Sharon Hartley - The Billionaire's Son

Shutting the door, Trey headed toward the bar. He needed a drink. He’d held himself in check at the party, refusing anything but club soda, afraid alcohol might loosen his tongue and allow him to say things in public he shouldn’t. Things about his father.

The most heartless son of a bitch on the planet.

Trey removed his jacket, tossed it over a chair and poured himself an inch of his favorite whiskey. He downed the liquid in one swallow, welcoming the fiery burn that trailed down his throat into his belly and then poured another.

He was sick of people, of being polite and sociable. All night, every hand he’d pumped, every perfumed cheek he’d kissed, every lame joke he pretended to find amusing, all he could think about was whether Jason had woken up frightened and missing his daddy.

But he hadn’t. Jase was safe in bed and sound asleep. Trey drank his whiskey and added more to his glass. He could stop obsessing about his son and indulge in a little blessed solitude.

He longed to forget the present and return to a time when Jason had been a happy, well-adjusted little boy who adored his parents. Holding the crystal tumbler, Trey moved to the window and stared outside onto the illuminated pool deck. He wanted to forget a reality where his son despised him for taking away his mother. Where the world had warped to the point where Jason had latched on to a stranger and anointed her his absent mom.

When Jason woke up in the morning, would he still insist Kelly Jenkins was his mother? It couldn’t be good for Jase to allow him to carry on with that delusion. At what point did he bring it to an end?

What a terrifying mess. Trey removed his tie and slammed it to the bar.

Donna insisted time would heal his son’s wounds, but Trey wasn’t so sure anymore. And he was helpless to do anything for Jase. A father should be able to help his son.

Nursing his drink, Trey stepped outside. Maybe a little fresh air would make him feel better. He breathed in the scent of something blooming mingled with a salty ocean breeze. What he ought to do is turn on the court lights and whack a few thousand balls over the net. The idea appealed, but the growing effects of the whiskey made him doubt the wisdom of that plan. Maybe tomorrow.

At the sound of a splash, he turned toward the lit pool in time to witness two legs kick into the air and push off the wall, propelling a blur of crimson toward the other end.

Just who was swimming in his pool at this hour? He moved closer to the edge of the water and watched the swimmer’s efficient strokes.

It was Officer Jenkins, executing flip turns as if she were a professional. He took a deep breath. He’d told her to make herself at home and was pleased she’d been able to do so.

He moved back when she approached his end of the deck again, not wanting to get water on his pants when she flipped.

But she stopped. Breathing hard, she placed her hands on the side of the pool.

“Good evening, Officer Jenkins,” Trey said, his words coming out more slurred than they should.

She jumped back and raised her arms in a defensive posture, eyes wide, ready to fight. He’d startled her.

She lowered her fists. “Mr. Wentworth.”

“Trey,” he said. He took a sip of whiskey and gazed down at her. She had a classically oval and quite lovely face. His gaze lowered, but the rippling water obscured the rest of her body.

She nodded and glanced around as if looking for an escape route, no doubt embarrassed. “I’ll get out of your way,” she said. “I’m sure you wanted privacy.”

“You’re fine.” Surprised by her obvious discomfort, Trey sat on a lounge chair with a towel draped over the back. He didn’t care if she enjoyed his pool. Few guests ever did.

“You’re an excellent swimmer,” he said.

“Thanks.” Her answer sounded more like a question.

“But listen,” she blurted. “I’m grateful for the bathing suit. I figured if you provided one it was okay to use the pool.”

“Of course.” Had he provided a bathing suit? He couldn’t remember.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m getting out now.”

“Good. You could get chilled now that you’ve stopped moving. Hypothermia can be dangerous.”

And her lack of movement had calmed the water, making it obvious she wore a rather skimpy red bikini, likely the source of her reluctance to exit the pool. His staff certainly had excellent taste.

With a quick glance his way, she placed her hands on the edge of the pool and easily boosted herself out of the water, turning to place a firm derriere on the concrete. Then she brought both feet up underneath her and stood defiantly before him, water sluicing over her smooth flesh.

He couldn’t breathe as his gaze feasted on her stunning body.

Their gazes locked. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t look away.

His brain, befuddled by whiskey and the glorious warrior woman, created an image of both of them wet, naked, writhing together in his pool.

* * *

KELLY TOOK A deep breath and fought the urge to shield herself like a modest virgin, which she most assuredly was not. But she wasn’t a slab of meat, either.

Wentworth’s pool had looked so refreshing, and the night had been so lovely—God, she loved a night swim—she just couldn’t help herself.

And apparently Wentworth couldn’t stop himself from staring.

“Could you please hand me the robe?” she asked.

“Robe?” Wentworth appeared dazed. How much booze had he enjoyed at his little shindig?

“Behind you on the lounge chair,” she said. “If I come close to grab it, I’ll drip all over you.”

He hesitated, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. What was he thinking?

Finally, Wentworth reached behind him, grabbed the white terrycloth, then rose and carried it to her.

“Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

She took the robe from his hands, covered herself and tied the waist with a quick jerk. Wentworth returned to his seat and this time lifted his legs and leaned against the back. He continued to gaze at her as he took a sip of whatever was in his glass.

Still wary, but more at ease now that her boobs weren’t staring him in the face, she used the hood of the robe to squeeze water from her hair. She ought to go to her room, but curiosity about wherever he’d gone held her in place.

“You must have gone to some fancy soiree tonight.”

His dark eyes stared at her. “A benefit for—what was it?” He shrugged. “Alzheimer’s I believe was the disease of the night.”

“You’re home early,” she said. “Boring party?”

“You have no idea.”

His tone irritated her. Like she had no clue what a black-tie party for the super-rich would be like. He was right, of course, but the jerk didn’t need to rub it in.

“You don’t think I should have gone out,” he stated.

“None of my business,” she said.

“Believe me, I didn’t want to go. I hated to leave Jason.”

“So why did you?”

“I’d committed months ago. Tickets were sold based on my appearance.”

“Your son getting kidnapped seems a good enough excuse.”

“Yeah, you’d think so,” Wentworth murmured. “The old man disagreed.”

He looked away, gazing over the pool. Who the hell was the old man? Probably his father.

Wentworth’s expression was so mournful she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. At least he had a father to be mad at. She never even knew who hers was.

“Jase was asleep when I checked. Did he wake up while I was gone?” Wentworth asked.

“No,” Kelly said. “I checked on him a couple of times and he was snoozing away.”

Wentworth returned his focus to her. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

This was her opportunity to leave. But she had questions, lots of them. And Wentworth seemed to be talkative for the first time, probably because of the booze. So she sat on the lounge chair next to his.