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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 concept 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.”