Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') (17 page)

"
S
orry
!" I gasp, balancing my glass just enough to only drop the tiniest spill of champagne.

To my luck, Pete's sister, Angelica, is not holding a drink in her hand. I had bumped straight into her while my eyes were fixed on the stranger's neck. She is a few years younger than me and just started college, an Ivy League school, good girl.

I don't mind her. Unlike my sisters, she acts friendly towards me. And she is a quiet person, never laughing out loud or speaking in a shrill voice when she is angry at someone.

Also, I think she might have the slightest hint of rebel inside of her. Or maybe I am just biased because I know she dies her hair darker just like I do, and for some reason, in our world lighter hair is seen as worth striving for.

She looks startled for a second, catching her breath and straightening her dress before she starts laughing.

"That's quite alright," she says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yes," I utter. "Sure. Sorry, I should have paid attention."

"What kept you so preoccupied?" she asks, now following the direction I had been looking at.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether I want to share my interest in the dark, tall stranger with her.

On the other hand, she might know who he is if he is part of her family.

"I was just wondering who my parents are talking to," I say, trying to sound not half as interested as I really am.

She narrows her eyes in an attempt to be able to see better.

"Ah," Angelica says. "That's Mr. Clark, I think. My dad's business partner."

"Business partner?"

"Yeah, they both invested in something together, absorbing another company or something? I don't know."

She shrugs. "Never been too interested in dad's work. But he and my mother have talked about Mr. Clark a lot."

"How?" I ask. "I mean... what did they say?"

Angelica quickly looks back over her shoulder before she continues to speak.

"Mom doesn't like him very much," she whispers. "He's new, you know. No known family, no fancy background. Just a guy who worked his ass up. He moved here a few months ago when he and Dad started working together. Owns a big fucking mansion over in the west."

She raises her eyes conspiringly and leans in closer.

"And he's living there all by himself," she adds. "It's kinda creepy, don't you think?"

I look back over to my parents and the man they are talking to. Mr. Clark.

"Creepy?" I wonder.

"Yeah," she whispers. "I think it is. A single man living in a huge ass mansion all by himself? Why not get a nice penthouse closer to the city or something?"

"Maybe he just likes the neighborhood," I suggest. "And all you can get here are big houses."

She furls her eyebrows. "But still..."

"People here are always so suspicious," I whisper, turning around to look back at him.

He is still talking to my parents, together with Mr. Bishop, Angelica's father.

"Well, I have to get me one of those," Angelica says, nodding towards the drink in my hand. "Talk to you later."

I smile at her and our ways part. While she heads toward the bar, I continue my way back outside to take in the late afternoon air. The weather is still mild and sunny, even though summer is officially over.

I place myself apart from everyone else, enjoying the fresh air as I sip on my champagne. I have always loved our garden. Neither the house nor the neighborhood itself ever had any sentimental value to me even though I have lived here my entire life, except for the past four years that I spent at college.

But our garden is special to me. It is huge, as are most estates in this area, and I am the only person in my family who likes to walk. I could spend hours just walking by myself, and I spend a lot of afternoons circling our garden again and again. I know it better than anybody in our family, every corner, every tree, every flower bed at any time of the year. The only person who is more familiar with it must be our gardener, Henry. He has been working for us since I was a little child and even though we never talked much, I feel oddly close to him. He is a solitary man who once told me that he is doing this work for exactly that reason.

"Not too keen on people," he once said. "No offense."

Of course there was none taken. After all, I am not that different in that regard. But I don't think I could live a life in such a solitude as he is.

“Always been fonder of flowers,” he told me, years ago. “They leave you alone, just looking pretty without asking for anything or talking behind your back. They know no evil.”

I must have been about fifteen years old when he told me that. They know no evil.

“How boring,” I said back then, and Henry shook his head at me.

“Just you wait,” he said. “You must know evil and hardship to see it not as something exciting, but as something to be avoided.”

I know that I am spoiled, that is why I never dared to complain, especially not to Henry, who I know had a lot more serious and existential struggles to deal with than I ever did. But I have always led a lonely life, at least as long as I was living here.

College life was different. At college, I had people I would call friends. I am not as antisocial as my family thinks me to be. The people I met at college didn't make me feel invisible like my family does. Sometimes I feel like I might just as well not exist for them.

It's all the worse that I had to move back home with them now that I have finished my degree and did not get accepted to the Master's program I applied for. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to be. An imposed gap year is what I am facing right now, in hopes to be accepted into another program next year. Months of nothing to do except for inhabiting my old childhood room in a house I don’t like with people who don’t want me around.

I flinch in surprise when someone touches me on the shoulder. It is my sister Sandria, asking me to come with her so she can introduce me to her father-in-law to be.

We head to a little group on the terrace that includes Sandria’s fiancé, my other sister Lucia and her husband and Mr. Bishop… and
him
. The ominous tall, stranger with the dark hair and the tattoo peeking through at the top of his collar. Mr. Clark, Angelica had called him.

My heart almost stops when I notice his presence, but I try my best not to let it show.

I can feel his eyes on me as I join the group, but I don’t reciprocate his gaze. Sandria introduces me to her future father-in-law, and I shake his hand like a good girl, but cannot bring myself to respond to his lame introductory words.

Of course, I am introduced to Mr. Clark next. Our eyes meet for a few moments when we shake hands and he pins me down with his stare. His eyes are not completely black but more of dark gray. He looks at me with such intensity that I would normally fear that there was something wrong with my hair, my face, my dress. But I can tell in his stare that that's not it.

He doesn't focus on any imperfection. Just on me. No one has ever looked at me this way.

Why is he gritting his teeth, though? Am I making him angry?

"Leonard Clark," he introduces himself.

I look at him and give a polite nod before withdrawing my hand from his grip.

I cannot shake off the feeling of his intense stare the entire time I am forced to chit chat with Mr. Bishop and my sister's dull fiancé. When the topic turns to my academic endeavors and my sister uses yet another chance to play me down, Mr. Clark chimes in, forcing me to look back up at him.

I find it very hard to talk to him, even harder than usual.

He wants to know what it is that I could be embarrassed about.

"Nothing," I lie.

I am certainly not embarrassed about my choice of major and college.

I am, however, embarrassed about what happens in my bedroom when I find myself alone. I am embarrassed about what happened on campus when I participated in occasional dating and found myself with a boy staring at me with fear and disgust when I told him what I wanted him to do to me.

I am embarrassed and sad about the emptiness I felt every time someone fucked me, thinking he was giving me just as much pleasure as he was enjoying, while I just prayed for it to be over, faking every single orgasm I have ever experienced with a man.

Of course, that's not what anybody here at this party would expect or want to hear from me.

Mr. Clark looks at me as if he expects me to continue, but I am of the opinion that everything I need to say has been said. When I can longer bear to withstand his dark gray gaze, I lower my eyes, noticing that he has his hands in fists.

He is tense, clenching his fists so much that his knuckles turn white.

His hands are big and strong.

I wonder what they would feel like wrapped around my throat.

He knows that I noticed his clenching fists, but doesn't relax them. The longer I look at them, the more it feels as if he is grasping me, as if I was within his strong touch.

I avert my eyes and resume the dull conversation about my educational choice. I don’t want to be here. This conversation annoys me, and Mr. Clark’s eyes feel like spears poking into me.

“Will that be all?” I finally dare to blurt out. I know this is not the way one ought to leave a conversation, no matter how dull or annoying it is, but thanks to my overall reputation I am granted a fool’s license when it comes to my family - and I intend to use it to my advantage.

Of course, my sisters roll their eyes in embarrassment, but no one stops me when I flee the little circle. If anything, I am sure they are glad to be rid of me.

Except for one person.

I don’t have to turn around to know that he is following me.

My hopes that he might be heading a different direction are shattered when he appears next to me at the bar, brushing along my arm as he reaches for a new glass.

I am just about to turn away and scurry off when he asks me: “Does it hurt?”

The question is so multifarious that I am having trouble to answer it.

I am not even sure what he is talking about. The way my sisters treat me? He must have noticed how they both rolled their eyes and the way they addressed me in general. Or is he talking about the marks on my legs?

I don't dare to turn around, but I look back over my shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"Your ankles," he says and my heart skips a beat in shock. "Looks like you're hurt there."

Alright, then. I could have anticipated this. After all, the marks are clearly visible.

I am just not used to anybody looking at me with that much attention. I bet my family wouldn't even say anything if I had the marks right at my neck, where I would want them to be.

I turn around and accuse him of being impertinent.

He wants to know what happened to me, to my legs in particular. I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether it would be wise to insinuate anything.

He might just be genuinely worried. A good man.

A man who clenched his fists while staring at me as if I was an archenemy or something to eat.

All I can come up with is: "Nothing."

His gaze darkens, and he narrows his eyes as he looks down to me.

"Well, I'm pretty damn sure you're lying to me right now," he says, his voice so low that I can hardly hear him.

The way he looks at me doesn't suggest real worry. It is more like he is trying to get something out of me. Something I am not willing to share.

"I don't lie," I say. "Ever."

He probes, not only with his words but with his eyes, too. When I insist that nothing happened to me, emphasizing the word, he seems to understand. His eyes flicker for a moment and there is an undeniable reaction to the smile I add to the statement.

He looks around, checking the surrounding behind me. I am not sure whether he is looking for a way to escape, or trying to see if there are people watching us or listening to us.

Whatever he finds or doesn't find seems to have little impact on what he says next.

"I'll believe you."

And with that, he turns around and walks away.

N
ow she is
the one following me. I don't have to turn around to know that she is just a few steps behind me as I walk back out to the terrace.

Good girl.

I step outside and scan the area. There are still a lot of people outside on the terrace, including the group surrounding the bride and groom to be. Luckily, they are deeply immersed in their conversation and don't notice me stepping outside.

I pause for a moment, unsure of what to do, when she steps next to me.

I turn to her. She is looking up at me with those big, fiery eyes. Right now they seem to be more blue than green. Inside the house, I could have sworn that they were of a dark green.

A faint smile appears on her face, an expression that I haven't seen on her before.

Her beauty drives me insane.

I must have her.

Break her.

As if she heard my threatening thoughts, she turns ahead and walks away. She walks straight ahead, taking a few stone steps that lead down from the terrace to the giant garden that spreads ahead of us.

She doesn't turn around once, but her demeanor suggests that she is very aware of my eyes on her. She follows a little pebbly path, walking slowly but with determination.

The garden is pretty open in the area close to the terrace, displaying nothing but perfectly arranged flower beds that are starting to die now that fall is approaching.

She walks by those flower beds, distancing herself further and further away from the house and the terrace. A maze of bushes and smaller trees conceals the rest of the garden in the back, and she walks right into it.

She turns left, disappearing between two apple trees and right into the maze.

As soon as she is out of my—and everybody else's—sight I step forward, idling at the edge of the terrace for a few moments before I decide to take a stroll myself, following the path she has taken before me. I leave my glass on one of the nearby tables and go.

I look at the flowers beneath my feet left and right, pretending to adore them while I approach the obscured corner through which she disappeared.

Just before I reach it, I am startled by another couple coming out of it. They are middle-aged and unknown faces to me, probably friends of the family out on their own little stroll through the garden before twilight sets in. We almost bump into each other. I regard them with a polite nod as they walk past me, smiling equally politely.

It is a good reminder for me that I cannot be sure I will be alone with her, even in this secluded area of the garden.

When I turn around the corner into the maze, a small path lined with high hatches reveals itself in front of my eyes. I follow the passage for a while before I come to a crossroad. Two possibilities, left and right, both lined with hatches just like the one before. This really is like a maze.

I ponder for a moment before I opt for the right side, the one that leads further away from the house. The farther I walk, the wider the path gets. The hatches around it open up a little and soon, I find myself in what seems to be a little garden of itself, surrounded by light brick walls and decorated with flower beds and little bushes. It's almost like a little hall without a ceiling. I follow the pebble path that goes in a circle through the entire miniature garden, the brick wall to my right, a decorative fountain to my left, marking the center of the garden. In between, flower beds and herb beds.

When I reach the opposite side of the small garden, I notice a door in the wall. It is partly covered by ivy and doesn't look like it's meant for people to walk through it.

I stop in front of it and turn around to see whether I am still alone. There is no one around, nothing but absolute silence interrupted only by the sporadic tweeting of birds. I don't hear voices or steps. No sign of another human being.

The door is very old and rusty, and it appears to be locked. There is no path leading towards it.

But something tells me that this is where I need to go.

I take a step forward and reach for the door handle. It opens.

While the door is not locked, it is still hard to open because the hinges are rusty as hell.

I squeeze myself through, cursing at a branch that gets caught on my suit and almost rips a hole in it as I make my way through the door.

"Fuck," I hiss as the door closes behind me and I look down on the ugly scratch the damn tree left on my suit.

A girlish giggle resonates from the right.

I look up and find her standing a few feet away from me, standing on what seems to be another path, but this one is not as neatly arranged as the ones I walked before. I am not even sure we are still in the Barringtons' garden. It looks like a garden at first, but the forest that opens up behind her doesn't look so neatly groomed.

She is standing there, looking like a fucking fairy. Pale and delicate in her light gray dress, her cheeks blushed from the champagne. Her hair looks a bit messier than it did before, but otherwise her fancy and elegant getup is the exact opposite of the wild nature behind her.

My insides growl at the sight of her in this surrounding. Something so perfect, so beautiful. I cannot help imagining her tied around one those trees, her knees drenched in dirt and mud from crawling behind me, her limbs trembling with fear as I tie her up and have my way with her.

Elizabeth smiles.

"You're good," she says, tilting her head to the side. "No one ever comes here."

"I can see why," I mumble, stroking along my ruined suit.

She ignores it.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

I clear my throat and place my hands in my pants' pockets as I slowly approach her. I notice that she wants to create distance between us. She tenses up more and more with every step I take towards her.

But she withstands the urge to retreat and lets me get so close to her that our bodies almost touch, looking up at me the with blue-green eyes, pursuing their ever-present dance of changing colors.

"Can't a man just take a walk as he pleases?" I retort, looking down at her.

The smile on her face is long gone and has been replaced with that same unreadable expression she displayed most of the day.

Then, she slowly shakes her head.

"Why did you follow me?" she asks, her voice so soft, it almost gets suffocated by the leaves rustling in the autumn wind.

"Did you not want me to?" I retort.

"Do you answer every question with another question?"

She sounds annoyed, but it doesn't show on her face. There is no emotion I could assign to the look she is giving me.

"My questions are usually more interesting than the answers I could give to yours," I say.

She snorts.

"Good comeback."

To my surprise, she suddenly turns around and walks away, following the path that leads into the forest ahead.

I catch up to her and walk next to her. I hate being the one who follows, and she better learn this sooner rather than later.

"No point in walking away," I comment. "You won't get rid of me that easily if that is what you're trying to do."

"I'm not," she says without looking at me.

She turns her head, looking up at me, her face now in the shadows of the trees above us. In this light, her eyes are of a deep green. It almost makes me wonder how I could have ever mistaken them for blue.

"All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking," she whispers.

I frown at her. "Wise words, but what—"

"They're not mine," she interrupts me, averting her eyes to stare ahead. "Friedrich Nietzsche. A German philosopher."

"Quite the poet," I remark.

She nods. "Yes, he was a poet, too."

"What an eloquent fit, Elizabeth Barrington," I say. "For you to like European philosophers."

"Liz," she corrects me, looking up at me with furled eyebrows. "Please call me Liz."

"No one else does," I assert.

"Not in my family, no," she admits. "But it's what I prefer to be called. I don't like my actual name."

"Alright, Liz then," he says. “I'm Leonard.”

She nods politely.

"And no, I don't like European philosophers," she corrects me again. "Just him."

I grind my teeth. I don't like how she's the one handling me, correcting and lecturing me with that stern, cold attitude of hers. It is driving me insane.

This girl has no idea how much trouble she is in.

We are walking deeper into the forest, further away from anybody else. The path is narrow and forces us to walk closely next to each other. So close, that her arm randomly touches mine every so often.

It takes all my strength to pull myself together and not grab her to get a taste of her. Just her lips, those rosy, delicate lips that let so little words escape.

But I know I couldn't stop there. I would need to take her, all of her.

I cannot risk it. Not here, not now.

"Is this still part of your family's estate?" I randomly ask, mostly to get my mind from running wild.

She nods. "Yes. It's part of our garden, but a part that no one ever visits, except for me."

She stops and turns towards me, looking up with those dark, green eyes.

"No one," she repeats.

I have come to a halt next to her and she keeps staring up at me with those sublime eyes.

Fuck.

Does she want me to rip her dress apart and destroy her right here and now?

My eyes narrow as I look down on her.

"What are those marks around your legs?" I repeat my question from earlier.

"What's that tattoo you have on your back?" she asks back, throwing me a victorious smile.

"A question for a question," she adds. "Quite annoying, isn't it?"

Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together.

"You said nothing happened to you," I remind her, ignoring the fact that she obviously had a closer look at my neck than anybody else. Whenever the hell that was. "So was it something you did? Yourself?"

I can almost hear her heart jump. She can play it cool as much as she wants, but nothing goes by me. Her eyelashes flicker and she loses eye contact with me for a moment. It is just a split second, but I notice. Her breathing changed, the outline of her breasts rising up and down with deep and fast inhales and exhales, even though she tries to suppress it.

So fucking delicious.

She turns away and faces the path ahead of us, unable to look at me as she says: "What would you think if I said yes?"

"I would ask you what exactly you did," I reply. "And why you did it."

She swallows hard and doesn't say a word. Instead, she continues walking and so do I. Moments pass, minutes even. We walk next to each other in silence.

I intend to give her time, but when she is still not speaking when we reach the end of the forest, standing in front of a fence that marks the border of the Barrington estate, I decide to raise my voice again.

"Did you tie yourself up?" I ask. "Are those rope marks?"

She inhales audibly, proving me right.

She gazes over the fence at a large field, the rural landscape spreading before us. The sun is about to set. The late afternoon light has turned orange, announcing the impending twilight.

Liz places her hands on the fence as if she was looking for support.

"Well?" I probe, leaning against the fence right next to her and looking down at her expectantly.

She closes her eyes as if she was trying to hide.

"Maybe," she finally dares to say with her eyes still closed.

"Maybe, huh."

I love that expression. That vulnerable, shy girl she turns into. She is ashamed and afraid. A delicious mix that I cannot get enough of.

"You like being tied up?" I ask, now slowly stroking her lower arm with the tip of my finger.

This is a dangerous game I'm playing. I told myself to keep my distance from anyone who is living in this neighborhood, this world. I am here for business, and violating the sister of my business partner's son's fiancée does not fall under being careful and smart.

But I know it could work. I know what to do to make it work. To make it safe.

She will be mine.

Liz flinches at my touch, shivering like a scared little animal.

So fucking delicious.

She is responding perfectly. It scares her how much she wants this.

I move closer and lean down to her.

"Do you like the feeling of rope cutting into your flesh," I whisper in her ear. "Leaving marks. Leaving you at somebody else's mercy?"

She gasps, but not with indignation. Her breathing is erratic, aroused and scared.

Oh, what a perfect little lamb she is.

She turns around and looks up at me. Her eyes are flickering, it almost seems as if they are changing colors, dancing back and forth. Blue, green, blue, green.

Her mouths opens ever so slightly. She looks like she is about to say something, but I know she won't. She just stares up at me with those incredible eyes.

Begging.

She may be mute, but her eyes tell me everything I need to know.

I don't kiss like a gentle lover, I devour. I demand her. One hand at the back of her head, the other pressed against her tender lower back, just above her ass. I press her body against mine, ignoring the suffocated moans of protest.

She doesn't fight back. Her body is stiff and defensive at first but soon melts in my arms, becoming limber and soft as I claim her.

I invade her mouth with force, still trying to control myself as much as possible. She welcomes it, that little minx. Soon, her moans of protest turn into moans of lust.

She tries to touch me, hug me, but I force her hands down, pushing her away from me.

"No," I warn her. "I'm the one who does the touching, understand?"

She stares up at me with wide eyes, her lips slightly parted.

I dart forward, grabbing a fistful of hair at the back of her head while my other hand reaches beneath her dress, finding its way up to the waistband of her pantyhose and slipping beneath it. She gasps in surprise when my hand reaches her center, forcing her panties to the side and sliding right between her damp lips.