A Taste like Sin Read online

  “Come.” His arm slips around my shoulders—a surprisingly intimate gesture. I stiffen until I realize why he’s chosen this method: He can guide me without his cane. “Julio, if you please.”

  “Sí.” His guard appears as if conjured from the shadows. “This way, sir.”

  Damien herds me along after him, presumably tracking the sound of his footsteps. Far too soon, he’s easing me into the back of his car, claiming the seat beside me.

  “I need to make sure the nurses have my direct number,” I say, toying with the idea of returning to the building. “What if—”

  “You need to care for yourself,” he insists. As if to demonstrate, he leans over me, finds my seat belt through feel, and fastens it over me. “You can return later. I will see to it. Julio, vamanos, if you please.”

  Given the sparse amount of vehicles surrounding us, we must be in a private section of the hospital’s parking garage. As the car exits the structure, reality makes its presence painfully known. Hordes of reporters from various news outlets are camped on the outskirts of the property. Like vultures, they stand at the ready, waiting for a carcass to pounce on.

  “They’re here for me, aren’t they?” I blurt.

  “I’ve increased your security measures,” Damien says without answering the question. “What happened the other day will not happen again.”

  “I…I need to go home.” The hitch in my voice must betray exactly what I mean—home—because he nods and utters something in Spanish to Julio.

  Minutes later, the car pulls up not in front of the Lariat, but my father’s beautiful mansion in the hills. The reporters have made their way out here as well, clamoring near the front gate. Julio fearlessly navigates the spectators to the security checkpoint. One look at me and we’re allowed through.

  “I just need a minute,” I tell Damien before slipping free of my seat belt and escaping the car altogether.

  The front door opens when I turn the handle, but I’m not ready for the scent that hits me like a punch: Daddy’s cologne.

  His aftershave.

  His old, comforting identity before lies revealed him as a stranger.

  Tears flood my eyes and escape down my cheeks. I can’t stop them, so I move instead, navigating the front hall until I reach his office.

  Someone’s been in here recently—or perhaps no one’s touched it since my father last entered. God, his scent floods every ounce of space. I imagine him sitting at the desk, rummaging through his documents, plotting his triumphant return to politics. So concerned with appearances.

  He couldn’t even tell me that he’d blown off our meeting due to his health. Why? Did he think I’d accuse him of lying?

  Maybe I would have.

  Or maybe I’m the reason he’s in the hospital in the first damn place. Did guilt exacerbate the blood clot? Guilt for lying to me…

  Or fear? His perfect little doll might run away from his dollhouse forever. He’s been keeping tabs on me, or so I infer from the newspaper clippings strewn all over his desk. Every single headline features my name, dating back weeks ago.

  Juliana Thorne Takes Leave of Absence Amid Father’s Scandal.

  Juliana Thorne Linked Publicly with Family in Father’s Botch Judgment.

  Juliana Thorne, Rescued by a Hero: An Adoption Story.

  Blinking frantically, I approach his coveted trophy case, displaying all of his awards. Heyworth Thorne, the golden citizen. Heyworth Thorne, a man who knew the identity of a monster and shielded him for over twenty years.

  Heyworth Thorne, the very worst monster of them all.

  My hands shake as I wrench the cabinet open and grab the first award I can reach: one for exemplar contributions to the city, shaped like a shooting star. Whirling on my heel, I throw it as hard as I can, narrowly missing a framed diploma hanging on the wall. As my vision blurs, I grab another. Another. They crash like missiles into various objects, knocking books from his shelves or careening into prized knickknacks. Was every bit of metal and glass worth more to him than I was?

  They don’t seem to matter so damn much now.

  Panting, I yank the drawers out of his desk. The one near the bottom is already open and the edge of a folder is sticking out of it, as if shoved there, the last thing he may have read. His precious, coveted donor list? I grab it and callously scan the familiar, small handwriting scribbled on the front: For Juliana.

  My body goes cold. As if from miles away, I hear a thud, and when I regain focus, I’m on my knees, hunched over the slim stack of documents. They’re faded and dog-eared, delicate with age. Oh God… I recognize the crisp, cold layout of the topmost one as that of a police case file. Across the header reads Juliana Mirangas, age 8.

  Numb, I scan each line, discovering nothing new. It’s merely a summary of my statement and the events described. But the last page…

  I’ve never seen it before: a different briefing referring to another case. Yet, in some ways, the events described are chillingly similar. The girl’s name may be different, but the scattered bits of her statement resonate within me down to the bone.

  “Wanted to play a game.” “Didn’t see a face.” “Simon says…”

  The date is a full year before my case, but unlike mine, a single suspect was questioned in this horrific crime. His name, however? It’s been blacked out entirely. Even when I flip the page over and hold it up to the light, I can’t read the letters marked over with black ink.

  “Damn it!” I throw the file and watch the pages slowly drift down.

  Even now, Heyworth refuses to divulge the answers I need. Answers only he can give.

  Though no. He’s not the only one. I flick through the pages for the older case file. The name of the girl… I read it over and over until it’s cemented into my brain.

  Lynn McKelvy.

  Scrambling upright, I snatch up the remaining pages and carefully return them to their file, but when I reach an unfamiliar series of paragraphs, I freeze. Psychiatric evaluation screams across the top of the document, and the person described within the lines of text I know all too well.

  Juliana Mirangas, age 8, female. School records convey poor attendance, average grades. Described as withdrawn and isolative by teachers. A fellow student referred to JM as “weird. Leslie was her only friend I think.” No outward signs of prior trauma or psychiatric history. Family psych history of depression in mother. Father alcoholic with repeated parole violations stemming from an assault charge. Upon assessment with this writer, JM presented with a flat affect and mood and was evasive when asked about 10/28. Reports poor sleep, night terrors, anxiety. Current guardian reports that JM is fearful, guarded, and prone to emotional outbursts. Final impression: post-traumatic stress disorder, rule-out psychotic features.

  Fearful, guarded, and prone to emotional outbursts. No wonder Heyworth watched over me so closely, tightening the leash whenever he felt I could threaten his precious political chances.

  To him, I was always the same stray mutt: a damaged little girl with undiagnosed psychological issues. A threat to his reputation if left unchecked. A trophy to display for his benefit.

  A toy to manipulate.

  He never loved me.

  He merely possessed me.

  Damien is standing outside the car when I finally escape the house, battered file in tow. His clenched jaw betrays an unusual amount of concern. I wonder if he heard the chaos from here. Breaking glass. Broken trophies. A broken soul.

  “You need rest,” he rasps as I come closer. The authority in his tone warns that I won’t be able to dissuade him this time. “I’m taking you to my—”

  “Do you want to know what I really want?” I laugh. It’s a trick question, no one ever does.

  But he…

  Damien goes silent, his head cocked. When he extends one of his hands toward me, I take it, surprised by how damn warm he feels. How much I crave that warmth. I’m freezing.

  “Tell me,” he demands.

  “I want…” The sob I c
an’t swallow has him pulling me closer. Too close. More tears spill into his jacket. Within seconds, I’m howling and nothing can keep the gasping cries from coming.

  What do I want?

  “Control,” I wail brokenly. “I want… I just want answers! I’m so sick of being coddled, and watched, and whispered about. Did you know he put more effort into stalking my tabloid mentions than actually talking to me? I want to give them something to stare at! I’m so—”

  “I know.” His words undercut my high-pitched whine, low and steady. So damn assured. He knows. All of me. More than I care to admit to myself or name out loud. “I know, sweet girl. Dulce niña.” His fingers sink into my hair, finding my scalp. “And I’ll give it to you. But first…” He pivots, guiding me toward the open door to the back seat. “You need rest. I won’t take no for an answer, so don’t resist just this once. ¿Sí?”

  Despite my pathetic little pleas, I nod. “Okay.”

  I let him control me.

  Just this once.

  Contrary to Damien’s wishes, I can’t sleep in spite of the exquisite quality of the bed and its luxurious sheets. I toss and turn for hours before eventually crawling off the mattress in defeat. I manage to shower at least, and I call Diane shortly before midnight.

  “No change,” she tiredly conveys. “And if you went by the house…”

  “I’m sorry.” I clench the fingers of my free hand, wincing as the nails dig into my palm. “I just—”

  “It’s okay,” she says over me. “Don’t worry about the damage. I’ve taken care of it. Just get some sleep, darling.”

  But I’m not tired.

  I’m too damn hollow.

  I hear him first, rounding the hallway beyond my room. His assured, slow steps betray just how well he has the layout memorized, though I doubt he’s the type to intrude upon a sleeping woman without an invitation. No, I bet he heard me first, aware of me as much as I am of him.

  When I turn to watch him appear in the doorway, the mug of steaming liquid in his hand confirms it.

  Wordlessly, I approach him and accept the beverage offering: coffee, made to my preference. It’s a gesture that conveys more than kindness: it’s an acknowledgment of the obvious. I need to be awake.

  “You brought these with you,” he says, revealing something slender clutched in his other hand: the file from Heyworth’s office.

  “I’m sure you had Julio read them to you,” I blurt—but I didn’t intend to sound so hostile. “Thank you,” I add, trying again. “But it’s just trash. In fact, I should throw it away.”

  I reach for the file.

  He doesn’t extend it. “Trash,” he murmurs, deceptively soft. With barely concealed interest, his fingers stroke the worn pages poking beyond the edges of the folder. “Your past. The truth you seek. The answers he hid from you. You call that trash? No, I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly drained, I sip from the coffee and wander to the mattress, slumping onto the very edge. “That’s not what I mean. I…” A watery giggle serves as the herald for the torrent of words I can no longer hold back. “Is it funny that I’d forgotten most of it? The details, I mean.” Never Simon himself. “In some ways, I think I repressed it. Can you believe I forgot what my old name was? My real name: Juliana Mirangas.” Another hollow laugh helps keep the tears at bay—for now. “At least that blows the whole ‘Heyworth Thorne is racist’ question out of the water. My mother had Spanish ancestry. Though, hell, maybe he is a fucking bigot and that made it easier for him to use me at all.”

  “Did you learn anything about your case?” Damien wonders. “Anything you might have forgotten?”

  “No…” I shake my head. “But there is something I never questioned before. The local police chief back then asked my father—Heyworth Thorne—to consult on my case personally. But he was a defense attorney.” I frown. It sounds even more unusual out loud. “Why would he ask a defense attorney to consult on a murder case?”

  “Let alone one who practiced in a different state and jurisdiction?” Damien adds, stroking his chin. “Interesting. I intend to find out. I may have a contact at the city police department who may be able to help—though their chief is a man I don’t particularly enjoy interacting with.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. He’s not a friend of yours? Not even after you insinuated blackmail to keep his men quiet about your sex club?”

  “I would suggest you not extend your pity to Chief Harrison,” he warns. “Trust me on that. Some men aren’t nearly as righteous as they appear to the public.”

  “It takes one to know one, I suppose,” I say.

  “Perhaps,” he admits. “But I will extend any resources I can to assist your search for information, whether or not they involve Harrison.”

  “There was something else,” I murmur, running my hand through my hair as if to help shake the thoughts free. “In the file, there was information about another girl. Lynn McKelvy. Her case was similar to mine. She was attacked by a stranger, a man who had a knife and wanted to play a game of Simon Says…” I shudder, closing my eyes against the memories that threaten to descend. When I open them again, Damien is still here. “Can you help me find her? Maybe she knows something.”

  “Done,” he says without hesitation either way. “But now we focus on you. You’re upset—and I’m not just referring to what happened today. What can I do?”

  I blink, overwhelmed by the genuine concern in his voice. The only way to smother the confusion is to drink more coffee, inhaling every drop until I’ve drained it all. Sighing, I shrug. “Make my father wake up and force him to tell me the truth?”

  “If only I could.” He laughs, but it’s muted compared to his usual rich chuckle.

  And I hate the fact that he’s on edge around me. Wariness doesn’t suit a man like him the way it does my father. Heyworth merely pretended to care; I see that now. But Damien?

  He’s too damn calculating to put on such an act. So what is his aim?

  Watching him, I can’t tell—and I do so for so long that my mug feels cool to the touch when I startle back to awareness.

  “What can you do?” I whisper, recalling his question. “You taunted me once for being sheltered,” I remind him. “Pathetic. Weak. A prude.”

  Not his exact words but close enough. The point was all the same.

  “My father kept tabs on me,” I admit. “Every fucking mention of my name, he collected from the tabloids, obsessing over them. My every move is cemented in ink, but that woman? She feels like a stranger. I…”

  I stand and take a tentative step in his direction. My tongue flits along my lower lip as I process just how twisted my reality has become in only a few short days.

  My father is lying in a hospital bed. He may be dying.

  Yet I’m in the lair of Damien Villa, and for some reason, he seems to be the one damn person unwilling to treat me like a goddamn idiot. So what does a sheltered heiress do with her dangerous, masculine lifeline?

  Test the hell out of him.

  “Do you remember what you told me about the women at your club?” I ask. “That they have all the power?”

  “Sí, I remember.” He frowns and I can almost see him wrestling with the idea of humoring me or not. Indulgence must win, the cause of the slow smile that shapes his mouth. “Those women… In their hands, the obsessive attention of others is a weapon. They hone it sharp to their advantage. But few are brave enough to wield the same amount of control.” His heated tone sends my blood racing. It’s like he’s invaded my mind again, goading me to voice my naughty desire out loud and in the open. “If you are curious, Ms. Thorne, I will ask you to admit as much por favor.”

  Holding my head high, I try. “So tell me, Mr. Villa. How…how does one feel in control like that?” My cheeks catch fire. I’m cringing at the raw vulnerability exposed by such a question.

  Until his mouth quirks, a lethal smile. “I will tell you, sweet girl,” he swears. “But I am not sure if I should. Sharing exp
eriences is not one of my strong suits. From an entirely selfish standpoint…I should dissuade you.”

  God, the way he said that word. Selfish. It contained way more than possession—a grit making every syllable harder than it should be. I should be terrified. In fact, I am, according to the pitching sensation jolting my stomach. Terrified. Intrigued. Curious.

  And in this moment, I can no longer beat around the bush.

  “Make me forget, Damien,” I say. I beg. “I need to forget. I need to…” My fingers tear through my hair, ripping at stray strands. “The reporters are everywhere I look. I can’t even hate my father despite all he’s done to me. I feel like I’m going insane—”

  “Sí.” He’s close before I realize it. Like liquid fire, his fingers find my chin, tilting it so our mouths are within dangerous reach. To heighten the nearness, his breath fans mine, searing and potent. “I will give you a taste of control. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

  I suck in a breath. “What?”

  “That you will trust me.”

  Trust. That word takes on an entirely new connotation coming from him. It’s more than a mere surrender of doubt—it’s a surrender of sanity.

  Of instinct.

  Of safety.

  To trust him will mean forsaking the one thing I’ve just begged him for.

  I’ll lose any shred of control.

  I’ll lose my goddamn mind.

  “Can you do that for me?” His thumb traces the line of my jaw in a distracting, teasing swipe. “Give me your trust?”

  “It’s not like I have much of a choice,” I admit in a whisper.

  It’s either him…

  Or the horrors in my head.

  With only a second to decide, I nod. “Yes.”

  “Good.” His resigned frown takes my breath away. Like he said, he’s breaking his own rules. For me. “Then get dressed. I will make the arrangements.”

  I watch him go, my nerves in knots. When I finally remember how to move, I start in the direction I assume the closet to be, trying to decide what one wears to regain control. Halfway across the room, I remember I’m not home.