I, Porn Star (I #1) (8 page)

8

TRANSITION

“
Are
you out of your goddammed mind?
”

I calmly hand my
coat to Felix, my father’s grey-haired, unflappable butler, brush the specks of
rain from my hair and straighten my cuffed sleeves. “Good evening, Dad. How was
your trip to Albany?”

“Answer me, boy!”

“Am I out of my
mind? We both know the likelihood of that answer leaning towards yes is high.
Sadly, ten years of therapy later, Dr. Nathanson hasn’t found her way to a
clear diagnosis. Perhaps we should invite her over, discuss the matter over
cheese and wine?”

He rushes toward
me, six foot one feet of thoroughbred Blackwood stock. I keep a loose-limbed
stance, but my blood spikes in anticipation.

He stops a dozen
feet away. I’m disappointed.

“Is everything a
joke to you, son?”

My bark of laughter
strangles off within a nanosecond. “I never joke about wine. Or cheese.”

At fifty-one,
Maxwell Blackwood is in prime, Blackwood condition. He’s fourth generation in a
long line of power-wielding Blackwoods, built from the ground up in pure New
York royalty. His brief but illustrious stint in the army has also added a
touch of grit to his innate charisma. What Maxwell Blackwood couldn’t obtain
with a smile he claims with an iron fist. It’s what makes him one of the most
respected and feared men in the country.

We face off in
the wide hallway of the mansion. Felix hovers at a discreet distance, his
decades-long service to my family having anaesthetized him to confrontations
such as these. I stare at my father. His snowy white tuxedo shirt indicates
he’s just returned from one of the many functions that demand his time these
days.

Hands planted on
lean hips, eyes two shades darker than mine narrow and glare in white hot
anger. “Did you or did you not give away my Miami condo project to a
fucking
homeless charity?”

Maxwell seldom
swears. So twice in two sentences is an achievement.

“Oh…that. The
quarterly charity drive is weeks away. I thought I’d get a jump on it.”

A vein pops in
his temple. “That project is worth
eighty
million dollars. You didn’t think to discuss it with me first, before you
issued a goddamn press release announcing the donation?”

I slide my hands
into my pockets before he can see them bunch. “Frankly, no.”

He looks
furiously incredulous. He starts to whirl away, but checks back almost
instantly, points a finger at me. “You will cancel the contract tomorrow,
Quinn. Take out another press release stating you made a mistake. Give them
something else if you must, but you will not give them the Miami project.”

“I could, but
then how would
you
look, Dad?
The donation was made in your name, from a company that bears your name. Think
of the
embarrassment
factor.”

“
Jesus Fucking
Christ
, you’re the goddamn embarrassment!” He reaches up and yanks loose
the first stud securing the tuxedo.

I roll on the
balls of my feet. “Thanks. Now, are were going to get to the real reason I’m here,
or shall I leave and go back to ignoring your phone calls?”

“What the hell is
wrong with you?”

I’m almost
tempted to tell him. Surely, he can’t be that dense? But then I remember that
hubris is a giant flaw of the Blackwoods.

So I shrug.

“I need an answer,
dammit. A shrug isn’t going to cut it, son.”

I grit my back
teeth against the tug of satanic rage that engulfs me every time he calls me
son
.
“If you say so.”

We go back to
facing off again.

Felix clears his
throat. “Mister Quinn, can I get you something to drink?”

“That would be
excellent,” I reply without taking my gaze off my father. “You have any of that
Macallan ’46
still tucked safely
away, old man?”

“Of course.
Coming right up, sir. Same for you, Mr. Blackwood?”

My father breaks
my stare long enough to glare at Felix before he turns and stalks off. “No,” he
snaps. “Quinn, we’ll finish this in my study.”

I nod at Felix
before I follow at a much more leisurely pace. I’m halfway to my destination
when I hear the click of heels behind me. I don’t turn around. The faint cloud
of
Coco Mademoiselle
is enough to
announce her.

Warm hands slide
over my shoulder to rest at my nape. Somewhere along the line, she’s gotten it
into her head that she owns me, or at least enough of me to touch me when no
one’s watching. “I thought that was you, Quinn,” she murmurs in my ear.
“Nothing else fires Max up quite like you do.”

“You sure about
that?” I drawl.

The husky laugh
is exaggerated. “Well, I won’t lie. I have my moments of inciting Max-related
fires too.”

“You’ll be good
enough to spare me the details, of course.”

Another laugh as
she steps around me to block my view of the portraits of generations of
Blackwoods lining the walls. She does so without letting go of my nape, filling
my vision completely. My gaze rakes her from neck to toe.

She’s wearing a
kimono-style leisure gown in black with bold gold swirls. The V-shaped neckline
and the cinched in waist emphasizes her many considerable assets.

A tall and
statuesque ex-stock broker, Delilah Blackwood dragged herself from dirt poor to
powerful adversary in a little over a decade. She’s stunningly beautiful, with
straight, jet-black hair that falls to her waist. Combined with the razor-sharp
fringe nearly touching her lashes, and perpetually scarlet painted lips, she is
difficult to look away from when she walks into a room.

I give her her
due, let my scrutiny linger complimentarily before I greet her gaze with a
guarded, less hostile one while she continues to play with the ends of my hair.

“Of course. I know
how you hate the details.” She offers a dazzling smile I don’t reciprocate.

Eventually, all
attempts at playing the unflappable mistress of the house leaves her face.
Behind her we both hear my father pacing his study. He lets loose another curse
and his footsteps grow louder.

Delilah leans in
close and under the pretext of kissing me hello, whispers in my ear, “I’ve
missed you, darling. Albany was hell without you.”

“But isn’t hell
where you thrive best, Stepmother Dearest? I bet you had the staff running
around in circles to make hell more interesting for you?”

For a naked
moment her grey eyes blaze with a sinister light, uncloaking the real Delilah
Frost. When you strip away the gloss and polish, she’s an alley cat in the
basest form, ready to claw and gouge with gold-digging talons to keep what is
hers. Her unvarnished thirst for power saw her land the biggest fish in New
York at twenty-five. But she has a thirst for other things, namely rough,
dangerous sex. The rougher, the better. The kind she made clear from the
beginning she was not getting from Blackwood senior.

“I haven’t got
all night, Quinn. For the love of God, can you show me some respect—? Oh,
Lilah, I thought you were already in bed?”

Delilah swivels
on stiletto slippers, her face rearranged in an adoring and accommodating
wifely
smile. “I was just about to head
there, when I heard the heated discussion. Then I remembered you said Quinn
would be stopping by. I thought it would be rude not to say hello.”

Maxwell’s tension
eases a fraction as his arm slides around his wife’s waist. At thirty-five,
she’s the right age not to attract veiled sniggers of cradle-snatching attached
to such powerful and high-profile relationships. She’s also very quickly made a
name for herself where it counts to the extent that those who don’t know her
can almost be forgiven for thinking she’s my father’s equal.

She’s not.

And it’s that
last rung of elusive acceptance that makes her watch me with blatant hunger
that would’ve been almost amusing had it not been for a simple, hard truth.

She’s Mrs.
Maxwell Blackwood. But the title doesn’t belong to her. She took it by
unforgivable force.

“At least someone
around here appreciates the basic tenets of good manners,” Maxwell snipes,
narrowed eyes leaving his wife’s to clash with mine.

A noise swirls in
my head, rising in volume with each heartbeat. “You’ll have to take me as I am,
Dad. I’m far too big for you to put me over your knee.”

The growl from
his chest fades away beneath the soothing hand his wife places on his chest.

Delilah sighs.
“You two wear me out with your constant wrangling. Darling, I think you should
go pour yourself a drink, let me speak to Quinn for a minute?”

Maxwell starts to
shake his head. Delilah steps in front of him, demands his attention. “Max. Go.”

Fury aimed at me
is tampered, and he stalks back into his study and slams the door.

Delilah whirls to
face me, her eyes fierce and determined. “I want to see you again. This week.”

“No. Tell me why
he wants to see me.”

“Agree to see me
first.”

I turn around and
head back down the hallway. “Fuck off, Delilah.”

She rushes after
me. “Don’t speak to me like that!” she hisses.

“I’ll speak to
you any way I damn well please.”

She reaches my
side and lays a hand on my arm. I’m about to shake her off when I see Felix
heading my way, a sterling silver tray with a single glass on it. Delilah’s
hand falls away without an ounce of guilt.

I snag the glass
from the tray and knock back ten thousand dollars’ worth of prime whiskey in
one swallow. I swear I catch a wince from Felix as I set the glass back on the
tray. “Thanks, old man.”

“Always a
pleasure, sir.”

“Tell my father
something came up, would you?”

Felix opens his
mouth. Delilah beats him to the punch. “Really, Quinn. Do you have to be so
difficult? You bothered to come all the way here. And you’re just going to turn
around and leave again?” There’s a frisky little fire in her eyes that I want
to stoke, but being in this house, with so many reminders, risks setting me
off.

“Tell him to send
me an email or you tell me what this is about.”

Delilah transfers
her attention to Felix. “That will be all, thank you.”

The old man
retreats with a stiff nod.

“I mean it,
Quinn,” she whispers fiercely. “I
need
to see you. It’s been months.”

“And the last
time you asked me nicely, I accommodated you. I believe the you-owe-me-one box
is ticked in my favor?”

She swallows.
“That…it wasn’t the same.” Her hand finds my arm, her grip firmer. “Please,
baby. I can’t function.”

I ignore her plea
and jerk a thumb toward the study. “What the hell does he want? I won’t ask you
again.”

She waves an
impatient hand at the question. “It’s something to do with schedules and the
campaign.”

My brain ticks
over for a minute. “What about the campaign? Is he thinking of not running?”

She frowns. “No,
quite the opposite. Since you played an integral part last time, he wants to go
over a few things with you. He just wants to get the ball rolling asap, that’s
all. But I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about us…”

I exhale slowly,
let her words drift over me. My plans would remain the same regardless of which
course Maxwell takes, but this is a better outcome.

I thought he
intended to discuss Blackwood Estate business even though he no longer plays a
day-to-day role in the company. Now I know what the summons is about, the cogs
in my plans resume spinning.

“Quinn?” Delilah
presses harder.

I step away from
the clinical analysis of my plans and stare down into her face. She swipes a
tongue over her lower lip, leaving it glistening in the hallway light.

I cover the hand
on my arm with mine. “Fine. I’ll be in touch in a few days. Are you able to
bear waiting that long?”

Relief and
triumph swirl over her face and she gives a sultry laugh. “I’ll manage. Just
about.” I start to walk away, to head back to the study. Her grip tightens.
“Will it…I want it to be just you and me this time.”

I tap the tip of
her nose. “You know better than to make demands, Delilah. You get it the way I
give it to you. Or you don’t get it at all. Is that going to be a problem?”

Her face drops
along with her hand. “I don’t know why I tolerate this from you, Quinn.”

My finger traces
the side of her pursing mouth. “Spare me the affronted routine, hmm? We both
know it’s fake. Now run along back to bed. I’ll be in touch.” I walk away
without a backward glance. I know she’s still watching me because I don’t hear
her footsteps retreating.