than ask someone like me, with my dirty blood, for help.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, even though she knew it was true. Those men would never stoop to taking a consultation from someone so far beneath them in station. That exclusivity was the source of their power, and they weren’t about to let it go, no matter how modernized the rest of the world had become.
“It’s not. We both know that.”
“And you think marrying me will fix that for you?”
He chuckled. “I’m sure the son-in-law of Michael Pickett would be due some respect.”
“If my father didn’t disown me for marrying you instead of the golden boy he’s selected for me,” she said.
“Would he?”
She paused for a moment, honestly wondering if he would. She’d been ready to take the chance twelve years ago. More than ready to carve a new life for herself and Lazaro, to leave it all behind.
That dream had ended quickly. Maddeningly, it tantalized her sometimes when she was in bed, on the edge between sleep and wakefulness. Stupid subconscious.
Finally, she shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t. He has too much invested in me. And I own more stock than he does at this point. He can’t vote me out of my position, which would mean that if he did disown me he would be separating himself from the company, and he won’t do that.”
“But if there is no company?” he asked.
If there was no company, her father would never speak to her again. Her life, everything she had worked for for so long, would be meaningless. She would have nothing but her big, empty town house—if she could even afford to keep it—with her big, empty bedroom and her big, empty bed. The thought made her sick, made her stomach physically cramp.
“It’s not an option,” she said. She refused to think about it. Refused to entertain the idea.
Her relationship with her father was complicated. It wasn’t a happy, hugging sort of relationship, but he was all that she had, her only family. He was the one constant in her world. He had always cared for her, he had set her path in front of her and he had paid for her schooling to make sure his goals were met.
And she’d done all she could to earn his approval, done what she could to help fill the void Thomas had left behind. The Pickett heir—the real Pickett heir—hadn’t lived to graduate from high school.
It was up to her now. It wasn’t a responsibility she could simply shake off or ignore.
“And can you risk that, Vanessa?”
“No.” She choked on the word.
“Then marry me.”
“It’s crazy, you know that, right?”
“More so than the arrangement you already have?”
“Yes,” she fired back, brown eyes blazing. Lazaro’s gut tightened. Of course she would feel that way. He was beneath her. He had been a toy to her twelve years ago. Good enough to flirt with, to tease, but nothing more.
What would people think? The look of horror on her face, the incredulity in her voice, was crystal clear in his mind, as though she had spoken it only a moment ago, instead of what amounted to a lifetime ago.
He was the housekeeper’s son, and she was the princess of the castle. Years later, now that he had billions to his name and a reputation as one of the world’s savviest business minds, she still believed herself above him.
Even as the anger coursed through him, he wanted her. Wanted her with the same burning desire he’d had for her when they were teenagers. Yes, he wanted the vital connections marrying her would provide. But at the moment, more than anything, he wanted her body. He wanted to finish what he had started twelve years ago. He wanted Vanessa, naked, willing, in his bed, crying out his name. His and no other man’s. He wanted to brand her as she had done to him with those kisses years ago.
Vanessa’s lips on his, her delicate hands skimming over his skin—everything narrowed down to that. The broader goal was lost. There was nothing beyond lust. Simple, pure lust that had been with him since the first moment he’d seen her. A lust that had never released its hold on him. The need to satisfy it was suddenly driving, imperative.
He closed his hands into fists, took in a deep breath.
As much as he wanted that, he had to remember what his real goal was. There would be plenty of time to seduce Vanessa once they were married. It was about business now, and the rest would come later. Business, and dealing with Michael Pickett.
What sweet justice it would be, marrying Vanessa. Having her replace her hallowed last name with his.
How wonderful it would be to see Michael Pickett’s face when he discovered his only daughter would be marrying the man he had had beaten in a back alley for daring to touch his beloved princess. For daring to sully her with his hands. A laborer’s hands. An immigrant’s hands.
Lazaro curled his fingers, forming fists.
The other man’s fate—the fate of his much-loved business and that of his only child—was now Lazaro’s to decide.
Just as his fate and his mother’s fate, had once been Michael Pickett’s to decide. And what a decision he’d made. He’d had them evicted. Had made sure they couldn’t find work in Boston and that what little they’d had was lost to them.
Now the older man would know what it was like to feel desperate, to have to depend on the whims of someone else. What it was like to have his power stripped from him.
Men like him didn’t deserve such absolute power.
“I’m offering you a very simple solution, Vanessa.”
“Oh, yes, simple. In what world is marriage the simple solution?”
“In this world. Alliances are made by advantageous marriages, it happens every single day. You admitted it is already in your future.”
“Nothing was finalized. I believe marriage should be about love.”
She looked so sincere when she said it, brown eyes liquid in the dim light. What would Vanessa Pickett know about love? No more than he did.
“Romanticizing an institution has always seemed pointless to me.”
Vanessa swallowed hard, her heart thundering, the pulse in her neck fluttering. “You don’t seem the type to romanticize anything.”
She knew that about him. Had known it the moment kissing had turned into more and he’d produced a condom rather than words of love. Ironic that her very first marriage proposal was from him, twelve years after she’d been hoping to hear it. Of course, there was still no mention of love.
She’d been a romantic then, with all of her heart and not just a piece of it. And she’d learned, at Lazaro’s hands, that blind naïveté didn’t protect you from cold reality.
And what she had now was cold reality at its finest. A dying business,
