Obsessed Heir (Billionaire Heirs #4)

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Barron

“ W hat’s the matter, Abigail?” I drawl with an exaggerated dose of mock concern. “I don’t measure up to the guys you have chasing you back home.”

She flashes me a glare sharp enough to part the ocean.

“Nobody’s going to be chasing me, Barron. I’m the help , remember,” she retorts, her words clipped, her full lips pressing into a thin line. She turns away abruptly, distancing herself from the couch, and from me, without so much as a backward glance.

I grimace inwardly, immediately regretting my petty jab.

Despite my objections, Mother sent Abigail to the same private school I once attended. I can only imagine the hell she went through there, surrounded by those privileged, self-centered assholes.

My mother only sees the best in people. She could never understand the lion’s den she threw Abigail into with her na?ve attempts to give her the best.

An unsettled feeling suddenly hits me, a nagging sense that I’m missing something crucial about Abigail and her demeanor. I’ve seen the end result of her actions. But I haven’t gone past blaming her for being associated with the man who passed himself off as her father. The man who tried to scam my mother.

Abigail stands in front of the drapes, drawing in a deep breath. Even though she’s clearly uncomfortable in the skimpy outfit that leaves little to the imagination, she’s soldiered on, maintaining her composure.

Holly’s right. Despite this asshole’s constant demands, she has remained composed and professional.

More professional than Steven’s been.

More professional than I’ve been, if I’m being honest.

“The drapes, Abigail,” Steven presses impatiently, snapping me out of my thoughts.

Spurred into action, Abigail reaches out and presses the button to open the curtains. Pursing her lips, she breathes in and out, staring at the floor as she gathers her composure. You’d think she’s an actress preparing to go on stage with how focused she is.

Steven stands with one hip cocked, his critical gaze roaming to take in the entire scene in front of him. Although his scrutiny is purely professional, my jaw clenches involuntarily when his eyes linger on her curves.

I glance over at Holly to find she’s standing a few steps behind him, observing Abigail with that same assessing expression.

Needing to put some distance between myself and this situation, I pick up the book I’d set on the end table earlier. No, it would be better to clear out of their way entirely.

“That image would look stunning with her hair flowing,” Holly remarks, gesturing toward Abigail as I get up from the couch.

That’s an easy enough fix. I turn, glancing at Abigail. Her eyes are closed, the false lashes fanning out along her cheeks. She’s the very image of innocence. The Maiden persona Holly has been trying so hard to capture.

The exact, tempting image I need to banish from my mind.

I flip the latch on the sliding glass door and push it with enough force to send it rumbling along the rail. The sudden sound of the ship cutting through the ocean fills the room.

Abigail’s eyes shoot open, her peaceful expression vanishing in an instant. Her gaze darts out to the endless horizon.

The brisk sea breeze comes through, teasing her curls and pressing the thin fabric of her outfit against the front of her body. Yet Abigail seems utterly oblivious to it. Her jaw drops an inch, her brows knitting in distress.

What’s wrong here? What am I missing?

I straighten slowly, my attention caught by her sudden shift in demeanor. In the next moment, she stumbles back a step, gasping for breath. She reaches out blindly, her fingers grasping for something to hold onto. Her eyes widen, sheer terror overtaking her delicate features.

Instinctively, I reach out to steady her, the raw fear in her face catching me completely off guard.

“What now?” Steven’s impatient voice calls out from somewhere behind me. “For the love of—I can’t work like this…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, what’s left of my patience coming to an end. That little prick has gotten on my last nerve with his shit. “Or that camera’s going over the rail, and you’re going with it.”

The photographer stiffens, his mouth dropping open in shock as he stares out past the balcony door.

“You wouldn’t—” he sputters indignantly.

I take a menacing step in his direction, my movement hampered by Abigail’s trembling form clinging to me.

Holly quickly intervenes, hooking an arm around the idiot’s biceps. “Come with me,” she says, pulling him toward the door.

I shift my focus to Abigail again, intending to set her away from me. But the sight of her pale, anguished face makes me change my mind. She’s shaking, holding on to me for dear life as if I’m the only shelter in the storm.

“I’m gonna drown. The water’s coming over me…I’m gonna drown,” she mumbles feverishly, her head and shoulders rocking back and forth. She looks up into my eyes, her expression filled with such pain and fear, it stops me in my tracks.

“Please, I just want to go home,” she pleads, her voice breaking as she drops her forehead against my chest.

Seeing her like this, vulnerable and terrified, stirs something deep inside me. She must be in a bad way to be holding on to me, of all people. I bring her against me, wrapping my arms around her, offering what little comfort I can. She’s so tiny, her head barely reaching my chest.

Holly leads the idiot out of the room, giving me a pointed look while reaching for the doorknob.

“But…my camera,” he protests, his wide eyes darting from the expensive camera to me.

“Get it later,” she insists, in a tone brooking no argument.

Holly gives him a hard tug, an exasperated expression on her face as she herds him through the door.

Seconds tick by. I have no clue what to do with Abigail other than hold her as she continues to mumble the same words over and over. “Let me go home.”

The breeze comes through, blowing the gauzy curtain inside. The sound of splashing waves and churning water fills the room as the ship cuts through the ocean. That has to be what triggered this paralysis because she was fine until I slid that damn door open.

The fear of drowning isn’t uncommon. I just don’t understand why someone with that phobia would willingly go on a cruise if they can’t handle being on the water.

That isn’t true. For Abigail, her reason has to revolve around my mother.

I take a calming breath, trying to figure out how to snap her out of this state.

“Let me close this,” I murmur, gently cupping her shoulders to set her back, but she’s not budging without some effort.

Considering her fragile condition, I won’t try prying her off me.

There’s only one thing I can think of that might break through her panic. “Let me close the door,” I say by her ear, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Then we’ll go check on…Miss Opal.”

I stop myself from saying “Mother” at the last second. The last thing she needs is to be reminded I’m the one holding her.

At my mother’s name, Abigail nods jerkily, loosening her grip on me, but not by much. “I’m sorry,” she says, so low I struggle to make out the words.

I was right to use her name. Whatever else Abigail may be, this shows she cares deeply about my mother’s well-being. I’ll give her that much.

“Keep your eye out for Holly,” I instruct, pointing to the hallway entrance while using the same soothing tone one would use with a frightened child. “She should be back any second.”

Obediently, she keeps her eyes trained on the doorway, careful to avoid even a glance toward the open balcony door.

I take a cautious step back, but when I try to take another, her hold tightens again. I stretch out my arm, but the door handle is still several inches past my fingertips. There’s no way for me to reach it without moving closer. I can’t pick her up and move toward the water. I’m liable to cause her a breakdown.

Trying a different tactic, I put my foot between hers so I can lean forward. Moving my hand to the middle of her back, I put her into a dip. It’s enough to allow me the extra few inches I need. After a couple of seconds of fumbling, I finally grasp the handle and drag the sliding door shut.

My only concern was over Abigail’s emotional state and not the intimate position I’ve inadvertently maneuvered us into. By the time I have the latch snapping shut, she’s practically riding my thigh.

Her shocked little gasp catches my attention. Is she okay? Concerned, I check on her. Abigail is looking up at me with guarded eyes, blinking away tears as I hit the button to close the curtains.

I could take my finger off the button.

I could straighten and set her on her own two feet.

I could break eye contact.

I don’t.

Abigail is lucid enough to realize my cock has grown rock-hard, pressing insistently against her body. The awareness that sparks in her eyes is as much a surprise to her as it is to me.

It’s not unheard of to go from “I hate you” to “I want to fuck you” in the blink of an eye. I just didn’t expect it to happen to me, especially not with her.

What’s more intriguing is that Abigail makes no move to pull away, either. Her pussy is pressed against my thigh, and that flimsy excuse for underwear is more for show than any actual coverage. The outfit she’s wearing is hardly any better.

The low buzzing stops as the curtain closes. So now what happens? I bring her upright again, balancing her weight so she can stand on her own.

She hasn’t stepped away, even when I set my hand to ride low on her waist.