The Rebel Heir Read online

  Jillian gasped at the dig as she raced to him and slapped him soundly at the implied insult.

  Whap!

  It turned his head to the left. It stung. But not as deeply as the ache radiating across his chest. Or the betrayal he felt at himself for hating that he’d sunk low enough to insult her in such a manner. Still, he bit his bottom lip to keep from apologizing and instead breezed past her to leave the apartment and Jillian behind.

  Three

  Two months later

  “Your new apartment is beautiful, Jillie.”

  Jillian turned her phone from her waterfront view in San Francisco to look at her family on the screen via FaceTime. Her father, Harry Rossi—whom she favored—her mother, Nora—from whom she got her humor—and her grandmother, Ionie. They were all huddled in front of the computer in Rochester, New York, in her parents’ home.

  “Thank you, Gram,” she said, taking a seat on the L-shaped sofa as she eyed the petite senior with her short silver curls and her beloved fuchsia lipstick. She was vibrant, smart, and funny, but the grandmother she knew was beginning to fade a bit as a chronic heart condition weakened her.

  Jillian fought the urge to ask her how she was doing, knowing it irritated her to be coddled.

  “We miss you, Jillie, but we’re proud of you,” Harry said in a booming voice that matched his lofty broad frame.

  Her mother lovingly called him Bear.

  And their love, since the days they’d been in high school, was sickeningly adorable. Arguments were few and far between. Shows of affection were often. Lots and lots of laughter. Long hugs. And slow dances with whispered promises.

  They loved and liked each other.

  That was her childhood.

  It was her search for her own “Mr. Right” or “The One” or her “happily-ever-after” that had led to Jillian’s two failed marriages. The first at just eighteen to Warren Long, her high school sweetheart. A wedding at the county courthouse and a year of arguing over their lack of money as they both attended college made them realize they were too young—and had moved too fast—to be married. Thankfully once the hurt and bitterness had faded, they’d remained in touch over the years.

  That had not been the case with her second husband, Chuckie Forge. They’d met when she’d been hired as a line cook in his small but popular restaurant in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan. Their fiery, passionate three-month affair had led to a Vegas marriage that had crashed and burned when he’d disappeared for an entire weekend with his pastry chef. Unlike Warren, Jillian disdained Chuckie and was pleased to never lay eyes on him again.

  “How are things going with the restaurant?” Her father’s question interrupted her musings.

  “Better,” she said. “The shift between being a personal chef and an executive chef for a restaurant that is part of a brand is huge for me. There’s less freedom.”

  “You understand that. Right?” her father asked.

  “Absolutely,” she assured him.

  And she did. But still, she wished she could plan the menu without input from corporate or restaurant management. It felt formulaic, and she suspected it was why the position had been left open following the previous chef’s exit. He now operated his own restaurant.

  Her grandmother covered her mouth with a yawn. Jillian smiled. The three-hour time difference was taking some getting used to, as well. It was six in California, but on the East Coast it was nine at night. Definitely past her grandmother’s bedtime.

  But she wasn’t ready to say good-night to them.

  She was lonely.

  Jillian looked past the phone to her spacious furnished apartment with its incredible waterfront views and just a walk from the restaurant, CRESSIII. Her new six-figure salary would pay off her debt within a year. And the press generated by Cress, INC.’s public relations team of her hire as executive chef might lead to even more opportunities.

  None of it replaced the surprising hole left in her life without Cole.

  She sighed.

  “Everything okay, Jillie?” Ionie asked, leaning closer to the screen.

  Jillian smiled when her grandmother tapped it. “I’m not frozen, Gram,” she said.

  “Oh. Okay,” Ionie said. “I can’t be right and hit it out of the park all the time to bat a thousand.”

  Ionie loved the New York Mets.

  “Listen, Jillie, my bed is calling my name,” she said, standing. “And I’m going to answer. Videophone me tomorrow.”

  “It’s FaceTime, Mom,” Harry said with a playful wink at the screen as his mother turned and walked away.

  Ionie was filled with one-liners and it never took much to nudge one out of her.

  “Tomato tomato, Harry. Same difference, son,” she called over her shoulder as she sauntered away with a sway of her hips.

  They all chuckled.

  The eighty-year-old retired schoolteacher was a spitfire. They adored her.

  “How is she doing?” Jillian asked.

  “Better. The full-time nurse is great with both of us working,” Harry said.

  “We worry a lot less about her being home alone, so the nurse is a huge help,” her mom told her. “And thank you for your help with the cost, Jillie. I’m proud of you for taking on that responsibility.”

  “No worries. We’re family. It’s what we do,” she assured them.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” Nora asked as she licked the tip of her thumb and swiped at something on her husband’s cheek.

  “The restaurant is closed on Mondays,” she explained, fighting the urge to rub her eyes since she was wearing her contacts.

  Her brow furrowed when her father pressed a kiss to her mother’s palm and they shared a look.

  Jillian moaned, having seen that look a million times during her childhood and knowing a kiss was next. Just sickeningly sweet.

  “Let me let y’all go,” she said, zooming her finger in on the button to end the call.

  “Bye,” they said in unison just before the screen went black.

  She released a heavy breath and dropped her phone onto the sofa. The silence of the apartment echoed. She leaned forward to pick up the remote from the leather ottoman serving as a coffee table to turn on the wall-mounted television.

  Nothing held her attention.

  And everything seemed to remind her of Cole.

  A romantic movie where the couple shared a kiss.

  Cole was an excellent kisser.

  She switched the channel.

  Click, click.

  A commercial for soap.

  Jillian smiled, remembering them squeezing into her small tub together to share a bubble bath.

  She frowned and raised the remote.

  Click, click.

  A weather news story about a string of rainy days ahead.

  I remember that weekend at my apartment when we stayed inside, cooked for each other, and had the most amazing rainy-day sex.

  She shook her head to clear it of the steamy memories.

  Click, click.

  This time she turned the television off. She couldn’t escape her thoughts of him. Cole. Cole. Cole. Cole.

  She looked down at her phone.

  Don’t do it. Move on. You made your choice. Live with it. And stay off his Instagram.

  Jillian pushed aside her thoughts and snatched up her phone. Her heart pounded, and she felt nervous butterflies as she scrolled through his feed. He hadn’t posted in weeks.

  She paused at a photo of him leaning against his high-end food truck. Serious face. Electric eyes in his brown complexion. All-black attire. Sexy as sexy could be.

  I miss him.

  The nights were the worst. They used to tease it was their “sexing hours.” Jillian had lost count of those after-midnight hours where one would text the other. Within the ho
ur, he would arrive and, not long after he was hard, she was wet, and their grunts of pleasure echoed in her loft apartment. On the door. The floor. The shower. The sofa—open and closed. Against the window.

  She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes with a deep moan at the visual of his hard buttocks clenching and unclenching as he stroked inside her, her back and buttocks pressed against the windows. Her knees had clutched his sides and her fingers had dug into his shoulders as he’d delivered one deep thrust after another.

  I could use Cole’s special delivery.

  But those days—and nights—were over, and her body was going through withdrawal.

  Over the last couple of months, had she second-guessed ending her dalliance with Cole? Yes. But in those moments, she reminded herself forever had never been a part of their plans. Still, she had never intended for him to feel offended or put off.

  Jillian had tried a few times in the weeks following her rushed moved to San Francisco to call him, but he’d never answered. She’d wanted to get it through to him that the hefty salary would allow her to assist her parents with the expensive medical care her grandmother required, to say nothing of help clear the hefty debt from her first restaurant closing. Her duty to her family and her success was interwoven—it had to be.

  Wealth was not a part of her legacy.

  Unlike Cole.

  And now her life was moving on.

  Without Cole.

  Within the year, her feelings for the sexy rebel had deepened beyond just a fling. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty because that realization hadn’t hit home until he’d been out of her life for good. She had thought she’d only wanted sex from him, but she ached with sadness for more than that, wanting to hear his deep voice, to make him laugh with her dry wit, or to have him surprise her with one of his notes.

  Jillian rose from the sofa and made her way to her bedroom. On her bedside table was the carved wood box from her loft in New York. She opened it. Gone were the condoms. Instead it held every monogrammed note Cole had ever given her over the last year. It wasn’t until she’d packed up her things that she’d found them all randomly placed around her apartment. In a cookbook. Mixed with mail. In the back pocket of jeans.

  Anywhere and everywhere. She’d never thrown them away.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the box, holding it up to her nose. The scent of his crisp cologne still clung to some of the notes. She smiled a little as she opened each folded card.

  Some were funny.

  “‘What’s black and white and hard all over?’” she read, chuckling at his play on his mixed-race heritage and his desire for her.

  Most were steamy.

  “‘There is nothing better than the taste of you,’” she read, letting her finger stroke his slashing handwritten words.

  She had taken the notes for granted.

  As she sat with Cole’s notes scattered on her lap, she fast realized she had taken the time they’d shared for granted, as well.

  * * *

  Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz.

  Cole ignored his cell phone vibrating in the inner pocket of his black tuxedo jacket as he placed his small stack of hundred-dollar chips on the roulette table of the luxurious, historic casino in Monte Carlo, Monaco. He kept his eyes on the ball after the dealer waved his hand across the table, signaling no more bets. He took a sip from his snifter of whiskey and, with a calm aloofness, watched the ball fall onto the winning number.

  He smiled as the dealer pushed a sizable stack of chips next to his on the number four. “Luck be my lady tonight,” he said, playing on the lyrics of the 1950’s Frank Sinatra song.

  “Then call me Luck.”

  Cole was waiting for the dealer to pay out all winners on the board. He looked to his right at the sultry feminine voice and found a beautiful, svelte woman offering him an alluring smile. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. The crimson she wore on her lips and her body was electrifying. From her accent and the high cut of her cheekbones, he assumed she was of African descent—a regal beauty with the type of style that spoke of elegance and wealth.

  He felt annoyance that he instantly compared her to Jillian. Two months later and thoughts of her still replayed on a loop in his mind.

  “You’ve been here for a month, and you’re always alone. It’s time for you to make a new friend,” the sultry beauty said, drawing his attention once again. She extended her hand. “Lesedi Osei.”

  He took her hand into his own. “Cole Cress,” he said, easing out of their shake when her finger pressed against his inner wrist.

  Before Jillian, he would have matched Lesedi’s vibe, offered her an early morning breakfast as the clock struck four in the morning, and then taken her to his bed to make sure she never regretted her boldness in approaching him.

  He retrieved all of his tokens before turning to her. “And if you know I’ve been here that long, then so have you,” he said.

  She tucked a metallic leather clutch under her arm. It matched the strapless minidress she wore. “My family is staying in Monte Carlo for the summer,” she said, her accent giving her voice a lilting quality.

  “Nigerian?” he asked of her heritage.

  “Very good,” she said with an incline of her head.

  He watched her tuck her shoulder-length bob behind her ear and glance away. A flirty move that was subtle. He caught it. She was interested.

  Am I?

  He eyed her. But it was Jillian’s shapely frame in the dress that he saw.

  That angered him.

  To be intimate with this beautiful chocolate woman before him would be nothing more than using her to relieve his sexual frustration and make him forget a woman whose past betrayal stung like it happened yesterday.

  Damn.

  Lesedi looked up at him with a regretful smile. “Whoever she is, she is truly the lucky one,” she said.

  “She doesn’t deserve it,” he mumbled, clenching his jaw.

  Lesedi opened her clutch and removed a business card to extend to him between her index and middle finger. “If you ever fix it or forget it...” she said before walking past him with one soft pat to his chest.

  As he slid the card into the front pocket with his phone, he turned and watched her walk away before she disappeared into the crowd. Deciding his night of gambling, drinks and fine food was done, Cole left the elaborately decorated casino to take the stairs up to the hotel lobby. Here, too, the architecture spoke to its long history and grandeur.

  Last month he had been at the family’s country estate in Paris when the house staff made his mother aware that he was staying there. Once her incessant calls bounced between his cell and the estate’s landline, Cole had caught the first flight to Monte Carlo. Within hours, he’d been safely tucked away in the city of glamour, enjoying the serene quiet of the days and the endless opportunities of an active nightlife.

  As he caught the elevator to his suite, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He wasn’t surprised to see his mother’s number. Nicolette Cress was on a mission to bring the wandering son back into the fold. She was huge on the family remaining close.

  Thus, the townhouse large enough...for them all.

  Same as the business...for them all.

  Nicolette was so intent on family unity that she’d mediated Gabriel’s part-time return to Cress, INC. as he’d put his primary focus on his restaurant and she’d capitulated on his relationship with Monica, the family’s former maid.

  Where Phillip Senior was stern in his demand for family loyalty, Nicolette used a different approach—knowing how to sway all the men in her life to bend at her will.

  The night he saw his mother move with such calculating coldness for his feelings at Jillian’s apartment, he had never returned to the Cress townhouse. He’d spent the night at a hotel in Midtown Manhattan and flown to Paris the nex
t day. He kept in touch with his brothers to assure his mother that he was alive and well, but he had, thus far, avoided any direct communication with her and handled his business decisions via Zoom calls and emails.

  No one knew that Jillian was at the root of his annoyance with his mother.

  Cole entered his deluxe suite. With the linen curtains of the terrace door open, the moon cast the room’s modern décor with light. The shades of white, powder blue and taupe matched the view of the sea. It was calming by day or night.

  He kicked off his handmade leather shoes, undid the top buttons of his shirt and unlatched the band of his Piaget watch as he crossed the marbled entryway to make his way down the hall to the bedroom. His yawn was hard to deny because of the late hour, but he walked up the space between the all-white, king-size bed and the sitting area’s suede chair to open the terrace door. The scent of the sea reached him. The sight of the moon’s rays glistening upon the waters calmed him as he took in the views of the city’s Belle Époque architecture among the surrounding green hills.

  It was too magnificent to ignore.

  And he could use the tranquility.

  Thoughts of Jillian made him feel as if a storm was brewing inside him with no escape. He missed her. That truth caused him to clench his teeth and release a heavy breath filled with his frustration at her.

  And himself.

  He felt like a fool.

  Cole walked back into the suite to pour himself two fingers of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the bar in the sitting area’s corner. With a sip, he made his way back onto the terrace. In truth, he avoided slumber because she conquered his sleeping hours—through dreams and nightmares.

  Had he known the first time he’d laid eyes on the beauty that it would end the way it had, he never would have made the first move that day...

  * * *

  Cole and his brothers were in the movie room on the second floor of the five-story townhouse. It was a rare night that they all were home, and when the youngest Cress family member requested that they watch her favorite animated movie, Moana, her wishes were the command of the family. She was everyone’s soft spot as the inner struggle to be named heir to the Cress, INC. throne reigned.