Things I Wanted To Say (Lancaster Prep Book 1)

I ARRIVE at the restaurant at exactly eight o’clock, letting the wind in with me as I push through the heavy doors. It’s a chilly night, and I’m clad in a thick black faux fur coat Monty found for me on our shopping excursion. It’s short, but just enough to cover my minidress, my legs still completely exposed. They glow from the exfoliation treatment I gave them in the shower earlier. I paid special attention to my entire body for tonight, Monty instructing me to do so. He wanted me to prepare myself as if I were going to have sex with the King of Sultan, direct quote.

I don’t know where he gets his silly ideas, but I went along with it, enjoying the pampering. Since I’ve been in Paris, I haven’t indulged in much self-care. I’ve been too busy, trying to keep my mind and body active so I won’t sink back into the memories that haunt me.

This last week with Monty has felt like a high fantasy moment. Giving me a glimmer of my old life, when I naively believed Whit would gladly relinquish everything to be with me. That week leading up to Thanksgiving were some of my favorite moments with him. When he chased me all over the Lancaster estate, finding me in dark corners where he would then ravish me with his beautiful mouth and hands as my prize.

I miss that mouth and those hands. I even miss the dark, disturbing things he would say to me. No one made me feel like Whit Lancaster.

No one.

An imposing set of marble stairs rises before me, draped in blood red carpet. I carefully walk up them, my ankles wobbly thanks to the five-inch heels of my stilettos. They’re whisper thin, as are the silver straps that cross my feet, and I know it would take nothing to topple me completely over, planting me on my face.

Reaching out, I grab the balustrade, holding onto it for dear life as I reach the top of the stairs. The floor is covered in black and white marble tiles, my heels clicking as I walk across them, toward the single open doorway with the restaurant’s subtle sign to the left of it. The room within beckons, dark and mysterious, and I frown, surprised I don’t hear the low murmurs of conversation, the delicate clink of silverware hitting fine china.

I hear nothing at all.

Still not quite sure of Monty’s motives, or what he’s all about in regards to tonight’s dinner. I feel like I’m his doll and he’s playing dress up with me. He wants me to look a certain way, to be this sort of—sex bomb to drop men to their knees or whatever. I kept questioning him about tonight’s dinner guests, but he remained frustratingly mum. It’s annoying.

I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose, wanting to be mysterious. It’s working.

Too well.

Once I enter the overly warm restaurant, my hands go to the front of my coat, and I wish I could rid myself of it. A man in an elegant gray suit materializes out of nowhere, stepping toward me with a polite smile as he helps me out of it. I smile at him, murmuring, “Merci,” as he takes my coat for me.

His gaze remains trained on my face the entire time, never once looking at my body, and I wonder if someone warned him of what I could be possibly wearing.

Though the idea is ridiculous. Why would anyone need to do that?

“Right this way, mademoiselle,” he says, his French accent heavy as he holds his hand out, indicating where I need to go. The restaurant is small. Dark. Intimate. There’s no one else in the room, which is strange. It’s Friday night. It should be bustling with business, every table full of people eating and drinking and talking.

We pass through many connected rooms, every single one of them empty, before we stop in the last room. There’s a singular round table in the center with only two chairs and place settings in front of them. Frowning, I glance over at the man but he merely smiles and nods before he leaves me completely alone.

Our dinner party is really only for two? Me and Monty? That’s it?

Disappointment floods me, and I revel in it for a while. I’d hoped to meet someone new. Other people that are Monty’s friends who I could laugh and drink with. Instead, it’s just the two of us, and for a moment, I allow myself to be sad.

But that only last for a few minutes. I’ve wallowed enough about things almost my entire life. Time to move on and be strong.

I walk around the room, trailing my fingers along the dark gray-paneled wall, until I stop in front of the window, staring outside at the busy Paris night. There is an endless stream of cars on the street below, and people walking along the sidewalks. The trees are starting to bloom, lovely and hopeful in the dreary, windy weather, those blossoms clinging to the branches for dear life. I touch the cool glass with my fingertips, my nipples tightening from the outside chill.

It’s when I feel the presence of someone entering the room that my body stiffens, and I keep my back to him. It’s a man. I can smell his cologne. Rich and distinct, I inhale discreetly, not recognizing the scent. Did Monty change his signature cologne? Highly doubtful, since he bought a vat of it at Hermes when I was with him, and it smells nothing like this.

Seconds pass, gaining quickly on a minute, and still the man says nothing. I avert my head, about to glance over my shoulder, when he barks at me:

“Don’t turn around.”

My heart thumping wildly in my chest, I do as he says, vaguely recognizing the voice. It’s purposely deeper, as if he’s trying to disguise it, and I wonder who he is.

In the darkest, deepest recesses of my soul, I recognize him. I know him. He draws closer, my entire body lighting up, and I close my eyes, hope against hope filling me. I’m trembling, a mixture of fear and excitement swirling within me. He pauses directly behind me and I dip my head, glancing down at my feet. I can see his dark dress shoes, the hem of his black trousers. My breath lodges in my throat as I wait for something, any sort of acknowledgment.

A shaky exhale leaves me when I feel it. A single finger drifting down my back, featherlight, goose bumps rising in its wake as he goes down. Down. Until he’s touching the base of my spine, his finger tugging on the mesh fabric pooled there, his knuckle brushing against my flesh.

His finger is gone, filling me with disappointment, but seconds later, he settles his hands on my shoulders, gripping me surely. I breathe a sigh of relief, my body responding immediately to his touch.

“Whit,” I breathe.

His grip tightens on my flesh, keeping me in place. I open my eyes to see my face reflected in the window, and his too, right behind me. I drink him in greedily. He’s just as beautiful as I remember, maybe even more so now. He looks older. More like a man. His jaw is just as sharp, as are his cheekbones, set-off by that plush, delectable mouth. I study him unashamedly in the reflection, realizing that he’s doing the same to me, though his gaze is elsewhere.

Traveling all over my body.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asks, his deep voice full of wonder. “Did Monty choose this dress on purpose to drive me out of my damn mind? Because it’s working.”

I stiffen beneath his touch, trying to jerk away from him, but he won’t let me go. “You planned this with Monty?”

“How else do you think I found you?” He steps closer, so close I can feel his body heat. The brush of his clothes against my mostly bare skin. “Are you happy to see me, Savage? It’s been a long time.”

I want to both smack him and jump him. “Why are you here, Whit?”

“We have the restaurant to ourselves. I bought it for the night,” he informs me, his voice smug.

I frown. “Monty said it was a dinner party.”

“For two.”

“I thought there would be more people,” I tell him hating how confused I sound. “Like Monty. He said he would be here.”

“Your precious friend lied to you.” Whit drifts his fingers down the length of my arm, leaving me shaky. “Have you missed me?”

I thought the first time I would finally see Whit after all of these months—well over a year—I would be happy. Thrilled. But I’m not.

I’m mad. Infuriated. I feel tricked. Used.

What else is new?

“No,” I bite out.

“Really. Your body is telling me otherwise.” He blatantly touches my breast, his thumb slowly brushing against my nipple, the mesh giving me little protection from his seeking fingers. My nipple hardens in an instant, and he flicks it again, making me ache. “This dress should be fucking criminal. I can see everything.”

I swallow hard, fighting the shame that wants to wash over me. Wearing this dress, coming tonight was a huge mistake. I willingly walked into a trap, like the stupid girl I’ve always been. I’m just like my mother. “Why did you do this? How?”

“I missed you,” he says simply, as if that’s enough. “I wanted to give you some time on your own before I made my approach.”

“That sounds like complete bullshit,” I spit out.

“It’s the truth,” he says, his voice firm. “I’ve known you were in Paris pretty much from the first day you arrived here.”

I’m fuming. Monty is the only one I kept in contact with out of anyone Whit would know. So basically he ratted me out to Whit from the very beginning. But why?

And why is Whit here?

“Yet you didn’t reach out to me.” If he really wanted me, he would’ve done something about it by now. Not keep away from me for so long.

“You didn’t want to be found.” He lets go of my shoulders completely and reaches around my front, his hands settling directly over my breasts, tugging gently on the mesh fabric. “You may as well be naked.”

“Don’t touch me,” I say between clenched teeth.

He laughs, the sound vibrating against my ear, just before he lightly sinks his teeth into my earlobe. “You’re shaking, Savage. You want this so fucking bad. Just as bad as I do.”

Whit thrusts his hips against my ass, his cock nudging me. I close my eyes, powerless to him, but not willing to give in to him yet.

“You need to talk to me first,” I tell him, hating how weak I sound. He hates weakness too. I know he does. “Tell me why you’re here, and what you want from me.”

“First, I want this.” He releases my breast, his hand drifting down my side, slipping beneath the hem of my dress to settle that big hand in front of my pussy, cupping me between my legs. “I’m reclaiming it.”

“You don’t own me,” I whisper, biting my bottom lip when he exerts the slightest pressure against my sensitive flesh, thinly covered by my nude thong.

“I own this. It’s always been mine,” he says arrogantly. “Since we were fourteen, Savage. Remember that night?”

How could I forget?

“It’s burned on my brain,” he admits. “And all the other nights we’ve shared, too. So many. We couldn’t get enough of each other.” He shifts his fingers, pressing harder, his index finger sliding between my pussy lips.

I lean my head against his chest, a sigh leaving me as he begins to stroke. What is he doing to me? I’m ashamed of my instant reaction to his touch. How my knees wobble, threatening to give out. My core tightens, eager for more. My head swims with memories at the sound of his voice. And my lips.

They ache for his.

“I’ve bided my time. Waited for you while I’ve gotten my affairs in order,” he says, his fingers toying with me, streaking across the front of my thong. I feel it grow damper with his every stroke. “And when the opportunity arose, I took my chance. Now here we are. Together once again.”

I tear myself out of his hold completely, immediately missing his warmth. His touch. I turn to face him, drinking him in, hating how elegantly handsome he looks in the black suit, his hair trimmed neatly, and his face.

Oh God, his devastating face.

He’s looking at me as if there’s no other woman in the world for him.

Just me.

Only me.

“I have something for you,” he says, his gaze never straying from mine as he reaches for the table behind him, picking something up. “It doesn’t belong to me.”

He stretches his hand toward me and I glance down to see my journal, clutched in his long fingers. My stomach pitches and roils at first seeing it, my mouth going dry. I hate that stupid journal. It’s what got me in trouble in the first place.

I lift my head, my gaze meeting his, those icy blue eyes seeming to penetrate me to my very soul. “The last time I saw my journal, it was in your mother’s possession.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face and then it’s gone. “She said and did some things to you I’m still not happy about.”

“She threatened me, Whit. Said she would call the police and tell them the fire was my fault. That I killed my stepfather and Yates,” I throw at him.

He flinches when I say Yates’ name, and I wonder at that. “Idle threats. She’s not a worry to you. Not any longer.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort, unable to keep it in. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you,” I say. I start to walk past him but he grabs hold of my arm, his fingers loose, but not so much that I could escape him. “Let me go.”

“Listen to me first.”

“No.”

“Summer.” His voice turns faintly pleading, which is a shock. “At least sit and have dinner with me. Let me explain myself.”

I twist my mouth up into a pout, still glaring. “I hate you and Monty for tricking me into this.”

“You don’t hate Monty.” He makes this statement with complete confidence.

“I definitely hate you,” I spit at him.

Whit actually grins, and the sight of it takes my breath away.

“That’s what I was counting on.”

“Why couldn’t you have just asked if I wanted to see you?”

“Would you have said yes?”

“No,” I immediately answer.

“That’s why,” he says drolly.

He lets me go, his words lingering in my brain as he pulls the chair out for me so I can sit at the table. The moment we settle in, a server appears. An older gentleman in a crisp white jacket, who serves us each a glass of wine before Whit speaks to him in fluent French.

I stare at him, wondering who this man is, who has he become? I don’t know him anymore. Not really. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen him last, and we’ve changed so much in that time. At least, I have.

I’m sure he has too.

Once the server is gone, I lean across the table, glaring at him when his gaze drops to the front of my mostly nonexistent bodice. “You need to start explaining.”

He reaches for the wineglass, taking a sip. Staring into it as he swirls the pale liquid within. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened with you and Leticia?”

Whit sighs, setting the glass on the table. “You would ask that first.”

“She was your future bride after all,” I say tightly.

“I ended things with her not too long after you ran away. She broke stipulations that were part of our contract thanks to her very nasty, very secret drug habit,” he says. “She’s been clean for over a year.”

“Goody for her,” I say, sounding like a jealous shrew. “You still talk to her?”

“I do.” He tilts his head toward me. “You have a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” I say haughtily before I sample the wine. It’s crisp, cold and delicious.

“Good. Her girlfriend doesn’t have any issues with us communicating either.”

I set my glass down with a heavy thud. “She’s a lesbian?”

He arches a brow. “You say lesbian like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, of course not,” I say defensively. It’s just that Leticia seemed so into Whit at that stupid birthday dinner…

“She’s bisexual, not that I should air her private business to you, but I’m sure she won’t mind,” he says. “That’s part of the reason she became so reliant on drugs. She couldn’t be who she really was. Her parents wouldn’t allow it.”

“And your parents are now allowing you to be who you really are?” I ask pointedly.

“Not particularly. I just don’t give a fuck anymore what they say,” he says as he drags his fingers across the pristine white tablecloth. Up and down, up and down, I watch those fingers move.

Imagining those fingers on me. Inside of me.

“Why did you run away, Summer?” he asks, his voice soft.

The words don’t come to me at first. All I can do is stare at him, hating how accurately he describes me. How I used to be. A runaway. A scared, meek little girl.

I lift my chin, refusing to let old memories and insecurities hold me back any longer. I decide to be completely truthful with Whit. “I didn’t run away. Your mother threatened me, Whit. She somehow had the journal and read sections aloud to me. She said I had thirty minutes to pack and she wanted me out of the house. She gave me no choice.”

His lips thin. “She told me she paid you off.”

“She lied,” I throw at him, anger suffusing me, making my voice rise. I wasn’t a runaway. I was forced to leave. What else could I do? “I figured you gave her the journal.”

“As if I would,” he retorts.

“Then why did she have it?”

His expression turns contrite. “I brought it with me to keep it—safe. I assumed she went through my things.”

“Lucky her, she found my journal and used it against me.” I slowly shake my head. “ I was afraid your mother would turn me into the authorities and I’d be arrested for murder. That’s why I didn’t return to Lancaster Prep. I came into a little bit of money, I got a new phone, shut off all of my social media and stopped communicating with basically…everyone.”

“People who run are usually trying to escape something they did.” He stares at me, his expression hard. I don’t bother correcting him about the running bit. “Did you start that fire?”

“Didn’t you read the journal?” I ask pointedly. He nods. “My confession is in there.”

I don’t bother bringing my mother up. I’m not about to tell Whit the truth. God knows what he would do with that information.

“I read it,” he bites out. “I also know you and Yates were…involved.”

I grimace, hating how that sounds. “Let’s call it what it really was. Yates forced me to have sex with him. Multiple times. And rather than cause a scene and upset our parents, I gave in to him and let it happen.”

Over and over and over again.

“You were a child.” Whit’s expression is filled with disgust.

With me?

“When we fucked, we were children,” I point out, just to annoy him.

“Not quite,” he says, his voice full of irritation. “We were practically eighteen. And I didn’t force you to do dick.”

“Please.” I scoff, grabbing my glass and draining its contents. I need more liquor to get through this conversation.

“Are you really putting me in the same category as your lecherous, dead stepbrother who would beat off in the bathroom while watching you take a shower? The one who forced himself on you?” He raises a brow. “If that’s the case, I may as well leave now. There’s no point in continuing this conversation.”

God, he’s infuriating.

“What do you want from me, Whit?” I ask, pounding my fist lightly on the table, making everything rattle. “Are you here for another go around with me, for old time’s sake? I don’t know if I could handle the likes of you. Not anymore.”

“So you’re weaker than you were when you were seventeen? Because you were pretty fucking strong back then, Savage. You took no shit from me, and definitely not from anyone else,” he says, his tone admiring.

That’s not true. I took all the shit from him, and then some. He was rude and degrading. He called me names and treated me like garbage, yet I kept coming back to him. There’s something about the way he looks at me. The words he says. His commanding touch and persuasive kisses that always had me at his mercy.

Maybe I don’t want that anymore. Despite the undercurrent of desire trembling through me at this very moment at his nearness, I’m starting to think Whit Lancaster isn’t good for me.

Not at all.

The server reappears with our first course, setting the tiny plates in front of us. I have no idea what it is, but I smile at the waiter as he nods and bows before leaving the room.

“I refuse to let myself get pulled in again,” I say once the server is gone.

“Pulled into what?”

“Your orbit.” I glance down at my plate. “What is this?”

“Foie gras, you peasant,” he says cheerfully as he digs into it with his fork.

We eat in silence until our plates are clean and the server reappears, whisking them away after pouring each of us another glass of wine. I sip from it, needing the liquid courage, hating how shaky I feel. I don’t want to be here with Whit.

Yet I do. I’m so glad he’s in the room with me, watching me with his careful gaze, taking note of my every movement. I’ve missed him. He was so abruptly ripped out of my life, and now he’s just as abruptly thrust himself back into it. I don’t know what to think.

I don’t know how to feel.

“Have your parents found another breeding cow—oh excuse me—another heiress for you to marry?” I ask.

Whit leans back in his chair. “Jealousy isn’t a good look for you, Summer.”

I clench my hands into fists. “I’m not jealous of anyone. I felt sorry for Leticia. As if her sole purpose in life was to marry you and give you sons to carry on the Lancaster name. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

“That wasn’t her sole purpose in life, though I doubt I could convince you otherwise. You’ll believe what you want to believe. And no, I haven’t found another heiress to marry. I don’t plan on ever getting married, if you must know,” he says insolently, reminding me of a spoiled prince.

“Just going to travel for the rest of your life and spend all your money?” I arch a brow.

“I couldn’t spend it all for the next three generations at least,” he says, fully bragging. “And what the fuck is wrong with that anyway? I didn’t come here tonight to fight with you, Savage.”

“You can’t just walk back into my life as if you never left it, Lancaster,” I toss back at him, annoyed.

“I just did,” he says, seeming very pleased with himself.

The server returns, and the night quickly turns into one course after another, each one better than the last. A delicious artichoke soup with black truffle. A variety of baked bread with fresh, rich butter that tastes like sin. More and more wine, until my vision gets blurry and I have no problem whatsoever shoving a forkful of lamb in my mouth, immediately wanting to cry afterward when I think of the poor furry creature who was slaughtered in order for me to enjoy this meal.

“You’re acting like a baby,” Whit chastises after I push my plate away, disgusted with myself.

“Lambs are so adorable.” My lips quiver. I’m this close to crying.

Whit can only shake his head at me, his lips curling.

I don’t understand what’s happening between us, but I don’t want to question it. Worse, I don’t know what’s happening to me, or why I’m so emotional. It’s confusing, being with Whit once again. Eating an extravagant meal with him, basking in his presence. I should be furious with him. I also should be stronger. Letting him back into my life is most likely a mistake.

He’ll just use me. I know he will.

Once our dinner plates are taken away, Whit leans back in his chair, contemplating me, his demeanor one of pure, lazy insolence. Oh, to be so confident, so commanding of your surroundings. Money gives him power, though I’m sure his parents told him he could have whatever he wanted.

All he had to do was buy it.

“Come back to my hotel with me,” he says, his voice dark.

The word yes is on the tip of my tongue, but I refrain. “Why? So you can fuck me?”

He grins. “I’m game.”

“I’m not.” I toss my napkin on top of the table and rise to my feet, ignoring my shaky ankles.

Stupid shoes.

Taking a deep breath, I stalk toward the window, keeping my back to Whit, staring outside. The traffic has died down. There are hardly any people on the street. The wind still blows, and when I reach out to touch the glass, it’s ice cold.

Staff enters the room, and I can hear them clearing the table, their low murmurs of French, Whit conversing with them as well. I’ve picked up quite a bit since moving here, but I’m not fluent like Whit. His voice is melodic as he speaks, his accent precise. Perfect. It’s sexy.

Everything about him is sexy, damn it, when it absolutely shouldn’t be.

Frowning, I press my entire hand to the glass, needing the cold to shock my system. The frigid air seeps into my palm, awakening me from my wine and rich food-laden stupor. I am the one who ran away from him in the first place. He couldn’t control his mother, or his father. They were controlling him, and I was a distraction. They needed to get rid of me, and I fell right into their trap.

Like the idiotic, naïve girl I was.

Once the server and staff have left, I hear Whit move. His footsteps draw closer, until he’s once again directly behind me, his heat stretching toward me, trying to lure me in.

I close my eyes briefly, reminding myself I need to stay strong.

“When you left the house,” he starts, then immediately stops. As he’s trying to find the right words. “It was almost a year and a half ago, and that day is still so vivid in my mind. I figured out what my mother did to you, but you were already gone. I tried texting you. Calling you. But you didn’t respond. You never responded. It was like you ran away and completely disappeared. I figured you didn’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t,” I admit, my voice soft.

“And then everything happened with my sister.” He sighs, and my heart aches for him, hearing all of the emotion in that one sound. “Leticia was a problem as well. All of it distracted me, and I needed to be there for my family. Sylvie is still not well. She accuses our mother of making her sick on purpose, and I don’t know what to believe.”

I whirl around at his last sentence, my mouth dropping open in shock. “Are you serious? About Sylvie?”

He nods, his expression pained. “I don’t believe her though. Our mother would never do that. She loves Sylvie more than anything. She just wants her well.”

I remember all of the things Sylvie said to me. All of the little clues. It makes perfect sense, hearing the accusation. I believe her. But I can’t say that now, not in front of Whit.

“Early last year, I tried to search for you myself. But when I came up with nothing, I hired a private investigator, and he found you here. In Paris. I ran into Monty a few weeks after that, and he confessed he’d been talking to you,” Whit further explains.

“Why come to see me now? Why not back then?” I ask, needing to know.

“Time heals all wounds?” His smile is weak and it immediately disappears when I glare at him in return. “I don’t know, Summer. I knew you wouldn’t want to see me.”

The problem is, I would’ve loved to see him, but not like this. Not when he conspires with Monty and tricks me into coming to a restaurant under the guise of a fabulous dinner party with other guests.

“You tricked me into seeing you. As if that’s so much better,” I retort, crossing my arms. The movement only causes Whit’s gaze to drop to my chest, his eyes flaring with heat. “Luring me here under the guise of a dinner party. Did you really think I would be okay with that?”

“It was Monty’s idea,” he punctuates with a frustrated exhale. “I should’ve known you’d be angry.”

“Why did you search for me, Whit?” I ask, my voice soft. I need to know.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he admits. “I felt—guilty. As if I were responsible for making you leave.”

“I was scared,” I admit, my gaze going to the now clean table. Only my journal sits on top of it. God, I hate that thing. “Your mother is someone I don’t want to cross.”

“She’s all bark, no bite,” he says, though I don’t believe him. Maybe she’s that way with him, but certainly never me. “I’ll never let her hurt you.”

“I won’t be back in her life to give her the chance,” I tell him.

“If you’re with me, she’ll be in your life,” he says.