Page 38 of The Tower (Billionaire Brothers Grimm #1)

Twenty-Eight

Purple Prose

T he apartment is chilly, and I can’t find the controls for the thermostat, so I head back into the yellow room and pull out the soft mauve sweater on top. As I lift it, a book tumbles out onto the floor.

Poetry. A slim volume by Pablo Neruda, one of the few poets I’m familiar with.

Ruby introduced me to his work years ago when we were teenagers.

She’d found a collection in her grandmother’s bookshelf, and we took turns reading passages aloud during our sleepovers, giggling over the sensual imagery that went over our heads, but was also a treasured glimpse into an adult world of passion.

The spine is cracked, the pages well-thumbed.

When I open it, I find delicate pencil annotations in the margins—a feminine hand, noting connections between poems and underlining particularly moving phrases.

The title page bears a simple inscription: “For M. Because some things can’t be encrypted. — L.”

I close the book quickly, feeling like an intruder. Maya, apparently, falls on the girlfriend side of that friend equation.

Color me naive, but I’m pretty sure men don’t give volumes of sensual, erotic poetry to their platonic roommate.

More likely, this is a home office where she also kept her clothes. A feminine place that was totally hers, but the bed in Grimm’s room was shared. Much like the arrangement he and I have right now.

I frown, already hating this woman. Which is totally bitchy and girlie of me, but it’s the truth. I hate her almost as much as I hate not having answers.

I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. After all, it’s not as if this Maya is here now. And what do I care, anyway? There’s nothing real or romantic between Grimm and me. Sex, yes. But that’s just a payment he’s demanding. The price for keeping me safe.

It’s not as if he truly cares for me, not like that, anyway. I’ll go so far as to say we’ve become friends even beyond our arrangement. And considering the sex part of our deal, I can even up that to Friends with Benefits.

But I’m not his girlfriend, and when this is finally over and my father is exposed and—hopefully—jailed, there won’t be a single thing except gratitude binding me to him.

So what if he gave her a book of erotic poetry? What do I care if?—

Click.

Before I can spin out any further, I hear the sound of a key in the lock. Grimm is back.

I shove the book back into the drawer and wipe the stupid, foolish tears from my eyes.

Then I draw a deep breath, pull on the mauve sweater, and stroll down the hall to the kitchen, as if I’ve got nothing more important on my mind than getting a fresh cup of coffee.

Nothing interesting here. Move along folks, move along.

Every step toward the kitchen pulls me deeper into a version of heaven filled with mouthwatering, spicy scents—and at least one ridiculously good-looking man.

His back is to me as I arrive, and I spend a lovely moment enjoying the way his ass looks in his jeans. Something that mysterious bitch Maya can’t do, because she’s not here.

As I kick my own ass and remind myself that we have an arrangement, not a relationship, he unpacks white paper bags stamped with an unfamiliar logo.

Small containers of what looks like Mediterranean food cover the granite island—hummus sprinkled with paprika, olives glistening with oil, some kind of grilled meat skewers, and fresh, pillowy pita bread.

He turns, his smile flickering as his eyes dip to the sweater. And the moment they do, I feel a tightening in my gut. That’s it. I can’t deny it any longer.

I’m actually jealous.

I push aside that unsettling revelation and force a smile as I indicate the sweater. “This was okay, right? I’m sadly lacking in wardrobe …”

“It’s fine,” he assures me. “Just noting how nice it looks on you.”

“Oh,” I say, my cheeks warming from the compliment as if I were fourteen. Though considering my lack of dating experience, I kind of am. “Thanks. So, um, you’re really sure Maya won’t mind?”

“Hmm?” He glances up from the containers he’s opening. “No. I’m sure it’s no problem.”

I’d hoped my question would spark more revelations about the mysterious Maya, but all he does is indicate the spread of food. “I hope you like Lebanese. This place does incredible shawarma.”

“I’ve never had it,” I admit, coming closer from where I was hovering at the edge of the kitchen. “But it smells amazing.”

I glance around, trying to work up the courage to ask about Maya—who presumably is the Neruda recipient.

But the courage never comes. And why should I care, anyway?

Grimm and I are helping each other, and that arrangement has a bit of a FWB component.

That’s all. And once my father is behind bars, where he belongs, the benefits will end along with the friendship, and I’ll probably never even see Grimm again.

The thought disturbs me more than it should, especially since this is the first time I’ve thought of him as a friend and not, oh, a ridiculously sexy devil incarnate. It’s a bit disconcerting.

It’s also true.

“—joy.”

I glance up at him, realizing I’ve zoned out. “Sorry. What?”

He gestures to one of the stools at the counter. “I said, no time like the present. Sit. Eat. Enjoy”

It might be my imagination, but I think his eyes flick to the sweater again. I keep my eyes on his as I run my hand along the sweater’s sleeve. “So, um, Maya? Roommate? Girlfriend? None of the above?”

“Ex,” he says, ripping a pita bread in half.

“And she left drawers full of things behind?” Even I can hear the jealousy oozing through my voice, and I want to both kick myself and call back the words. Since I can’t, I shovel more shawarma into my mouth. It really is delicious.

“Let’s table the discussion about Maya’s things. I met with the attorneys. We have more important things to talk about.”

I nod, but I’m picturing Maya. Maya . That’s a name for someone tall and dark, elegantly beautiful. Someone who’s never been dressed up like Cinderella or forced to wear too much rouge on her cheeks for a Times Square billboard.

“—for the hearing.”

I snap back to reality. “What?”

His eyes narrow, and I’m certain he knows where my mind had gone.

“I said I met with the attorneys about hearing prep. We should go over it. We’ll be in court in just a few days.”

“You should have taken me with you,” I say, stabbing a piece of meat with more force than necessary.

Grimm leans back as he studies me, his eyes cool and assessing. “Is something bothering you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t appreciate being treated like a child who can’t participate in discussions about her own life.”

He has the look of a man negotiating a minefield.

“Jack called while I was out,” he says, referring to Jack Granger, the lead attorney.

“I was mid-town, only a few blocks away, and considering our deal, I didn’t think you would want to go.

” His voice is steady and soothing, and I’m starting to feel like an idiot.

“I thought protecting you from your father included protecting you from having to get down and dirty in the litigation. If I was wrong, I’m sorry.” His voice is perfectly level, as if he’s talking down a wild animal.

I realize that I’m absently fingering the sleeve of the sweater while thinking about Neruda’s sensual verses. I pull my hand away, irritated with myself.

I am not falling for this man. There’s nothing between us except sex and a power play. Nothing.

Except maybe there is.

“Sasha?”

I jump. “Sorry. Yes. You’re right. It’s fine. I’m just hungry. It’s making me bitchy.”

“Then please, by all means, keep digging in. Shawarma is like the music that soothes the savage beast.”

He shoots me a boyish grin.

I roll my eyes, glad we seem to be back on even footing. “What did the lawyers say?”

He pushes aside his plate as he leans forward, elbows on the table. “From what we’ve been able to learn, your father intends to put a lot of stock in your inability to be out in the world without your meds or supervision.”

“He’s the one who made me this way!”

He puts his hand over mine. “I know,” he says.

“And we’ll let the court know that, too.

But as for what he’s planning, we have confirmation that he’s compiling footage from your various public appearances, and he’ll have witnesses testify that you were medicated at each one.

Household staff who saw you take the meds and psychologists who will analyze your facial expressions and movements to testify that the footage shows that you were relying on medications to help you cope at each particular event. ”

I hug myself, hating every moment of this. And hating my father most of all. It’s like being in a dark corner of hell, and he’s the devil.

“He intends to use the footage of you running from your own engagement as evidence of paranoia resulting from not taking your meds. And we suspect he’ll have household staff testify, too.

Some will quit out of loyalty to you, but some will undoubtedly lie—either because they’re being bribed or because they’re terrified of your father.

“Bastard,” I say. “How are we supposed to counter that? He’s the one who dosed me up before any event, so it’s not as if we can find footage where I’m at some party completely drug-free.

He slides off his stool, then pulls a bottle of Chardonnay out of the wine fridge. He lifts it in question, and I nod. Right now, I’ll happily take the entire bottle, but he’s probably only offering me a glass.

“The hearing is about your ability to cope now,” he says as he pours for us both.

“Not yesterday or last week or last year. So we’re going to get you out there.

In public. Stable, confident, unmedicated.

But it has to be somewhere your father can’t get to you.

” He nods toward the entryway. “That’s why we’re going out tonight. ”

I follow his glance and see a garment bag hanging on the coat rack near the door.

“And we’re going where exactly?”

“Grimm Tower. The roof.”

I gape at him. “Are you out of your mind? We’re going back to the helipad?”

“That’s not part of the agenda, though it would give our position extra punch if we arrive that way. Good thinking.”

I just throw my hands up, not sure what bizarro world I’ve been tossed into.

“Half the roof is an event space,” he says, obviously seeing my frustration. “Alexander is hosting a charity function tonight.”

“I thought you hated your brothers,” I say, reaching for a piece of pita.

“Half-brothers,” he says. “The half being something they remind me of daily. And yes. I despise the lot of them—except for Leo. But that doesn’t mean Alex and Elliott can’t be of use.”

“What about Gabriel? Did you like him?”

Something flickers in Liam’s eyes. “He was as horrible as my father,” Grimm says. His answer doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard plenty of tales about what a beast Gabriel Grimm was.

“Still,” Grimm continues, “as much as I hated him, I wouldn’t wish dying in a blaze on anyone.”

“Will your father be there tonight?”

Liam holds my gaze steadily. “No. We’re keeping it out of the press, but Elias Grimm has been in a coma for almost a year. Alex has been running the company. The story tonight will be that Elias is traveling.”

I lean back, shocked. Not because of Elias Grimm’s coma, but because Liam Grimm has just handed me insider information that could affect stock prices and business deals.

His mouth quirks into a smile, and I realize that he understands exactly what I’m thinking. “We have to trust each other.”

I nod, and our eyes meet, the moment stretching between us, fragile and unexpected.

I break it before whatever this is gets too deep under my skin. “I’ll watch for photo ops,” I say, “but I need you close, just in case my phobias act up.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, the heat in his voice arrowing right between my legs. “I’ll stick to you like glue.”

“Oh. Good.” I think about what he said last night.

Maybe now would be a good time to beg.

“You should try on the dress.” His words yank me back to reality.

“If it doesn’t fit, we’ll need time to get something else.

We also need to find someone we trust who can come and do your hair and makeup.

Nails, too. You have to look just as polished as you have every time your father showed you off. Even more so.”

I nod, then grab the garment bag and the nearby shoebox.

I slip away with them to the yellow room, then take a peek.

Inside the bag, I find a stunning black Elie Saab gown, strapless with a fitted bodice that flows into a skirt, the back of which will just barely brush the floor.

It’s elegant and sophisticated—nothing like the ridiculous gowns my father forced me to wear.

I strip and slide it on, surprised by how perfectly it fits. As for the shoes, I might as well be Cinderella, because they, too, fit like a glove. Open-toed and strappy, with a nail point heel, they make my legs look even longer, and do amazing things for my ass, if I do say so myself.

In the mirror, I see a woman I barely recognize—confident, elegant, powerful. For the first time, I’m truly looking forward to a corporate party. It’s almost like a date, though I shouldn’t think that way.

But I can’t help but think that if it is a date, it will be my first.

“Stop it,” I murmur, forcing my attention back on my outfit. To truly do it justice, I need the professional hair and make-up that Grimm is going to arrange. But in the meantime, I brush my hair, apply some lipstick, then head back to the living room to show myself off.

The smile slides off my face as I hear the voices—his and a woman’s.

“You brought her here to fuck, so she can keep her things and herself in your room, not mine.” The voice is sharp, angry, with a breathy quality that is probably ridiculously sexy when she’s not furious.

“I’ll get you a suite wherever you want, but I need you to leave?—”

He stops and turns, his eyes locking on mine.

Standing next to him is a stunning woman with sleek dark hair cut into a classic bob that highlights her sharp cheekbones and full lips.

She stands straight, exuding confidence in designer jeans, a starched white blouse, and a decorative scarf—in the exact shade of mauve that I’d been wearing only minutes ago.

Maya, I presume.