His Demand

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THE FILTHY TRILOGY

  THE BASTARD CHAPTER ONE

  A PERFECT LIE

  A PERFECT LIE CHAPTER ONE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the supplier and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at lisareneejones.com/contact

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gabe

  My brother is now officially married.

  He’s also gone, headed off to his honeymoon, while I remain in the apartment that he now shares with his new wife, Carrie, and not by intent. It just sort of happened. They left for the airport and I never left their apartment. Even the dog and cat they recently adopted and now call their children have gone home with my sister and her husband.

  Children.

  My brother.

  Fuck.

  I tear away the tie at my neck, the jacket of my tux long ago gone, and walk to the liquor cabinet, perusing the selection of fine whiskey. “Don’t mind if I do,” I murmur, pouring myself a twenty-year whiskey, a luxury drink that we can all afford these days thanks to how damn well the merger between companies went—ours and that of Reid’s new wife. When my brother gets married, he does it forever. He even pulled their two companies into one.

  Forever.

  That will never be me. I thought it would be once, but that was a long damn time ago. Now, I just fuck and move on, but I do like that dog my brother adopted. Maybe I’ll have a kid of my own, aka a dog, forever and ever. My mind goes painfully back to our old family dogs, and I ax that idea. Dogs die. I don’t need to fall in love with anyone that could die on me. On that note, I need out of this happily-ever-after apartment. I down my whiskey, pull on the jacket to my tuxedo again and head for the door, grabbing my trench coat as I leave. I flip the light out and for a moment, I stare into the darkness, feeling the emptiness open an ancient wound. I shut the damn door.

  A few minutes later, I exit their building into a cold December New York City night, and rather than walking to my apartment on the other side of Battery Park, I call a car. I don’t need more empty space to fill up with thoughts better left long buried, better left in the quicksand of my past. I’m at my office building in ten minutes, and I plan to go upstairs and work, but instead, I find myself in the bar of one of the popular restaurants next to our building. A high-end joint that sports the kind of high-end bar offerings my mood requires right now.

  I enter the dimly lit spot and wave to the pretty brunette hostess, who’s about ten years too young to get my attention. At thirty-seven, I like my women confident and preferably worldly, not trying to figure out what essay to write for a college paper. Not that it should matter. I fuck and move on and yet somehow—it does. I absolutely need to know that the woman I just got naked with can hold an intelligent conversation, layered with life and experience, even if I don’t want to actually have that conversation. It’s just a thing to me I can’t seem to shake.

  I cut right into the bar, lights flickering on small round tables, and for two days after Christmas, the crowd is heavier than I expect. Almost every seat in the place is taken, but the bar is bare and calling my name. I head that direction, order my favorite whiskey and bullshit with Kevin, the bartender who’s been here every day of the last five years. I, on the other hand, have practically lived at the building next door since I was a kid, actually since I was five. That’s when my father moved the law firm he founded here. “That brother of yours really got married, then,” Kevin says after I shed my coat and give him an eyeful of my tuxedo.

  “He took the plunge,” I say, accepting my whiskey and making small talk I really don’t feel like making, but he lures me in with football and the Super Bowl coming up in a few short weeks that might actually be a month.

  When he finally heads away to attend to another customer, I give the bar my back, my elbows resting on the wooden surface, when my gaze catches on a woman in the corner by the window, and something about her stirs the man in me. An unexpected reaction to a redhead with long, wild curls, when I don’t normally like redheads.

  She’s thirtyish, I’d guess, maybe a tad younger, her features delicate and beautiful. She’s also alone on a Thursday night, a MacBook in front of her, and she’s intensely studying whatever is on the screen. That says commitment to her career. That says single, and that works for me. I don’t do married women. In fact, any married woman that wants to do me pisses me the fuck off. My pretty redhead must feel my attention because her gaze lifts and her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t blush and look away. She looks right back at me. She studies me. Bold. Confident. My cock is officially hard. I want this woman, but she cuts her gaze abruptly, as if she’s decided to end the connection with finality.

  She stands and walks toward the back of the bar where the bathrooms are located. She’s in a belted black dress, her tiny waist cinched, her hips full, her steps graceful. I have two moves I can make now. Order her a drink and meet her at her table with it or follow her.

  I follow her. I’m impatient that way. I need an outlet tonight. I need her to be that outlet.

  I don’t need time to second guess myself. I make a decision. I live with that decision. I own it like I want to own this woman, at least for the night. I start walking and I’m at the hallway leading to the bathroom in about thirty seconds. I step in front of the ladies’ room door, the rush of adrenaline and anticipation pumping through me. Seconds turn into a full two minutes and then the door opens. She steps into the archway and she doesn’t look shocked. Her eyes meet mine, again with that boldness that thickens my cock that is already pretty damn hard.

  Holy fuck, she’s gorgeous, and even in this dim lighting, her skin pale perfection, her e
yes striking, though I can’t fully make out the color. “You lost?” she asks, and her voice is this sweet, raspy feminine sound.

  “Most definitely not lost,” I say. “I followed you, but you know that.”

  “I got that impression, yes.”

  “I’m Gabe.”

  “Gabe,” she says. “You don’t look like a Gabe.”

  “What do I look like?”

  “A Ken doll,” she says and it’s not the first time I’ve heard this comparison, usually with irritation that I don’t feel now as she adds, “Tall, blond, and from what I can tell, well-defined beneath that tuxedo. Why are you wearing a tuxedo, Gabe?”

  “My brother got married today.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not married.” Which makes me ask, “Are you?”

  “Not anymore.” And then suddenly, she closes the space between me and her, a sweet floral scent teasing my nostrils as she presses herself to me, pushes to her toes and touches her lips to mine.

  I take it from there, tangling my fingers in all those red curls with one hand, molding her closer with the other, and licking into her mouth. She doesn’t hold back. This woman, whose name I don’t even know, kisses the hell out of me, like I’m the last kiss she will ever experience, and then suddenly, our lips part and linger. Neither of us moves or speaks until she suddenly pulls back and looks at me with eyes I now know to be a stunning grass green. “I’m Abigail,” she says, and then she’s putting a step between us.

  I let her simply because I want to know what she will do next. I want to see her, to drink her in, and feel her close again. “Thanks for waking me up, Gabe,” she says, and then she’s walking away.

  What the hell?

  “That’s it?” I call out.

  She glances back at me. “Afraid so.” And then she rounds the corner.

  Oh no. This is not over.

  I start to pursue, but my damn phone rings, and with the small chance it’s my brother on his wedding night, I yank it from my pocket even as I keep walking and damn it, it’s Reid. I stop walking and hit “answer” to hear a crazy amount of static. “I can’t hear you,” I say, and then hear, “Taking off. Call you back. Not important.”

  Fuck.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and start moving again because Abigail is fucking important. I’m back in the bar in thirty seconds, heading toward her table, and the minute I bring it into view, I curse. Abigail is gone. I cross the bar and exit to the street, looking left and right, but she’s nowhere. She’s really gone and I have no idea why, but it feels like I just lost someone I wasn’t supposed to lose. That woman wasn’t supposed to leave. I wasn’t supposed to let her go.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gabe

  Thoughts about Abigail keep me awake that night. She keeps me distracted and awake even through the New Year’s holiday. Women don’t distract me and they damn sure don’t keep me awake unless we’re fucking.

  The problem is that she isn’t naked and she isn’t even in my damn bed. She’s gone and it’s pissing me off. I lay in my king-sized bed a few days later and feel alone when I normally feel pretty damn good in the giant-ass bed. I can stretch my legs. I can stroke my cock if I want to. I can do whatever the fuck I want, except apparently, Abigail. It’s not like she actually turned me down. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t turn me down. That kiss wasn’t a turndown. It was longing. It was exactly what she said: an awakening, and I want to be more than the kiss that started it. She’s divorced, burned and bruised if I’m accurate, and I want to lick every last ache she feels and make it better. I consider all the ways I might do that with great detail and when I wake up to an alarm and still alone in my bed, I’m angry with myself. I don’t get hung up on women for a reason. A really damn good reason that dates back years and needs to stay in the past. Good riddance, Abigail. My hard-on and my fantasies are now gone.

  An hour later, I’m dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, and already on my way to the office, stopping in the coffee shop for my usual triple venti latte, and playing the game I always play. I laugh. I smile. I make other people laugh and smile. No one needs to know what the hell is going on in my head, and when they’re thinking about themselves or a laugh I’ve given them, they aren’t analyzing me. I like it that way. I keep it that way.

  I tip the barista twenty dollars because that’s also what I do. I tip big. I make people feel good even when I’m burning alive inside, especially on the days that I’m burning alive inside. And for a reason I can’t seem to explain, Abigail has sent me to that place, reminded me of the past. It’s a damn good thing that she’s gone. Really damn good that she’s gone. I don’t even like redheads. I don’t know why this woman has this power over me, but I don’t like it.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m behind my desk and my assistant is standing in front of my desk, which isn’t unusual. However, I’m acutely aware of the fact that she’s thirty-something with red hair. “Don’t hate me,” she says. “I have a list of ten problems you have to deal with right now.”

  “I live to beat a path through the hell,” I say, welcoming the distraction, ready to dive into my work. “Bring it on. What’s number one?”

  “Your father called.”

  “Considering my father’s a fraud, liar, and jerk who cheated on my mother and all but ruined this business, why do I care? He’s retired. Reid and I made sure of that.”

  “Because when he calls, it’s trouble.”

  “Move on to the next problem.”

  “Number two. One of your father’s mistresses says she’s owed money and served you for that money, which I assume is why your father was calling.” She motions to a folder on the desk. “You were served. So was Reid. The board wasn’t. She also called and said she’s got intimate knowledge of things your father did while here at the firm that you might want to know about. She’s willing to help you.”

  Help me. More like bribe me. “What else?” I say, because this is absolutely ridiculous and will go nowhere, and anyone involved knows that.

  “I go on vacation tomorrow for a week. You remember that, right?”

  “Yes. I bought the tickets to Italy for you and your sister, remember?”

  “Yes, but at the time, Reid wasn’t going on his honeymoon and you hadn’t just forced your father out of the company.”

  “I have Connie,” I say of Reid’s secretary. “It works. Go. Enjoy your trip. You deserve it after that hellish acquisition we did a few months ago.”

  “You really are good to me,” she says.

  “You slept here a couple of nights to finish that deal,” I remind her. “I owe you.”

  “Yeah. You kind of do, but still.”

  “Just update Connie on everything,” I say. “Then go eat pasta and have some wild fling with a hot Italian man. Just don’t fall in love and stay there.”

  She laughs. “No problem there. I’m immune to love, just like you, which makes me work well as your assistant. I can’t fall for your Ken Doll good looks and you hate redheads.”

  A muscle in my jaw ticks at her Ken Doll comment, not to mention the reference to redheads. “You know too much about me.”

  “Ah, the real reason you sent me to Italy,” she teases. “I’m going to see Connie now.” She stops at the door. “Let me know if you want me to file a reply to that bullshit claim from your father’s mistress.” She disappears and I read the claim, which is absolutely insane. The woman wants three million dollars.

  I dial my father. “How big of a problem is this woman?” I ask, without any preamble. He called. He knows what’s going on.

  “If she was a problem, I’d have paid her off. She has no proof of anything, but she has a loud mouth. That makes her a problem for your firm.”

  For my firm. The one he keeps trying to destroy even now, after we got rid of him. I hang up. That bastard just won’t stop being a problem. I text my brother: There are problems related to
dad and a mistress. I got this. Pretend it doesn’t exist. You have honeymoon fucking to do.

  Reid’s reply is simply: And I don’t plan to stop for that asshole.

  I glance at my watch and I have fifteen minutes until I meet with one of the partners on a problem case. I decide I need some fucking air, compliments of my fucking father. I round my desk, exit my office, and waste no time exiting to the office lobby. I’m walking toward the double glass doors that lead to the elevator bank when I do a double take. Abigail is walking onto the elevator. How is this even possible? But even as I ask the question, there is no “good thing she’s gone” in my head right now. I’m not letting her get away.

  I rush forward and through the doors. “Abigail!” I call out, but she’s already in the car. “Abigail!” I shout again, my legs eating away at the space between us and I reach the car, right as the doors shut.

  I punch the call button and another car opens almost immediately. I’m inside and the doors are about to close when one of the partners catches them and enters.

  “Gabe,” Carl, a fifty-something attorney with a top-notch record greets me. “I need to talk to you about a deal I’m negotiating for the Michael Devers financial firm.”

  “Why?” I ask, willing the damn doors to shut even as they shut. “You suddenly need hand-holding when you usually break any hand that comes your direction?”

  “I need money to invest.”

  The car is moving, thank God. I arch a brow at Carl. “Money to invest. Sounds like a talk that needs to happen when I have whiskey in my hand. Expensive whiskey.”

  “How about the restaurant bar next door at seven tonight?”

  “That works,” I say, and thank God again, the elevator doors open and I don’t say another word. I leave him in the car, exiting to the building lobby to scan for Abigail, to no avail.

  I start walking, crossing the space between me and the main doors to exit the building, looking left and right, only to curse, my hands settling on my hips under my jacket. Once again, I’ve lost the redheaded siren of a woman that haunted my dreams last night.

  But she was here, in my building, in my law firm. I’m going to find her. I head for my office again, aware that her presence in my office could represent a conflict of interest and I really don’t give a damn. That woman will be mine. There is no other option.