Chapter 33
Richard Sullivan didn't offer his hand.
He just leaned back in his massive black leather chair behind his glass desk, steepled his fingers under his chin, and looked at Brett the way a man looks at a balance sheet he knows has been cooked.
Lance's hand was still warm and possessive on the small of Brett's back, right above the tight waistband of his charcoal pinstripe pencil skirt, his thumb stroking once, twice, a silent I've got you.
" Sit," Richard said, not to both of them. To Brett.
Brett lowered himself into the low leather chair opposite the desk with practiced grace, crossing his long legs at the knee, the way Nico had drilled into him for weeks. The charcoal skirt rode up just an inch, showing a perfect flash of black opaque pantyhose over his knee, the pointed toe of his black So Kate Louboutin 100mm heel dangling.
The movement was innocent. Professional. The way Richard's blue eyes — Lance's eyes, but colder, harder — tracked it was not.
" Brielle," Richard said, tasting the name. " That's an unusual name."
Brett smiled, his rose lips curving perfectly, his big blue eyes wide and guileless behind soft brown liner. He felt the tucking underwear holding him flat and smooth under the pantyhose, felt the safety of it, felt the armor of the pinstripe suit. " My mother loved French names, Mr. Sullivan."
" And where is your mother now, Brielle?"
The interrogation had begun.
For twenty minutes it didn't stop. Where was he from? Whitefish, Montana. Where did they meet? Through mutual friends. When? Last year. What did his father do? He passed when Brett was young. What did Brett do? He was between projects, focusing on the wedding. Where did he go to school? He'd taken some business courses online.
Every answer was a lie Nico and Mara had rehearsed with him on the plane, every answer delivered in that soft, low alto, every answer accompanied by a small, demure tilt of his head that made his sleek honey blonde hair slide over his shoulder.
Lance sat beside him, silent, furious, his jaw tight, his hand fisted on his thigh.
Richard wasn't listening to the answers. He was looking.
His gaze kept dropping — to the way the light pink fitted blouse pulled across Brett's D cup breasts, the top two buttons open just enough to show the shadow between them, the pale pink lace of his bra. To the way the tight pencil skirt clung to Brett's hips, to the impossible curve from his tiny twenty-three inch waist to his ass. To the long, perfect line of his legs in black pantyhose, crossed so neatly, the 100mm heels making his calves look sculpted.
Brett felt it like a touch. Like oil. The maximum hormones made his skin hypersensitive, made every glance feel physical, and this glance was not the reverent, loving look Lance gave him. This was appraisal. This was hunger.
It made his stomach turn.
" You know," Richard said finally, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes dropping one more time to Brett's chest before dragging back up to his face, " Lance told me he had a year to find a wife or lose his seat on the board. Imagine my surprise when, eleven months and three weeks in, he calls from Montana engaged to a girl no one in our circle has ever heard of."
Brett's heart hammered against his ribs, against the lace bra, but his smile never wavered. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs slowly, deliberately, the pantyhose whispering, and watched Richard's eyes follow the movement down and back up.
" Love isn't always convenient, Mr. Sullivan," Brett said softly, his voice like silk, his sharp canines flashing just slightly as he spoke. " Sometimes it just... happens. Fast."
Richard's mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. " Fast," he repeated. " Yes. You are... very fast, aren't you, Brielle?"
The double meaning hung in the cold air of the 88th floor office, thick and ugly.
Lance was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping back loud. " Dad. That's enough."
Richard didn't even look at his son. His eyes were locked on Brett, on the three-carat diamond flashing on Brett's left hand as Brett clasped his hands in his lap, on the nervous flutter of his pulse in his throat just above the pink blouse collar.
" You're a beautiful girl, Brielle," Richard said, his voice dropping lower, intimate in a way that made Brett's skin crawl under his suit. " Exquisite, really. That waist... those legs... Lance has always had excellent taste. I can see why he broke his timeline for you."
Brett felt the heat rise in his face, not from arousal, from humiliation, from anger, from the sheer powerlessness of sitting in a pinstripe skirt and pantyhose being looked at like a piece of art someone wanted to buy.
He felt Lance's hand come down hard on his shoulder, squeezing, grounding him.
" We're done here," Lance said, his voice like ice, the billionaire CEO his father had raised suddenly fully present. " You wanted to meet my fiancée. You've met her. We're leaving."
Richard finally looked at his son, then back at Brett, his gaze lingering one last, long, lustful second on Brett's mouth, on his rose lipstick, on his perfect white teeth.
" Of course," Richard said smoothly, standing and finally extending his hand — not to Lance, to Brett. " It was a pleasure, Brielle. I do hope we'll get to know each other... better."
Brett had no choice. He stood on his 100mm Louboutins, his knees trembling slightly, and slid his small, soft hand into Richard's much larger one.
Richard didn't shake it. He held it, his thumb stroking once, slowly, over Brett's knuckles, over the diamond, his skin hot and dry.
" Such soft hands," Richard murmured, just loud enough for Brett to hear, his blue eyes dark with something that made Brett want to shower for a week. " For a girl from Montana."
Brett pulled his hand back like he'd been burned, his big blue eyes flashing with fury now, not fear.
Lance saw it. Lance saw everything.
He stepped between them, his body a wall, his arm going around Brett's tiny waist, pulling him tight against his side.
" Don't," Lance said quietly to his father, just that one word, full of warning, full of promise.
Richard just smiled that cold smile and sat back down.
In the elevator going down, the glass walls showing all of Singapore spread out below them, Brett was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Lance pulled him into his arms, crushing the perfect pinstripe suit, not caring.
" I'm sorry," Lance whispered fiercely into Brett's hair, his hands running up and down Brett's back, over the jacket, over the blouse, trying to erase the feel of his father's eyes. " I'm so sorry, baby."
Brett clutched at Lance's suit jacket with both hands, his face buried in his chest, his sleek blonde hair mussed, his rose lipstick smudged. He wasn't crying. He was furious.
" He looked at me like..." Brett choked out, his soft alto shaking with rage, " like I was something to... to..."
" I know," Lance said, his voice breaking with guilt and fury of his own. " I know exactly how he looked at you."
Brett pulled back and looked up at Lance, his makeup perfect except for his blazing blue eyes, his diamond flashing as he cupped Lance's jaw.
" Then you know," Brett whispered, his dangerous smile returning, sharp and deadly and real, " that I'm not going to let that man decide if we're good enough. I'm going to make him choke on that suspicious timeline."
Lance stared down at his 129-pound goddess in a pencil skirt and pantyhose who'd just been leered at by his own father and was already planning war, and fell in love with him all over again, harder than on the plane, harder than in Montana.
He kissed Brett hard and deep right there in the glass elevator, not caring who could see, his hands fisted in the back of Brett's pinstripe jacket.
And 88 floors above them, Richard Sullivan stood at his window watching the elevator descend, his hand still warm from where he'd touched his son's fiancée, and felt something he hadn't felt in twenty years.
Lust. Sharp and sudden and inconvenient.
For the girl who was going to marry his son.…