Betrayal (17 page)

Brandon sat in the solitary darkness of his study.

He wore a wifebeater over his jeans because he hadn't changed since returning home that afternoon. His feet were propped up on the desk, his Timbs resting next to an empty bottle of Crown Royal.

His eyes were closed, head tipped back as he quietly puffed on a Cuban cigar, thinking and brooding.

Tamia and Dominic.

Engaged.

It was impossible.

Inconceivable.

Yet there they were, touring model homes together.

And there
she
was, wearing another man's ring.

The ring Brandon should have given her.

His tortured musings were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door.

“Brandon?” Cynthia called worriedly. “You've been in there since we got home. Is everything okay?”

Brandon shook his head slowly, confounded by the question. How could everything be okay when the woman he loved was marrying some worthless motherfucker who didn't deserve her?

“Brandon?” Cynthia tried the doorknob. “Baby, the door's locked.”

“I know,” Brandon murmured without opening his eyes. “I'm the one who locked it.”

Cynthia huffed out a breath. “Well, how much longer do you plan to stay in there? It's almost seven o'clock. Your baby and I are hungry. Can we go out for dinner or pick up something?”

Brandon took a lazy drag on his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

“Brandon?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not now, Cynthia.”

“But—”

“I said not now.”

He heard her muttering under her breath. Then she spun and marched away, her bare feet slapping against the floor.

Seconds later she reconsidered and came back.

“I just want you to know that you made a fool of yourself today,” she fumed through the door. “You made a fool of
both
of us when you stormed out of the house like that.”

Brandon opened his eyes, slowly removing the cigar from his mouth.

“She's moving on, Brandon—”

“Get away from that door, Cynthia,” he warned in a low voice.

“Did you hear what I just said? She's moving on! So you need to get the hell over her. You hear me? You need to—”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT DOOR!”

Cynthia let out a helpless whimper of frustration before stomping off down the hallway. This time she didn't return.

But her words lingered to taunt Brandon, fueling his simmering rage.

Because he knew she was right. He
did
need to get over Tamia.

The thing was . . . he couldn't.

And he couldn't stand by and let her marry another man either. He wouldn't.

Brandon stared at the ceiling, the cigar clenched between his teeth as smoke curled around him.

He knew all about obsession. He'd seen what it could do, how it could destroy. He'd encountered many crimes of passion in his line of work—violent crimes committed by ordinary, law-abiding people who got pushed to the edge of sanity and snapped.

He never thought he'd become a victim. Never thought he'd become enslaved to a woman.

But he had.

Look at your eyes, Brandon
. . . .
I don't even know who or what you are anymore
....
You're possessed
....

Brandon swung his legs down from the desk and opened the top drawer to retrieve a lone key, which he used to unlock the bottom drawer. He reached inside, his fingers closing around the butt of a Glock nine-millimeter.

He slowly pulled out the gun and laid it down on his desk. Then he sat there and stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.

Everett Chambers, his great-grandfather and namesake, had been an avid outdoorsman who'd taught Brandon and Beau how to hunt and shoot with lethal accuracy. During childhood hunting trips, he'd regaled Brandon and his brother with tales of a distant ancestor who'd become a bounty hunter after gaining his freedom from slavery. His marksmanship and bravery had been legendary.

Brandon remembered hours of trekking through the piney woods that covered the grounds of Grandpa Everett's country estate. He remembered crouching in the dense underbrush . . . peering through the scope of his rifle . . . training his sights on unsuspecting elk roaming through the forest. He remembered holding his breath, waiting for the perfect moment to squeeze the trigger.

When he made his first kill at age eleven, Grandpa Everett had clapped him proudly on the back and congratulated him on his excellent marksmanship. But when they returned to the ranch house and Brandon began boasting to everyone about his trophy kill, his great-grandfather had taken him by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and admonished him to remember who he was and what he was to become. Chambers men were doctors, lawyers, judges, and pioneers of industry. They were intellectuals who understood the profound power of brains over brawn.

We save lives,
Grandpa Everett had told him
. We protect and enrich lives. We must never take pleasure from ending lives.

Brandon stared down at the Glock in his hand. He savored the comforting weight of metal against his palm, let his thumb stroke the trigger almost lovingly.

He thought of the GPS device he'd secretly installed on Dominic's car after he violated the restraining order and went after Tamia. Brandon had been furious. Worse, he'd felt powerless, knowing that Dominic could get to Tamia any time he wanted. He'd installed the tracking device to ensure her safety, but in the chaos of the past few weeks, he'd forgotten all about it.

But he remembered it now.

And he realized that if Dominic and Tamia were together tonight, he could find them if he wanted.

He took a long drag on his cigar, eyes narrowed as he pondered his Glock. He pulled back the slide, checking the barrel for ammunition.

When his phone rang on the desk, he calmly set down the loaded pistol, then reached over and picked up the phone.

“Brandon?” It was his father. “How're you doing, son? How'd the house hunting go? You and Cynthia find anything you like?”

“Not quite,” Brandon murmured.

“Don't worry. You will.” His father rushed on, brimming with excitement. “Listen, I wanted to let you know what's been going on. You were a hit this morning, Brandon. Everyone's talking about your speech, and I do mean
everyone
.”

“Hmm.” Brandon puffed on his stogie, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and letting it flow through his bloodstream before he slowly exhaled.

“I've been on the phone all day with members of the Congressional Black Caucus,” Bernard continued. “They want you to attend their next meeting in D.C. They said they'd take care of all your travel and hotel expenses. All you have to do is show up. And Barack promised to make room in his schedule to see you while you're in town. He thinks you could be the future of the Democratic party, son. Isn't that what I've been telling you all along?”

“Umm-hmm.” Brandon blew out a perfect ring of smoke and watched it curl toward the ceiling.

His father chuckled. “If I were a different type of man, I might have been upset that you stole my shine at the prayer breakfast. The keynote speaker isn't supposed to be upstaged by the person introducing him. But I'm proud of you, son. So damn proud. And so is your mother. You should have seen her crying and praising God on the way home. It was a sight to behold. And she's been receiving calls from her friends all day. . . .”

Brandon closed his eyes, tuning out his father's voice as his mind traveled back to that afternoon.

He remembered how stunned he'd been to look up and see Tamia and Dominic standing at the top of the staircase. When Dominic had possessively put his arm around her, it had been all Brandon could do not to charge up those steps and tear that motherfucker limb from limb.

But that wasn't even the worst part. The worst fucking part was when he'd seen the engagement ring on Tamia's finger. He'd died a thousand deaths right then and there.

“. . . about my plan to appoint you to attorney general once I'm elected,” his father's voice penetrated his dark thoughts. “But I think we need to adjust our plans and shift our priorities. It's time to start preparing you for your Senate run—”

“Lemme call you back, Dad,” Brandon interrupted.

“Wait, but I'm not—”

Brandon hung up and dropped the phone onto his desk, then mashed out his cigar in an ashtray.

Visions of Tamia and Dominic rolled through his mind like dark clouds gathering before a storm. He shut his eyes to block out the images, but this only amplified the voices warring inside his head.

It was that simple. That cut and dried.

Clenching his jaw, Brandon grabbed the Glock and lurched from the chair.

The room spun, and he swayed on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the dizziness to pass.

When he'd regained his balance, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and headed purposefully from the room.

That evening, Tamia and Dominic dined at a quaint little restaurant tucked into the scenic hillside. They ordered lamb glazed with balsamic honey and stuffed lobster complemented by the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu.

Over the meal, Tamia teased Dominic about the tales he'd spun that afternoon. “So we met at the Houston Rodeo last year, where you were exhibiting your prize steer in the livestock show.”

“That's right.” Dominic's eyes danced with amusement in the candlelight. “What's so crazy about that? You saying a brotha can't be a cattle rancher?”

Tamia grinned. “Of course they can. But you're from St. Croix, so what you know about being a rancher?”

“Enough to fool dem Yankees into believin' I am one,” he drawled, slipping into his Crucian dialect.

Tamia smiled, running her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “How do you do that?”

“Do wah, me darlin'?”

Her stomach quivered.
God, he's sexy!

“How do you turn your accent off and on like that? It disappeared completely when you were talking to our new friends this afternoon.”

Dominic smiled. “I bin yankin' fo' years. Practice makes perfect.” He winked at her. “Want me to teach you?”

“Crucian?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled. “I don't know. I don't think you
can
teach me. I've always heard that you have to grow up on the islands to learn the dialect. Besides,” she added wryly, “I don't wanna get around your people, say something the wrong way and be called some posing muddascunt.”

“
Muddascunt?
” Dominic threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Tamia grinned. “See? You're already making fun of me.”

“No, I'm not,” he insisted, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “I'm just surprised you knew that word. Surprised and impressed. But you shouldn't use it in public, love. It's unladylike.”

“Oh, so now you're the language police?” Tamia challenged teasingly.

“Nah,” he drawled. “I just think we can find better uses for that beautiful mouth of yours.”

The overtly sexual remark made her nipples harden. Trying to play it off, she picked up her glass and took a long sip of wine.

Dominic watched her, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

She decided to change the subject. “So, Dominic—”

“Nico.”

“What?”

He smiled. “I also go by Nico. That's what everyone calls me back home. You can, too.”

“Nico,” Tamia murmured experimentally. She thought having a nickname humanized him somehow, made him seem less fiendish and more normal. But she wasn't about to start calling him Nico. That was getting too personal.

“What were you going to say?” Dominic asked her.

She eyed him blankly.

“Just now when I interrupted you,” he prompted.

“Oh.” She pursed her lips. “I don't remember.”

Dominic nodded, then raised his wineglass to his mouth and drank.

She watched him, silently appraising.

Lowering his glass to the table, he gave her a curious smile. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How different you seem tonight.”

“In what way?”

Tamia smiled. “Well, for starters, I didn't know you could be so . . . charming.”

His eyes glinted with humor. “There's a lot you don't know about me.”

“I don't doubt that,” she said wryly. “We didn't spend much time talking and getting to know each other when we were, um, together before.”

“No, we didn't,” Dominic murmured. “That's one of the many regrets I have.”

They stared at each other across the table.

Several moments passed.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tamia ventured quietly.

Dominic nodded.

“Why did you cheat on your wife?”

His expression darkened. He held her gaze another moment, then shook his head and turned to look out the window. “Talk about a buzzkill.”

“Sorry.” But Tamia wasn't—not really. Dominic had pulled her into his marriage the moment he'd decided to blackmail her for sex. She had a right to know what the hell he'd been thinking.

He pushed out a deep, heavy breath and sat forward, broad shoulders hunched over his glass. “I'm not proud of the way I treated Isabel. We had a rocky marriage long before I ever met you.”

“I know,” Tamia reminded him. “Isabel told me you were unfaithful almost from day one.”

Dominic grimaced. “It's complicated.”

Tamia arched a brow. “How so? Did you not understand your wedding vows? Did you have trouble comprehending that whole part about ‘forsaking all others'?”

“I understood my vows just fine.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.”

He glared at Tamia, his jaw tightly clenched. After several moments he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window again.

She waited.

“It wasn't easy being married to Isabel,” he began. “She belonged to one of the oldest and richest families in St. Croix, and they never let me forget it.” He met Tamia's gaze. “I didn't come from money. I grew up in the poorest part of Frederiksted, and my parents and grandparents were laborers. When I met Isabel I was working at an oil refinery. To earn extra money I got a job ferrying tourists around the island. There were always plenty of horny-ass women lookin' to get smashed by an island stud, and they tipped generously for my, ah, services. One afternoon of tips could add up to more than a week's worth of wages from the refinery.”

“Ah,” Tamia murmured, nodding slowly. “So
that's
how you became a ho.”

Dominic flashed her a crooked grin. “Don't hate the playa. . . .”

“Oh, no hate from me. Trust.” As someone who'd done porn to put herself through college, Tamia knew better than anyone that sometimes the ends justified the means.

“Anyway,” Dominic continued, “I wasn't supposed to end up with someone like Isabel, an heiress to a sugar fortune. Our paths were never supposed to cross. But one night the uptown girl was feeling adventurous, so she and her friends decided to cross the tracks to go clubbing on my side of Frederiksted. We met on the dance floor and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Tamia sipped her wine, struck by the familiarity of Dominic's story. “When did things go downhill for you two? Before or after you got married?”

“Before.” His lips twisted bitterly. “Her parents didn't want her to marry me. They didn't think I was good enough for her. Neither did she, for that matter.”

“She must have thought you were,” Tamia countered, “or she wouldn't have defied her parents' wishes to be with you.”

Dominic smirked. “She had her reasons for marrying me.”

Tamia nodded. “She loved you.”

“She loved the way I fucked,” Dominic said bluntly.

No surprise there
, Tamia mused. The man was a beast between the sheets.

“I know that's not the only reason Isabel married you, Dominic. I met her. I could tell how much she loved you.”

A shadow of cynicism darkened his face. “Maybe she did. Maybe I was the love of her life. It was hard to tell though, 'cause every time I turned around she was throwing her family's wealth back in my face and telling me I wasn't shit without her.” He drained the rest of his wine, then set the empty glass on the table with a hard
thunk
.

“So, yeah, I cheated on her,” he concluded grimly. “I cheated many times, and I'm not proud of that. But if a man feels constantly rejected at home, he's eventually gonna look for acceptance elsewhere.”

Tamia silently absorbed his words, feeling the pain and anger that fueled them. His story had struck a chord with her because she'd experienced the same sense of rejection when she and Brandon had been together. She'd been the girl from the wrong side of the tracks dating a man who'd been born into one of the most powerful families in Texas. She'd gone to extreme lengths to erase her shameful past because she'd desperately craved Brandon's love and acceptance. Yet no matter how hard she'd tried to please him and be the perfect wifey, it had still taken him nine months to introduce her to his family.

Over the past year she'd often wondered whether she would have gotten involved with Dominic if Brandon hadn't made her feel so inadequate.

She would never know.

“Seems we have a lot more in common than you think,” Dominic murmured, breaking into Tamia's thoughts.

She met his quiet gaze. “Seems we do. Imagine that.”

He smiled briefly, then glanced down at his platinum watch. “Let's order dessert so we can get back to the ranch. I don't want you to be late for your massage.”

Tamia smiled softly. “Thank you for scheduling that for me. It was very sweet and thoughtful of you.”

Dominic winked at her. “No need to thank me, darlin'. I promised you a relaxing weekend, so that's what you're gonna get.”

Tamia warmed with pleasure.

She'd always believed that Brandon Chambers was the only man who could ever make her happy.

But maybe it was time to open her eyes to a new contender . . .

. . . one she'd never seen coming.