Page 22 of Damaged Billionaire Daddy (The Lanes Series #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Richard

I looked at the paperwork my partner had sent about taking over the Quinn vineyard. “I know they don’t want to sell,” Delard had written, “but by the time we take away with one hand and give with the other, they will be grateful for our offer. We can even save money on the deal.”

In my head, I replayed the memory of my last night with Kandis.

I could taste the wine on her tongue, feel the slide of satin pajamas on her soft skin, even her hands ghosting over .

. . I glanced down. My pants were tenting up in an undignified fashion.

My balls ached for her. Worse yet, my heart longed for her.

No, wait stop. Where did that last thought come from? Was this me? Really? Business, it was all about business. Make the play, make the money. Yeah.

Only, there was one more part to that memory. Kandis beating her fists on me as she came in a glorious, angry rush, then rolling over and crying, “I hate you!”

The anguish and hurt in those words had left me gutted, not knowing what to say.

I had wanted to apologize, and I kind of tried.

But it had been like our bodies had minds of their own, and I was more focused on giving and receiving pleasure than saying I was sorry.

And when I tried to, I couldn’t find the right words.

Afterward, she had fallen asleep, breathing in little hiccupy sobs long after her eyes had closed. Then, Caleb had shown up with the snowplow to see if we were still alive, and I couldn’t get her alone long enough to talk to her.

There was a common saying that love and hate were close kin, and that was why so many of the great, old tales tangled them up together.

I looked at the papers on my desk. “You know what?” I said to the empty office, “It isn’t worth it.

I don’t need that vineyard. But I need her.

I need her humor, her funny faces, her love of little kid board games, and outdated movies.All right, old son, you know what you need to do.

You need to make a king-sized apology with flowers and chocolate and beg her on bended knee to take you back. ”

I laughed, a sad attempt at a maniacal cackle. I was talking to myself. She’d driven me completely insane.

I tore Delard’s plan into pieces and dumped them into the wastebasket. Then I quickly typed a message on my phone. “I’ve changed my mind. We don’t need the Quinn vineyard.”

Then, just to be sure the message got through, I wrote an email to Delard, and left a hard copy note in my own handwriting: “Stop all efforts at Quinn takeover. It isn’t worth it.” I positioned it front and center on my desk so it couldn’t be missed.

Then I wrote a much longer letter in my best penmanship. I wasn’t satisfied, so I edited it, and finally wrote it out in my best hand.

With my efforts and heart in hand, and everything below my belt pointing toward the Quinn vineyard — but not because of the grapes — I went out in search of the finest chocolates, most beautiful red roses, and prettiest card I could possibly find.

I could do this. I would get down on my knees and beg if that’s what it took. To hell with the grapes. Kandis Quinn was the finest vintage . . . I searched my mind for a suitable comparison and couldn’t find any. She was the finest, and I wanted her more than anything in all the world.

I had no idea how hard it would be to find quality chocolates that I knew she would love and had to try three different florists before tracking down a dozen long-stemmed red roses at a greenhouse.

The grower wasn’t happy about giving them up, so I settled on getting a gloriously red potted tea rose plant instead.

Amazingly, the greenhouse owner had the perfect card. Armed with gifts, card, and handwritten apology letter, I headed toward the Quinn vineyard, heart in hand and my nether parts as eager as a neglected pup hoping to get petted.

I was loaded for bear, yet ready to humble myself to the point of letting her walk all over me. Daydreams of what she would say and how she would respond flitted through my head.

“Oh, Richard,” she would exclaim (because she never called me Richie), “You really will give up all hope of getting the vineyard? Then of course I forgive you!” Then she would fly into my arms, we would go back to my place and have amazing sex and live happily ever after.

My cloud castle came down with a resounding crash when I drove up to the Quinn’s home.

She was talking to a man. Another man, and one I did not know! More than that, she rose up on tiptoe and kissed the fellow on the cheek, and then patted the spot as if she knew him well.

I scooped up the goodies I had gotten for her and headed for the porch.

The man turned a glare on me. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Get away from Kandy!”

There it was, the pet name I knew she hated, given her by a mom who probably thought it was cute on a toddler — and maybe it was. But her mom had abandoned her, so it wasn’t so cute anymore.

And here was this asshole using it like he had a right to it and ordering me away. I barely had the presence of mind to ditch the gifts right-side-up. I grabbed the fellow by his shirt-front, yanked him away from Kandis, and busted him one in the chops.

He was surprisingly strong. And fast. He busted me one in the bread basket. I wasn’t expecting it, so the breath whooshed out of me, but I used the last of it to slam my head into his breastbone.

He let out a yelp like a kicked hound dog, so it must have hurt. He back-pedaled, which put me off balance, but as I was going down, I grabbed his knee and took him with me.

He hit hard, and he didn’t have my training. I bounced back up, completely ignoring the pain in my hip and knee, and was ready to go another round.

I was fairly pawing the ground, ready for him, when a solid little body got in front of me and started pushing back.

The asshat started to get up, swearing a blue-streak and calling me every name in the book and then some. He looked ready to charge, but Pops Quinn got him by the collar and started a choke hold.

We stood there, glaring at each other.

“Who the hell are you, motherfucker?” the asshat snarled.

“I’m Richard Lane, pipsqueak,” I said. I wasn’t about to let my language fall to the level of his.

“Oh,” he sneered, “You’re the retard who’s kept my girlfriend too busy to return my calls.”

“And I guess you’re the degenerate who laid her best friend in her bed under her roof. Smooth move, dickhead.”

All right. My resolve didn’t hold very long. I would have gone for him, but Kandis had her shoulder firmly in my solar plexus, about where his fist had hit me. To get at him, I would have to go over her.

“Well, Kandy Kane,” her grandfather drawled, never letting go of the asshat’s collar, “Looks like you got two fellers willing to fight over ya. Which one looks the best to you?”

“Neither one, Pops,” Kandis retorted. “They both look like rutting idiots to me. I interrupted the one you got making out with Cali, like Richard said, under my own roof. And this one,” she hitched her shoulder right into my diaphragm, nearly making me lose my breakfast, “just wants the vineyard. He thinks that I’m his route to taking over Quinn Vineyards.

“What?!” Pops Quinn roared. He whipped the asshat around, booted him one in the butt, and pointed him toward a beat-up chevy.

Then he punched me one in the chops, grabbed me by my shirt, and pushed me toward my SUV.

“Get out of here, both of yez, before I call the cops. You get off my land, and don’t neither of you come back. ”

I could see I would have to move my car before the faithless hunk of garbage could get his rolling junk heap out of the drive.

I didn’t want to fight Pops Quinn anyway. The old man was just defending his granddaughter, and his business. I really couldn’t fault him for it.

I meekly backed down the driveway, and around into the street, then waited to make sure asshat left, too.

Once he was out of the drive and his tail fins (yeah, fins — like some teeny bopper greaser) were disappearing down the street, I slowly drove on past the entrance to the Quinn Vineyards.

Looking back in the rearview mirror, I could see Kandis with her head down on Mimi Quinn’s shoulder, and Pops Quinn, hands on hips, glaring after me.

Yeah, I’d made myself real popular.

When I got back to the office, the phone was ringing off the hook. Stupid landline didn’t have caller ID, so I picked it up on the off-chance that it might be Kandis.

Instead, Delard’s voice came boiling over the line, “What do you mean, the Quinn deal is off? That’s the sweetest little vineyard you’ve found yet.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I know. But it’s off limits. It’s a small family business, and I’m not going to break up their happy home.”

“Why?” the voice crackled through the phone lines. “It’s not the first family business we’ve taken down. We always pay good market value, so they aren’t hurt. Shoot, that couple of old fogies could retire and live out the rest of their lives on the beach.”

I rubbed my chin where one of those old fogies had popped me a good one, then took an experimental breath. Kandis hadn’t been gentle about stopping me, either.

I resisted the urge to yell at Delard. He was in standard operating mode, and yelling would only make him worse. Instead, I held the receiver away from my ear until he ran down.

“Off-limits,” I repeated.

His voice went up several decibels as he yelled some more. “Yeah, I know. Your commission. I’ll send the money. Check your account.”

There was some muttering on the other end of the line, then Delard’s gruff voice. “All right, Richie, but I don’t know if I can do business with you if this is the way you behave. That is one juicy fish you just let go.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “But you don’t know the half of it. Just . . . let it go, Delard. Not all the fish are keepers.”

After he hung up, I slumped in my chair. This had been an expensive month. First, the wedding, then the impromptu trip to the cabin, and now — the biggest blow of all — giving Delard a hefty commission on a deal we didn’t close.

“Fine way to do business, Richard,” I muttered to myself.

Delard had been my business advisor since I drew my first NFL paycheck. He was the reason my fortunes had grown steadily all the while I was an active player, and his advice about insurance and fluid assets was the reason I was now a billionaire.

But I didn’t keep all that much in my cash accounts. I usually reinvested most of the interest which is the biggest reason I hit the billionaire mark a year after my injury.

My dividends wouldn’t pay out until the end of the quarter. I could go back to my apartment in New York. After all, I’d only been in California to attempt to close a deal on the Quinn vineyard. Maybe I should drive up to the cabin and hide my sorry ass from the rest of humanity.

“Yeah, I could do that,” I said. “I could get a lot of thinking done. It will be hard . . .”

I let that thought trail off. It would be hard because Kandis wouldn’t be there and everything she had touched would remind me of her. Maybe it would be smarter just to go back to New York and rattle around in my apartment — where everything reminded me of Kayla because she’d helped me decorate it.

“You are one sorry motherfucker, Richard Lane,” I said aloud to the empty motel room. “What is it with you and women?”