Depraved (The Devil's Duet Book 1) Read online

  It’s all drivel, but it’s distracting me from the bigger questions. The ones I’m about to be faced with. What am I going to do about JD’s business proposal? That fucker.

  Do I become his plaything? He wouldn’t really stop my mother’s treatment if it can help her, would he?

  Gabrielle, he showed up yesterday after all these years and he wants you to have sex with him to pay off a loan. He’s capable of anything.

  I don’t know.

  When JD’s mother and sister were killed, my mother held his brothers while they cried. She bathed and fed his brother Zack, changed his diapers until DW sent him away. My mother nurtured those boys. Doled out real hugs and an endless supply of love when there wasn’t anyone else who cared about them. Surely that has to account for something.

  I’ll go to Sweetgrass, talk to my parents, and feel JD out. Maybe I can change his mind. When we were kids, JD was tough, and he could be really mean, especially to anyone who picked on the younger kids. He was always the leader. Always the boss of everyone and everything, but he had a sense of honor and decency about him. Fairness was important to him, and he was loyal to everyone he cared about. Loyalty. That was one of the hundreds of reasons I was so crushed to find him with another girl.

  Snippets of my life flash in front of my eyes as I sit in traffic. Running on the lawn at Wildwood as a child, JD tugging playfully on my braids. How he always hid the last cookie for me in a small copper tin behind the flour sacks in the pantry. And those long nights we spent wrapped in a blanket under an enormous sky teeming with stars, or in our little corner of the stable, kissing and petting, until nothing, nothing, seemed as important as chasing the ultimate pleasure.

  What happened to that boy who gazed at me under the stars, his bright blue eyes shining with what I foolishly believed was love? “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered into my damp skin, after we had sex for the first time. “I won’t ever let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

  What happened to him? Some part of him must still exist under the custom-made suit and expensive haircut. Surely, it must. People don’t change that much. He’s still beautiful, but his eyes don’t sparkle anymore, and his features are cold and hard.

  Maybe they do.

  Or maybe I can find some of that decency. Maybe it’s still there, hidden beneath the trappings.

  6

  Julian

  Lally doesn’t keep a goddamn thing in this place to make a decent sandwich. I find a wedge of cheddar in the refrigerator door, and a stale baguette in the bread box, and toss them on the counter.

  The casserole Lally made for dinner tonight is still sitting on the stove. I lift the lid, and peek inside before shoving it into the fridge. I don’t feel like eating it alone. And I’m tired of looking at it.

  Gabrielle. Damn woman.

  She pissed me off tonight. Threw a wrench into my plan before we even started. I never thought she’d back out upfront, not with her mother’s life on the line. She’s going to be an even bigger challenge than I anticipated. But somehow, I need to make it work with her. Somehow.

  There’s no way I can go after my father unless she’s wrapped up. She needs to be on board before I make any overt moves. Otherwise, it’s too risky. I won’t take that chance. Not with her.

  Gabrielle, you never make things easy.

  If the stakes weren’t so damn high, I’d enjoy her insolence. But the way things stand, it’s just another hurdle on the road to hell.

  I’m pouring the third drink of the night when my phone buzzes. I turn it over. Security. This better not be any more bullshit. The election speeches went on much too long last night, and now with Gabrielle being a huge pain in the ass—I’m out of patience.

  “Yeah?”

  “Gabrielle Duval is at the front gate. Says you’re expecting her. She’s on the list for tonight, but I thought Antoine was bringing her by the house. Did something change?”

  I almost laugh out loud at her audacity. “Nothing’s changed.” Oh Gabrielle, you will learn to listen and obey. Even if it kills me. “Send her away.”

  “Will do.”

  “Smith?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s not to be roughed up or hurt in any way. Not an eyelash harmed. No one lays a finger on her for any reason. Ever. Anyone who doesn’t understand that will answer to me personally, and it won’t be pleasant. Tell your men.”

  Smith was a member of the Special Forces before he started overseeing security for me and my brothers. He doesn’t normally man the gates, but the election has made his job a whole lot more complicated. And it’s going to become more complicated still. Before this is all over, I suspect Gabrielle will have him longing to be back in uniform, patrolling the darkest corners of Jalalabad.

  I turn on the kitchen monitor and watch Gabrielle stomping around outside the front gate. She’s waving her hands around and yelling at Smith like she’s oblivious to the fact he’s got nearly a foot on her and at least a hundred pounds of solid muscle.

  She’s always had fire in her blood. And I’ve always enjoyed it. My dick’s hard just watching her little scene.

  Sending her away is a risk, but it’s important to show her right from the start I mean business, otherwise she’ll do whatever she wants, and that is not an option.

  Not five minutes pass before Smith calls back. “JD, the woman refuses to leave until she has a word with you. She’s wild, and not much we can do without putting a hand on her. If you give the okay, we can fold her into the car and send her on her way. We’ll be gentle, though she’s a live one, and I’m not sure she won’t just ram the gate,” he mutters.

  I can still see those bruises the asshole Dean put on her. She can cover them all she wants, but they’re etched on my brain. “Not a goddamn finger on her. I don’t give a shit how gentle it is. This is the last time I say it. Put her on.”

  Smith offers Gabrielle the phone. She yanks it out of his hand, and presses it to her ear. “You demanded my presence at eight o’clock. It’s eight twenty-five, and I’ve been out here for at least ten minutes arguing with your goons. I got caught up in a meeting, and then in traffic. I’m fifteen minutes late and you won’t see me?”

  Tonight can’t be on her terms. I can’t afford it. And neither can she.

  “Good evening, Gabrielle. Did you have a pleasant day? I’m sorry things didn’t go as you hoped with the bank. That’s normally how polite conversations begin. After all these years, I figured you’d need a little training on how to suck my cock, but if I have to teach you the most basic of courtesies, you’ll be paying me back for a long time.”

  Her breathing is ragged. I glance at the monitor. She has one hand on the hood of the car, as if to steady herself. I can practically see the fumes spilling out of her luscious body.

  “The instructions were to meet Antoine at eight o’clock in the hotel lobby. You were to either get in the car or send him away. There was no option of driving that piece of junk you call a car to my house.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts. I’m not interested in excuses.”

  “Should I cross-stitch that on a sofa cushion?”

  “Whatever it takes for you to remember.”

  She kicks the car tire and hobbles back. Jesus. Gabrielle, this could be so much easier on both of us if you would just do what I ask.

  “How do you know about the bank?” she demands.

  “I already told you, I know everything I care to know.”

  “There was a time when you were a decent human being.”

  That was aimed right at my chest. But I deflect it before it finds the target. “I’m in a benevolent mood tonight, so I’ll give you another chance. But before you begin to question my parentage in front of the security detail, I would think twice. My mood isn’t that good.”

  Her full, pink lips part, and I swallow hard. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Tall and lithe, her dark mane sprinkled with wispy highlights that sparkle under the security lights.
r />   And all that sinful hair curling around her breasts. I don’t need to touch it. I know exactly how it feels sliding through my fingers, wound tight around my hand, or tickling my stomach while her hot, silky mouth torments me.

  I massage my cock through the coarse denim, trying to sooth some of the need. Trying to get it to calm the fuck down before it owns me completely.

  But she wets her lips, and looks directly through the monitor at me with those soulful brown eyes, rich and deep. And I almost call the whole thing off. I almost come clean. I almost beg to lick her pussy so I can taste for myself if it’s as sweet as I remember.

  But I don’t have the luxury of indulging fantasies, or placating my base drives. Fortunately, Gabrielle opens her mouth before I do anything foolish, and her words are a harsh reminder of reality.

  “What exactly do you want from me? Spell it out so there’s no confusion.”

  There is no surrender in her voice, and the part of me that doesn’t require her surrender is proud. Proud of the way she refuses to cower and bend to my whims. This pride will be my undoing if I’m not careful. I will not let that happen.

  “What do you want?" she demands again, in a huffy voice that might accompany a churlish foot stomp. She’s sexy as hell when she’s pissed off.

  “I have a list, kitten. And don’t worry, you’ll learn quickly not to get confused. But that’s for another time. First you need to show me you can follow simple instructions. Antoine will be at the hotel tomorrow at eight. Get in the car with him, or don’t. But there won’t be any more chances."

  “So help me God, if you call me kitten again, I’ll chop off your balls with a rusty axe while you sleep.” She ends the call, tosses the phone to Smith, and stalks off.

  Smith knows I’m watching, and that sonofabitch stares directly into the camera, not even bothering to bite back the smirk. If he wasn’t my closest friend, I’d fire his ass.

  7

  Gabrielle

  I don’t bother to shower after work. I’ll need to wash away the slime after I meet with JD anyway.

  After pulling my hair into a severe ponytail, secured by the fattest, ugliest hair tie in my drawer, I scrub off all my make-up, and throw on a pair of unflattering sweatpants, ballet flats, and a stained T-shirt I wore when gilding hotel furniture in an effort to save money.

  Maybe if I make myself unappealing, he’ll look elsewhere for a little side piece. Deep down I know this thinking is childish, because it’s not about sex. I don’t know what’s going on, but it isn’t about sex. It just isn’t.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror. It’s not a pretty sight. I can’t believe I’m setting foot outside my suite looking like this. Southern women don’t leave home looking like they haven’t bothered. It’s not about vanity, it’s just impolite. My mother’s disapproving voice booms inside my head, as though she’s standing beside me. For a half-second I think about changing, but decide against it. He wants me? This is what he gets. And it’s too good for him.

  I select the longest coat in the closet, one certain to cover my fashion sins, and belt it tightly, so I’m not walking through my beautiful hotel looking like something the cat dragged in from the woods.

  When I arrive in the lobby, Antoine is already waiting.

  “Ms. Duval,” he says with a polite nod and a wide smile. I want to hug him, and for a minute he looks like he wants to hug me too. But he doesn’t. “The car’s just outside. Follow me,” he says in a much too formal, stilted voice.

  Antoine grew up on Wilder Plantation just like me. His parents worked for the Wilders, too. He’s five years older, so we were never really friends growing up, but he was always kind to me. When I was six, he rescued me from the loft in the stable where I hid while playing hide and seek. I knocked the ladder over by accident when I reached the top, and was too frightened to jump down. I was terrified I’d be stuck there all night, but afraid to yell for help because I had wet my pants. After he helped me down, he tied his sweatshirt around my waist so no one would see my soiled clothes. He never said a word about it.

  “Here we are, Ms. Duval,” Antoine says, holding the car door for me.

  Ms. Duval. The formality stings. “Antoine, we’ve known each other forever, please call me Gabby.”

  “Gabby was a skinny little girl in braids. You don’t look much like her.”

  “I’m still me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “Getting old. Happens to all of us if we’re lucky.”

  “Please send them my best.”

  “I will.”

  I feel like there’s so much to say, so many things and people we can talk about, so many questions that I want answers to, but we ride in silence. It’s loud and uncomfortable, at least for me. “Do you like working for him?” I ask hoping to draw him into conversation.

  “Mr. Wilder?”

  Mr. Wilder? This surprises me, and I speak without thinking. “JD has you call him Mr. Wilder?”

  “Do I like working for him? Very much. I’ve always liked him.”

  Antoine ignores my last question, and I don’t press. I know enough about how these types of relationships work to know that regardless of what he calls JD in private, he would always refer to him as Mr. Wilder in public. Even in front of me.

  “Hmmm. He seems different.”

  “He’s a man now. More responsibilities. Bigger problems. That’s the only real difference I see.” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to put up the partition now. Keep us both out of trouble. Especially me.”

  Before Antoine left to join the Marines, we threw a big party for him. Lally, who ran the Wildwood kitchen back then, cooked for days, and my mother baked a dozen peach pies. They were his favorite.

  It was the Fourth of July, and the air hung thick and salty, crackling with the promise of fireworks over Charleston. That night, Julian kissed me for the first time. It had been all day in coming.

  When no one was looking, he dragged me behind the stable under a starless sky, and pinned me between his solid frame and the vast wooden structure. I was breathless while his mouth worked magic on mine. I had never been kissed before. Not like this.

  The heat surged between us, smoky billows wafting and curling, until we were wrapped in a hazy fog. My fourteen-year-old heart pounded, and waves of pleasure rippled through me as he brushed loose tendrils off my face. His strong fingers slid all the way to the silky ends, skimming my newly developed breasts ever so slowly. My nipples furled and tightened for him, greedy for some attention. When his tongue slipped between my wet lips, I swayed into him.

  He was hard, there. I had watched horses mate, so I wasn’t completely naïve, but I’d never been anywhere near a boy’s cock. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, rocking and grinding against the long, thick bulge, my young body tingling and quaking as it awakened. Time stood still while a flurry of fireworks exploded around us. They were nothing compared to what was happening inside me. It was sublime.

  In the last fifteen years, I’ve seen JD on television, in newspapers, and gracing the pages of glossy magazines. And I’ve caught sight of him a handful of times from a distance. But that’s it. When I came back to Charleston, I heard he’d grown harder and meaner with age. Some said his soul was as black as his daddy’s. My parents, Lally, and Antoine, don’t seem to share that view, although my parents never say too much about him.

  From the outside looking in, the Wilders seem like ordinary rich folks. The kind living all over Charleston. But when you get up close, they’re nothing more than a crime family, and Wilder Holdings, a criminal enterprise. They control all of Charleston, and most of South Carolina. The darkest elements of their business lurk in the shadows, but the rest is out in the open. Why not? They have no shame and much of law enforcement is in their pocket. When that doesn’t prove to be enough, they have fixers, corrupt lawyers, and thugs who do the dirty work, and clean up the messes they invariably leave behind.r />
  DW is the devil in disguise. He has no conscience, no remorse, feels no empathy. Never has. People from around here figure he wants to be president as a way to fill the company coffers. Others feel he craves the legitimacy of the office.

  Half the city believes he had his first wife killed, the other half is skeptical because the children were in the car when it happened. Apparently murdering your own blood is a bridge too far, even for the likes of him. I’ve always thought it possible.

  It’s a quick trip to Sweetgrass, the Sayle family home, where JD’s mother grew up. I haven’t been here in ages, but from what I remember, it’s a magnificent property with rich history, built after the antebellum. The family had an army of servants at their beck and call, but slaves never worked there. JD took it as his own when he returned to Charleston after business school.

  Antoine lowers the partition as we pull up. The car stops briefly at the gate, and we’re waved through.

  “How do they know you aren’t hiding someone in the trunk?”

  He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “They know.” His gaze is deadly serious, and I don’t doubt for a second he’s telling the truth.

  We drive down the quaint lane lined with live oaks rustling in the breeze, the Spanish moss draped over the sprawling branches like a scene from a gothic romance. It’s stunning, lulling me into a lush, sleepy fantasy, and I almost forget why I’m here. Almost.

  But as we approach the main house, even fanciful daydreams can no longer distract me from the purpose of tonight’s dinner. I wrap my coat tighter to ward off the sudden chill.