, his accent especially pronounced.

  Despite the overall polished elegance conveyed by his black coat and scarlet scarf, he’s breathing more quickly than usual. A bead of sweat glints on his jaw. Like he rushed here?

  “The reporter is pressing charges, or at least he was,” Damien adds. “May I?” With what I presume is a practiced motion, he finds the back of the bench with one hand and uses it as a guide to lower himself onto it.

  I doubt he’s omniscient enough to find me without help—and sure enough, I spot Julio in the distance, muttering into a headset, feeding his boss my location, I suspect.

  “A rather dull man from a paper few read anyway,” Damien continues as if uninterrupted. “A bit of money to pad his next check and an inside scoop on some tawdry celebrity scandal and the man changed his mind.”

  “Why?” I demand, swiping at my face with my sleeve.

  “Hmm.” He tilts his head. “I assume because he enjoys money and notoriety—”

  “No, I mean…why help me?” Is what Mateo claimed true? He bargained to keep even his brother from me?

  “Why?” A frown distorts that stern, beautiful mouth, confusing me further. “Unless you’ve forgotten, you yourself laid out the terms of our agreement.”

  That I did.

  Stay with me.

  Protect me.

  “Then you should have no trouble humoring me,” I say. “Or with telling me the truth.”

  “Of course,” he says without a hint of hesitation. “You only need to ask.”

  “You spied on me last night. You knew I was meeting with my father.”

  “Sí.” He cocks his head without an ounce of shame. “Seeing as I appointed myself head of your security, I feel no need to deny that.”

  Touché. Once more, I’m forced to admit that he has a point.