The Billionaire's Claim: Possession Page 5

We exchange a quick kiss. I want more…but my sister’s watching.

  Kristen gazes up at Liza like she’s an angel who’s come down to save her. “Thank God. Hi!”

  “Hi.” Liza’s eyes dart back and forth between me and Kristen. “What’s going on?”

  “Kristen doesn’t want to go to the prom,” I say. “She already has a date, by the way.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing,” Kristen mumbles miserably.

  After studying my sister for a moment, Liza taps a corner of her mouth. “When’s your prom?”

  “Next month. Not a lot of time left for shopping. All the good stuff is taken.” A shrug. “You know.”

  “Hmm. You’re right.”

  Kristen’s voice grows smaller. “I know. I’m always right.”

  It hits me that Diego isn’t the problem. She’s worried about the cost of attending the prom—the dress, shoes, everything. She doesn’t have anything she can wear to the dance, and although I’ve never shopped for girl stuff like this, I’m sure an outfit won’t be cheap.

  Ugh. I’m such an idiot.

  Then I feel like a failure. When I took legal custody of my sister, it was to give her the kind of warm, supportive environment she deserves. Instead she’s worried about money. It’s partially my fault for being so open about our finances. I assumed it’d help her feel more included to be informed.

  I take half a step forward. “Look, Kristen, it’s—”

  Liza puts a hand on my arm. “But that shouldn’t keep you from going. I have tons of dresses you can borrow if you want. We’re about the same size, so one of them should work. And most of them are classic.”

  Kristen looks uncertain. “Are you sure? I mean, they’re your dresses.”

  “I’m sure. Some of them I only wore once, and I really need to get my money’s worth, you know? I’ll bring a few tomorrow.” Liza smiles.

  Kristen jumps from her chair and throws herself at Liza, who hugs her back with a soft laugh. My heart leaps, achingly full of tenderness and gratitude.

  And then and there, I know Liza is the only girl for me. There’s no way I can feel this way for another woman because I’ve given one hundred percent of my heart to her.

  The next day, Liza shows up with seven dresses, much to Kristen’s delight. I stay out of the way—what do I know about female fashion? I trust Liza’s going to dress my baby sister appropriately.

  A phone call an hour later drags Liza home—causing me great disappointment since I want to tell her about the letter I got from OWM about my internship—but Kristen doesn’t seem to notice. She hops around, vibrating with excitement.

  “Did you see what she brought?” she squeals.

  “I was here the whole time doing research for my papers.” I have three due in the next two weeks.

  “The best one is the blue dress—I think you’ll approve—and it’s a Versace! She told me I could wear it to the prom if I want!” The hops get higher. “Versace!”

  I tilt my head. I don’t know much about fashion, but I’m not totally ignorant. How can Liza afford a Versace? She works at a café, drives a modest car, wears inexpensive clothes and carries cheap purses.

  Maybe she saves all her money for pricey dresses.

  Or maybe she has a magic hand with clearance sales. It is possible. Kristen picks up a lot of designer items cheap that way.

  Kristen continues breathlessly, “I saw it in Vogue last month, and holy shit, I’m going to make everyone super jealous.”

  “Lemme see.”

  She dashes to put it on. It’s a stunning dress, modestly cut and made with soft, expensive-feeling material. I can see why Kristen’s thrilled, but…

  Vogue?

  I’ve seen some of that stuff because Kristen likes to shove the magazine in my face from time to time, and none of the featured items are affordable. Vogue is for people who have way too much money and can’t think of anything better to do with it than buy frivolous junk.

  “The other dresses Liza brought… Were they all like this one?” I ask.

  Kristen nods vigorously. “Yeah. I mean, they’re different colors and cuts, but they’re all amazing. It was sooooo hard trying to decide between the Versace and an Armani she brought. Oh my God, I’d love to see her closet.”

  A cold sliver of unease pricks my gut. Liza mentioned her father being busy with his business. Maybe he bought them for her to make up for neglect. I’ve seen plenty of kids in classes with guilt presents—overly expensive and overly flashy. But something about this situation makes me to feel like I just divided an even number by two and ended up with a remainder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elizabeth

  I hurry up the steps to Grandma’s mansion. She hates being kept waiting.

  I should’ve left Dominic’s place sooner, but I wasn’t able to bring myself to leave the warm bed, especially with him moving slowly down my body. Then I had to make a stop to change because Grandma is the kind of person you see only when you’re dressed in a fresh, stylish outfit from an exclusive boutique. And of course, I had to swap the Civic for the Maserati.

  Next time, I’m giving myself an extra ten minutes. I can sense Grandma hasn’t given up on her grand plans, and she’ll use whatever leverage she can to push me into the desired direction. I don’t want Dominic to get caught in the crossfire.

  You’re falling for him.

  Nope. I’ve already fallen for him. I won’t let anyone hurt him, especially Grandma Shirley, who never cares about collateral damage. Compared to my grandmother, Machiavelli was an amateur.

  I should tell Dominic the truth about who I am soon, I think as I open the door. He’s been wondering, I can tell. I shouldn’t have taken those dresses from my closet, but Kristen deserves to have a great prom.

  As I turn into the stairs, a woman bumps into me. In her forties, the brunette’s in an off-the-rack black suit, her hair cut into a neat bob. Her dark eyebrows pinch, wrinkles forming on a small forehead, and her mouth opens as though she’s about to cut me down with a few words.

  Then her eyes grow large, and she stops. Her thin lips twist into a smirk. “Well. It’s you.” Her gaze sweeps over me. “You dress…rather classy.”

  I scowl at the mocking way she stares at me. I’m not used to such looks from strangers, and certainly not in my grandmother’s home.

  Her face has a coat of foundation, but dark freckles still show through. “Do I know you?” I ask.

  “No, probably not.” She doesn’t bother to introduce herself. Instead, she starts moving past me.

  I stare as the woman walks out of the house. Who was that?

  As I turn away, I spot Tolyan, and gesture in the direction of the foyer. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Dorothy Brown,” he says, his voice cool and slightly accented.

  The name doesn’t ring a bell, and I’m really good with names. Still, we have to have met somewhere before for her to act in that rudely.

  “Shirley’s waiting,” he says.

  “Right,” I mutter. “I know I’m late.”

  He glances at his watch. “Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

  I roll my eyes. He doesn’t have to break it down to the second.

  “Five minutes,” he says. Obviously he can read my mind.

  “Fine, fine,” I say. “I’m going.”

  And I do. But by the time Grandma’s finished, I wish I’d been run over by a truck after a plane has landed on me.

  * * *

  Dominic

  Kristen looks stunning in the blue dress she borrowed from Liza. Diego’s a handsome kid—a senior—with a wide, friendly smile and good manners. He won’t be making any moves on her though since I put God’s fear into him while Kristen went to her room for final makeup check.

  “Have fun,” I say, hugging Kristen. “Just not too much fun.”

  She rolls her eyes, smiling as she puts her hand in the crook of Diego’s elbow, and they leave.

/>   I stretch my arms over my head, then grin when my gaze lands on the thick stack of papers on the table. I’m officially working as an intern at OWM—just had my first two days, including an hour orientation. It’s a big deal because the firm rarely hires undergraduates. But my interview with Gavin Lloyd went great. And he liked me well enough to have me report directly to him.

  Yes, yes, yes!

  Gavin doesn’t believe in having his interns make coffee. He works me hard, which is exactly what I want so I can learn from the best. The excellent pay—more than what I make at my two part-time jobs—is just the cherry on top.

  So many amazing things have happened since Liza walked into the bar. And I plan to spoil her. I already made a reservation at Morton’s for later this evening—a surprise. A local jewelry artist will send a commissioned piece next Wednesday. I can’t wait to put it on Liza, watch her eyes sparkle with joy.

  Two brisk knocks at the door. I answer it, and Aunt Dorothy is standing on the other side.

  My mood changes instantly. I haven’t seen her for fourteen months, since our final court hearing. Irritation and hostility surge through me. She wanted to steal Kristen away, ostensibly to provide a more “stable and normal” home. It sounded good on paper. If I were an objective third party, I would’ve probably bought the bullshit. After all, Dorothy is a DA, and she’s married to a local politician, and they live in a nice three-bedroom house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood with their adopted son, Andy.

  I didn’t buy any of it. I know how much she hated our parents…and me…and Kristen.

  Thankfully, the judge saw right through Dorothy because he asked to see some photos of us together.

  “If you love them the way you say, surely there are pictures and memories.”

  She wasn’t able to produce any. The only memory I have of her is her glaring or screaming at my parents or telling me what kind of fuckup I am. I’m certain she did the same to Kristen when nobody else was around.

  Dorothy hasn’t changed—the suit, the aggressive body language, the thin-lipped sneer. She starts to push her way into my home, her eyes full of superiority and triumph. They alarm me; I was certain she’d given up on taking Kristen away.

  Not bothering to hide my hostility, I block her, staying in the doorway. I’ll be damned if I let her come in.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “Looking at you one last time before you’re booked for rape.”

  “What?” I blink a few times to make sure I’m processing her right, then laugh. “Rape? What the fuck?” I’ve never touched a girl who didn’t want it, and since meeting Liza, the only woman in my life has been her.

  “Statutory, to be specific. Don’t you know it’s illegal to have intercourse with a girl who isn’t eighteen?”

  “I’ve never been with an underage girl.”

  “Reeeeaaaalllyyy?” Dorothy laughs, the sound like nails raking down a piece of tin. “You had sex with Elizabeth Pryce-Reed when she was seventeen. The age of consent in California is eighteen, in case you didn’t know. Not that ignorance of the law is going to be a valid defense.”

  “Who the hell is Elizabeth Pryce-Re—” Then I know.

  Liza.

  Elizabeth Anne Reed was the name on her license, but…

  “Let’s not act stupid. We all know why you targeted her—for her money.”

  “What money?”

  Dorothy tsks. “Don’t act surprised. It’s really not your forte.”

  My throat tightens.

  “She’s an heiress. Her father’s a multibillionaire, and she has a sizable trust as well.”

  What the fuck?

  Dorothy’s lips twist into a vindictive line. “I can’t wait until you’re prosecuted. I won’t be handling the case because it would look bad, me being your loving and stunned aunt and all. But mark my words. You’ll be arrested for statutory rape, most likely convicted of a felony—since that’s the least her family will demand—and registered as a sex offender once you’re out of prison.” She smiles. “I can’t wait.”

  I stare at her, my scalp throbbing as rage and confusion beat at me. She has to be making this shit up. I’ve seen the depth of her hatred. Purely from spite, she made sure Granddad cut his daughter off for marrying Dad, who was a penniless nobody as far as the family was concerned. Then Dorothy maliciously spread rumors about my parents…simply because she could and knew Mom wouldn’t retaliate.

  “I don’t believe you. And even if what you’re saying is true—which it isn’t—Liza would never testify against me,” I say, unable to think of anything else.

  Dorothy gives me a look full of pity. “Who told you that? Elizabeth?” She snorts. “I saw her earlier today at her grandmother’s mansion, and she told me she was perfectly ready and willing.”

  My heart beats so fast that I’m afraid it’s going to give out. I clench my hands until my nails dig painfully into my palms, and will myself to wake up from the nightmare.

  This can’t be real. Can’t be.

  “Why do you think she was at the bar?”

  “Because she wanted a drink.”

  “Have you seen her Maserati? Did she say she’d let you drive it if you fucked her well?”

  What Masera—

  The night I met Liza. There was a Maserati in the parking lot.

  Dorothy continues, an ugly sneer edging her tone. “You actually thought you were good enough for her? She’s going to marry Nate Sterling. Their families are already making arrangements.”

  Bullshit. A girl about to marry someone else wouldn’t have been like that with me…

  “At least you won’t look too terrible in orange. You have the right coloring.”

  This is all Dorothy’s fucked-up poison. She’s out of targets, so she wants to drag me down.

  “You’re lying,” I say flatly. “Liza would never betray me.”

  “Oh, she most certainly would, to have the DA’s office look the other way. She’s no angel, you know.” Dorothy chortles. “As soon as things are sorted out here, she’s leaving for Italy. What? You thought you mattered? Please.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I spit, my jaw muscles tight.

  “Do you honestly think you have any power over anything?”

  I take a step forward. Her throat works, a sliver of fear passing through her eyes before she catches herself. She holds her chin high, even though it’s quivering slightly. “I can’t wait until you’re in prison, where you belong.” Forcing a cackle, she spins and leaves.

  The horrible laugh rings in my ear even though she’s gone. I slam the door, then kick it.

  I start shaking so hard that I have to lean against the back of the couch for support. My knees feel like water, and nausea roils in my gut, a bitter sour taste on my tongue.

  I inhale and exhale a few times, trying to process everything. I hate this, I so fucking do, but my gut tells me Dorothy’s right. If I’d been thinking more clearly, I would’ve realized what Liza really was back at the bar when she gave me that line about her friends leaving her stranded. There were other signs, too: how she called Gavin by his first name; how she fumbled a little when I asked her how she knows him. She implied she works at a café near OWM, but does she really? If she’s an heiress, it explains the dresses she brought for Kristen.

  No more thinking with my dick. No more believing Liza is innocent just because that’s what I want to believe. Maybe…just maybe…Dorothy’s lying about Liza’s willingness to testify against me, but it’s more likely Liza did something really stupid, something she doesn’t want her parents to know about. That would put her in Dorothy’s power, and I have no objective evidence telling me I can trust Liza with something as important as my future and my sister’s wellbeing.

  If I go to prison, Dorothy will take Kristen. I don’t understand her obsession, but she seems determined to tear my family—what’s left of it—apart.

  And I know she’s going to make Kristen’s life hell.

&nb
sp; I have to protect my sister.

  How?

  I tunnel my fingers through my hair as panic, anger and self-recrimination churn through my mind, turning everything into a mess. Think. Think!

  Fuck!

  I smash my fist against the cinderblock partition between the kitchen and the living room. The impact reverberates all the way to my shoulders. My hand throbs, knuckles skinned and bleeding. But it feels good to have the pain to bring my spiraling thoughts together. I have no one to turn to. The woman I love with all my soul is a viper. And I can’t even run.

  Pressing my hands around my temples, I bend forward. A low groan tears from my throat.

  Then, in the first time since forever, I pray for a solution.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elizabeth

  The Civic screeches to a halt in front of Dominic’s place. I fumble with the keys he gave me, unlocking the door.

  Please, please.

  I can’t be late. I can’t afford to be.

  Earlier today, Grandma Shirley threatened me.

  No, not me.

  Dominic.

  “He’s twenty-one, and you were merely seventeen when you first met. That won’t do,” she said, her voice cool over late morning coffee.

  I looked at her over the rim of my tea. She had another think coming if she thought she could tell me who to date. “I met him the night before my eighteenth birthday.” Besides, her real objection isn’t his age. He has no money and no influence. As far as she’s concerned, such people are beneath us. We help them through our charitable family foundation, but we don’t associate with them. And God forbid, we never, ever fuck them.

  “So? You weren’t eighteen yet.” She added more sugar to her coffee. “It’s statutory rape.”

  The tea turned to a thick sludge in my throat. “It wasn’t rape. I was completely willing.”

  “The law sees things differently. As do I.”

  “I was eighteen when we did anything. I turned legal the second the clock struck midnight.”

  “How odd. I have people who can testify to the fact that that vile boy—well, man in the eyes of the law—left the bar with you before midnight.”