Claim (A Dangerous Man, #3)

Claim

A Dangerous Man #3

Serena Grey

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents, are products of the author’s imagination, and have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

CLAIM: A DANGEROUS MAN #3

Copyright © 2013 by Serena Grey.

All rights reserved.

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Raven
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Press

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

From the Author

About The Author

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For MNC

Every day, I love you more.

This one is for my readers. You’re all very special to me,

Nicola Horner at
Endless Reading
for being so incredibly supportive,

Terri Thomas at
My Book Boyfriend
for the being the best beta reader ever,

Summer Daniels at
WTRAFSOG
, an awesome place to find romance novel recommendations on Facebook,

And whoever it was who took the first steps that made it possible for indie authors to get their words out there.

David

“M
AY I DRIVE NOW?” I ASK STEVE, as he maneuvers the car through the black, wrought iron gates, and onto the paved driveway of the old brick mansion where I’ve lived since I was six.

He turns a brief glance in my direction. “Not today.” He says, his voice deep and quiet. With his shaved head and permanently severe expression, he could pass for a dangerous mobster, but actually, he’s an ex-marine. My stepfather Henry Weber hired him to drive me around and keep me out of “trouble.” Whatever that is.

Steve doesn’t talk much, but usually, he lets me drive when we get to the house. I still have two years to go before I can get a license, but he says he has extreme confidence in my abilities, after all, he taught me himself.

We get to the end of the driveway, and I see why he didn’t let me drive. The shiny black Bentley that’s usually covered up in the garage is parked close to the front door.

That can only mean one thing.

They’re back.

I frown.

Steve stops the car. “See you later kid.” He sounds almost sympathetic.

“Yeah.” I reply sullenly, climbing out and shouldering my backpack. The thought of running into them makes me reluctant to go into the house. I drag my feet to the door and cautiously push it open.

Inside, all is quiet. Relieved, I let myself breathe. Maybe they’re tired from their flight, or sailing trip, or whatever, and have gone to bed already. I move quietly. With any luck, I can hide out in my room until they go out to one of the numerous parties they probably have lined up.

No such luck. When I get upstairs and open the door to my room, I find my mother waiting for me.

She’s sitting at my reading desk, her back towards me. Her black hair, which is the same color as mine, is pinned up in a classy looking style, the way Henry prefers it. She never wears her hair down anymore, like she did when I was a kid. She’s looking at the picture of my Dad and me that occupies center place on my desk. In the picture, I’m a chubby, toothless baby, and my Dad is carrying me around his shoulders.

She turns around at the sound of the door, and her eyes light up when she sees me. “David!” She exclaims with a wide smile, as if she’s spent all the time when she was away waiting to see me again. She gets up and comes to hug me, wrapping me in a cloud of soft perfume. “You’ve grown so tall!” She continues, still smiling and looking at me expectantly, as if she’s waiting for a response.

I mumble something in reply, squashing the instinct to hug her back the way I used to before, in the days when I lived for the moments when she would float back into my life after a long absence, with stories of places they had gone, and parties she’d been to. She’d come with her beauty and her exotic adventures, and my life in her absence would fade to dullness.

Now I just wish she would leave me alone.

She starts to talk about how she missed me, she sounds very sincere, but she can’t have missed me very much if she didn’t have a problem staying away for nearly six months, I decide resentfully, tuning her out.

I drop my backpack on the floor and go to sit at the edge of my bed. While she talks, I study the picture of my father and me. We’re both grinning happily at the camera, or at my mother behind the camera. Of course, that was back when she was still my mom, not Henry Weber’s socialite wife.

She’s still talking to me, but I can’t really hear her. I smile wistfully at my toothless baby grin behind my father’s handsome one. He died when I was six, after a drunk driver ran a red light and crushed his car. Almost immediately, my mother married Henry, an idle millionaire whose only desire is to travel and socialize. She’s been travelling and socializing with him for nine years.

“You’re starting to look so much like your father.” My mother’s soft words cut into my thoughts, and I turn towards her. Her eyes are shiny, like she’s about to cry.

I don’t say anything, even though the comment makes me happy and proud. I ignore her sigh of exasperation at my silence. What’s the point of telling her anything? Soon she’ll have left for another one of their trips, and my life will go back to normal.

She leaves me alone soon after. They’re going out to a dinner party, and she has to prepare. I go downstairs to find Steve, sure that I won’t run into Henry while he’s locked up in his massive closet trying to decide which one of his hundreds of tuxedos to wear. Steve lives in an apartment over the garage, and sometimes if I plead enough, he relents and teaches me some of his martial arts moves.

It’s while I’m walking across the lawn towards the garage that I hear the voices. I turn back towards the house, and through their bedroom window, see my mother and Henry arguing. I’m not surprised. They argue a lot. Henry’s a jerk. I can’t stand him, he can’t stand me, and I have no idea how my mother can stand him.

I’m about to turn away, when I see him raise a hand and strike my mother across the face. I stand there frozen as she holds a hand to her cheek. He turns towards the window, and seeing me, walks towards it and abruptly pulls the curtains closed.

~§~§~§~§~

Someone is trying to take control of my company.

That’s the thought on my mind as Steve drives through the tree-lined streets of Ashford, the small town where I came to do a friend a favor.

The favor is Rick Cruzman, a community college dropout who has developed an innovative software application for managing virtual money, and has been trying to market it for months. He got a few minutes to sell it at a mediocre software conference at Ashcroft Hills, a business resort about thirty minutes from Seattle, and because my friend, who’s happily retired from business, asked me to look into him, I took the half hour drive from my office.

I was also curious, restless, and in need of space to think.

It didn’t take me long to decide that Rick Cruzman’s software had some potential. After his presentation, I approached him and made an offer. He jumped on it, like I knew he would.

I turn to look out of the car windows, my mind going back to my original thoughts. Someone has been stealthily acquiring Preston Corp stock directly from shareholders in the open market, operating behind a group of small companies, which I am sure, are all linked to one person. I shouldn’t be worried, I’m the largest shareholder in my company, and I have voting agreements with the majority of the initial investors, giving me total voting control.

Marshall Banks was one of those original investors, and now, Carole owns his substantial shares. As the second largest shareholder, if she sells, I’ll lose the shares that make up a large amount of my voting power. I could lose control.

And she knows it.

The memory of our last phone conversation brings a frown to my face. Carole’s breathy voice sounded smug and self-satisfied as she invited me to lunch. I accepted because if I were a corporate raider intent of wresting control of Preston Corp, I would approach her, as I’m sure someone already has, hence the smugness. I know Carole well enough to know that she wants something in return for not selling.

I feel a flash of irritation. Carole at her best is selfish and greedy. At her worst, she’s calculating and vindictive. I’d rather not have to deal with her at all, and I plan to make it so that in the future, I don’t have to.

Steve slows down to take a turn. From the back seat, I can see his smooth shaved head, still the same as when he used to drive me as a teenager. He’s a little bulkier now, but still as taciturn as the day we first met. I’ve stopped trying to imagine what goes on in his head beneath his silence. I know now that there was a time when he was different. He told me himself, in a rare unguarded moment, about his wife and little daughter dying while he was on active duty, when a shooter opened fire in a crowded mall. He’s never forgiven himself for not being there to protect them.

Guilt can do worse things to a man than make him reserved, so I don’t begrudge Steve his silence.

I’m about to go back to reading the documents I have on my lap when my eyes go to the window again, and I see the girl.

Her hair is pale gold, wavy, and held back in a loose ponytail, with a few escaped tendrils framing her face in delicate wisps. Her figure is slight, yet curvy, and her eyes, as she gazes at the car passing by, are a deep, innocent green. She looks lost. Beautiful and lost.

Something happens to me as I look at her. I forget about takeovers, shares, and software. In the space between dreaming and longing, all I can do is stare. I watch her turn around and walk through a doorway into what looks like a shop. I don’t stop looking even as Steve picks up speed and I have to crane my neck.

“Stop.” I say the words without thinking.

Immediately the car stops. If Steve is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“Back.” I say, still looking towards the girl. I can still see her through the clear glass front of the shop she entered. I wait impatiently as Steve puts the car on reverse and backs up until I tell him to stop. He parks by the spot where a few seconds before, the girl had been standing.

I only pause for a moment before I follow my instincts and step out of the car.

Through the glass, my eyes meet hers again. She’s looking at me, standing as still as a statue. Briefly, I wonder what I’m doing, going to her.

I consider getting back in the car.

But I don’t. Instead, I push open the door and walk into the shop, straight towards where she stands staring at me.

Her eyes are bright, her cheeks red, and her soft pink lips gently parted.

I have an insane urge to take her in my arms and kiss those lips until I’ve tasted every inch of them. It makes no sense.

“Good afternoon.” I say quickly, trying to keep a hold of myself. I don’t want to do something crazy and scare her.

She is gazing at me, a confused frown on her face, almost as if she has no idea what to say in response. “Good afternoon.” When she finally responds, her voice is soft and light, like a gentle breeze on a moonlit night.

The fact that I’m having poetic impulses makes me want to laugh at myself. Any minute now and I’ll be writing her sonnets.

“Would you like to buy something?” She asks in that soft voice. There is a very distinct flush staining her cheeks. Is she blushing? I stare at her, fascinated.

I realize that she’s waiting for a response. “Of course.” I look around, taking in the collection of pretty things in ceramic and glass. “I’d like ah... a gift for my mother.” I turn back to her and watch, captivated, as her eyes widen slightly, their green depths darkening.

She has beautiful eyes.

I’m still staring when she suddenly starts to move towards me. My heart nearly stops when she passes right in front of me, our bodies almost brushing against each other as she moves farther into the shop. I take a deep breath, filling my nose with her scent. She smells like shampoo and strawberries, sweet and nice, and yet somehow, extremely sensual.

I follow her through the shop, only half listening as she talks about the items they have for sale. I’m too busy watching her slender waist and the smooth curve of her hips. She stops suddenly and turns around, and I have to look back up at her face.

I don’t know what she sees in my expression, but she steps back abruptly, away from me. She looks tense all of a sudden, and I almost feel guilty for checking her out. “We have um... These glass sculptures are all made locally.” Her words come out in a rush, and I can tell that she’s nervous. Well I’m nervous too, nervous, fascinated, enthralled and so many other things I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s somewhat gratifying that she’s as affected by my presence as I am by hers.