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I gently push myself away. “I’m not leaving. It was foolish of me, though, to succumb to my desires for you so easily. This is going to be hard to say, but I think it’s best if we don’t get as heavy as we were before. I’m not breaking up with you. I’m not saying it’s never going to work, but we need to wait until we’re clearheaded enough to deal with this rationally.”

Haha, we both know that I’m full of shit.

Something pierces my hand as I pick up my jewels. “Love won’t save us,” I mutter.

“Love should always be enough. It works for…”

I look at her, waiting for her to say, “poor people.”

“Because sometimes that’s all a person has. We’re not like that. Nobody in our families has been like that for generations. We’re blessed in that regard, but love won’t stop us from having tension we can’t resolve.”

“You keep saying that, but…”

I open the conference room door, watching Ira clean up her clothes before the light hits her. “I’ll see you in a few.”

The door closes, and I walk straight to the nearest restroom. I don’t meet the gaze of anyone I pass. I don’t think of anything. I can’t afford to think of anything. It’s all a matter of fact as I clean myself up in the bathroom and put my hair back up, presenting myself to the ball attendees as nothing more than Kathleen Allen, professional.

Not Kathleen Allen, woman smitten and in love.

Fate. Fuck it.

Chapter 70

Ira

“Don’t look so fucking glum,” my father says, shoving another scotch in my direction. “I need you to be on your best game this month. Besides, I have it worse than you. I don’t know what you’re pouting about, but I win.”

Thanks, Dad.

I’m home, although I’m seriously dreading it now. My father’s office smells and looks the same as it did when I was a kid. Mahogany walls and furniture. Piles of folders, books, and God knows what else that are meticulously organized in their chaos. The only clear spaces outside of the floor are a couple of chairs and the couch I’m sitting on. A never-ending supply of scotch and brandy flows freely.

I can smell Stephanie May’s perfume.

“Women,” I mutter into my glass. “That Kathleen Allen is going to be the death of me.”

That’s all I want to say about that, and my father is so self-absorbed that it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s pacing in front of me, downing glass after glass until he becomes tipsy enough to slouch against his desk.

“This hotel is going to be the death of me.”

“I don’t know why. Everything has gone off without a hitch.” We’ve been open for a few days. Outside of some minor hiccups that come with any establishment, it’s merely a matter of following protocol and getting employees settled into their new roles. So far, guests have enjoyed the amenities and the styling we’ve chosen. Reviewers are praising our taste.

We Mathisons should be celebrating, not acting like children.

“It’s Ravenwood,” my father finally says. “He’s gone off the map. Nobody can get a hold of him, and we sure as fuck never got the money he promised us.”

I get another drink.

“Fifteen million. That’s how much we need to transfer by the end of next week.” My father chuckles, but nothing is reassuring or jovial in the way he acts. He’s about to lose his damned mind. “Don’t suppose you’ve got fifteen million dollars collecting dust somewhere, Ira.”

“Hardly.” Tale as old as time. I’m loaded, but it’s not like I can go out and extract fifteen mil from my account while not batting an eyelash. Sounds like the situation our friend Helen Warner found herself in a few months ago. Except I don’t have a BDSM auction to offer myself to. “I could spare up to five, perhaps, but I’m still waiting to earn back on my initial investment.” Wanna know how much that was? Go on, guess.

Twenty-five million. Technically, I invested more than my father.

If we hadn’t been in such a hurry to remodel and saved money that way, I could’ve spared fifteen. Maybe even twenty. However, I’m in the hole on this project, even if we’re projected to make it back within a year.

“We have to find some way to get that money.” Squeaks enter the air as my father sinks into his desk chair. While many things haven’t changed in this office over the years, he has gotten older. Graying hair. Wrinkles. A paunch. Money can’t buy a man his youth back. “I’ve talked to your mother already, and I don’t think it’s coming from her. She’s still mad at me.”

“Wonder why.”