Obsessed Heir (Billionaire Heirs #4)

Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Barron

“ P our more champagne for her, slowly,” Steven directs the waiter.

My mother nods regally, the picture of poise and grace as always. Steven snaps photo after photo during this elaborate setup for dinner.

The distaste must show on my face because Holly sidles up beside me.

“We’re almost done,” she murmurs under her breath as she checks her phone screen for the time.

I shoot her a look loaded with meaning. I’ve been standing off to one side, watching with barely contained irritation.

“And that’s a wrap.” Steven lowers the camera. “You were an absolute delight.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” Mother gives him a brilliant smile as Holly heads in their direction.

Though the little prick has been behaving now that he’s photographing someone who wouldn’t have been Bronwyn.

My jaw ticks at the memory of him harassing Abigail earlier.

Much the way I did…

All she did was browse through the T-shirts. I didn’t let her get past that.

Then there’s the image of her shattering in my arms…

I snap back to reality, my fists clenching at my sides. I can’t keep letting that go through my head.

“James,” I call out.

He steps away from where he’s supervising the two attendants who are waiting to clear the area. “Yes, Mr. McClelland.”

“Once we’re done with dinner, I’ll need you to run my mother back to the suite.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get her home right away,” he responds with a quick gesture of acknowledgment.

I rethink the statement, since James may take it as a direct order.

“If she’d like to stop anywhere, go ahead. Just make sure she’s back safe.” It’s the least I can do, considering I’ve robbed her of her assistant.

Ah, that image…

“Of course, sir.”

I inhale, knowing what she’s capable of. “If she wants to go shopping, just have it charged to my suite.”

“Yes, sir.”

Which gets me to thinking about Abigail just as James walks away.

“One more thing.”

He stops in his tracks.

“You know the T-shirts from the Polar Bear charity?”

“I think so. If not, I can ask,” he assures me. “Which image do you want?”

I can’t describe the shirt other than cubs playing, but that should be all of them. In a way, that makes it easier. “Get all of them, in Abigail’s size.”

He smiles, which shouldn’t grate on my nerves, but it does. “Very well. What color?”

Interesting question. She was admiring the simple white T-shirts, despite having several colors to choose from.

“White.” Then I think better of it. “Make that white and purple. Some in one color and some in the other.”

“Miss Holly didn’t give me a schedule for tomorrow,” James says. “Where are they set up?”

Set up? Ah, he thinks it’s for another photo shoot. “Deliver them to my room tomorrow morning. I’ll see she gets them.”

“Consider it done, sir.” He goes off after the photographer and the assistants with the lighting.

I cross over to the alcove and have a seat.

“That was wonderful,” Mother says with enthusiasm.

Yes, she would find the whole thing “wonderful,” while I…well, my baptism into modeling was memorable, to say the least.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I take one of the champagne flutes set aside from the photo shoot.

“Did you know Abigail is afraid of open water?”

It’s never good to have a woman narrow her eyes when she’s focused on you. It’s twice as bad when said woman is your mother, and it doesn’t matter what age you are.

“You spoke to Abby?” she asks, her champagne paused halfway to her mouth.

I set my linen napkin on the table. “Holly had me sit in during the photo shoot they did this afternoon.”

Her lips flatten into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is Abby okay?” she inquires, concern flashing in her eyes.

“Of course she is. She was nowhere near the water,” I reassure her, trying to keep my tone even and dismissive.

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, arching a perfect eyebrow, “and you know it.”

It’s moments like this when I’m reminded that despite her petite stature and polished manners, this woman is as formidable as they come. I know better than to underestimate her. I’ve often wondered how people can think she’s just a sweet little old lady.

“She’s fine,” I bite out, annoyed. “I’m not—” I can’t finish that statement. Honestly, whatever I might add, I’m probably guilty of, at least from her perspective. “She’s fine. And you’re ignoring the question,” I point out, redirecting the conversation.

Her expression turns thoughtful. Then her brow furrows.

“I didn’t realize Abigail had a fear of water. Though, thinking back, I can’t remember her ever taking advantage of a pool during our trips.” She cocks her head to one side. “So, I suppose it could be possible.”

I gather what little patience I have left. “What aren’t you telling me?” I ask bluntly.

“Well,” she begins, taking a deep breath. “Esteban once said…” She glances at me warily then rushes ahead, knowing how I feel about the man. “Well, you know Abby was born in Mexico.”

“Yes, Mother. I had our attorney put her through the citizenship process,” I remind her.

“Yes, that’s right,” she mumbles, blinking rapidly as if to gather her thoughts. “When they were coming across the border, her mother drowned.”

The information hits me like a punch in the gut.

“I wasn’t aware,” I admit. The summary I was provided only stated her mother was deceased, not how it happened. I can see how the girl, a child at the time, would have been affected.

“She had Abby in her arms when she went under,” Mother adds in a somber tone.

“Oh hell.” The pieces click together. Abigail’s panic, the way she clung to me, mumbling that she was going to drown. It all makes sense now.

I tighten my hand into a fist as anger surges through me. That photographer’s damn lucky I didn’t know this earlier.

“I thought she was too young to remember,” Mother says, thoughtfully. “Though we’ve never really talked about what happened, I can bring up the subject.”

“No, it’s best you don’t. She may not actually remember the incident.”

“True,” she says thoughtfully.

Our waiter approaches, a bottle of champagne in hand. “Would you care to have me refresh your glass, Mrs. McClelland?”

She gives him one of her society smiles that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That would be delightful, thank you.”

It’s not unheard of to have people drown while trying to come across the Rio Grande in search of a better life. But to lose your parent that way? It’s a shit thing to happen to a little kid.

“Sir?” The waiter’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He waits to see if I’ll have him top off my half-empty flute.

“No, I’m good.” I shake my head. I still need to drop by the club later tonight. Holly suggested things were going well enough to leave it to the manager. Still, I’d prefer to see for myself and meet with the security lead before making a decision.

“Very well.” He gives a deferential bow. “If I might clear the table? Your dinner should arrive shortly.”

I nod, letting him stack the dinnerware used for the photography and remove it, leaving us in relative privacy again.

Mother lifts the glass. “Now, tell me all about your time with Abby.”

The image of Abigail, her legs spread across mine, back arching in ecstasy as she shattered around my fingers, flashes through my mind.

No, I’m not about to share the intimate details of what happened once we were alone. Much less the fact I wanted more. Instead, I shift the conversation in a different direction. “I understand you had a hand in having Abigail take part in this photo shoot.”

This time, her smile is one of genuine warmth and affection. “Abby is wonderfully photogenic,” she declares, with a mother’s pride. “And Holly needed a model, so I thought to point out she might be perfect for the role.”

Surprisingly, her gushing over Abigail doesn’t annoy me as much as it normally would. In fact, I find myself silently agreeing with her assessment. Which, in itself, bothers me. Again, I’m reminded the girl shouldn’t even be here.

“It surprises me she didn’t mention being afraid of water when you talked about her coming along for the trip.”

A faint blush rushes across her cheeks. “We didn’t have much time for that,” she says, flustered.

This time it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at her. “What exactly does that mean?”

“She wasn’t planning to accompany me on the trip originally,” she admits.

“I’m aware,” I say, holding on to my patience.

“For obvious reasons,” she adds pointedly.

I’m aware of that also, but I choose not to engage in that loaded discussion, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“But,” she continues, reverting to her unaffected expression, “when I hurt myself, I convinced her to come along to help me.”

“And she happened to bring her suitcase packed and ready, even though she wasn’t coming on board?” I ask, arching a skeptical brow. Did she forget I saw Abigail with her luggage?

“Oh, that wasn’t her suitcase,” she states with a dismissive shake of her head. “It’s mine. I drastically overpacked,” she admits in a sheepish tone. “Holly told me she wanted me to be ready for pictures that might end up featured on your cruise line’s website and promotional material.”

Every single annoying comment about Abigail being a grifter, fleecing my mother for money, does a replay in my head. Besides, knowing how the McClellands love to shop, I can easily imagine her filling up a second, or even third suitcase.

Which leaves me wondering about the shopping trip Abigail cut short. “So, what did she do about clothes?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

“She went shopping yesterday, but she didn’t find anything suitable,” she replies with a frown.

I pick up my drink and sit back in my chair. “That’s surprising,” I add with a note of skepticism in my voice.

“She said it’s all horribly overpriced.” She gives a delicate shudder, as if the thought of affordable clothing offends her sensibilities.

“I can’t argue that,” I interject. “The shops and boutiques on board cater to specific clientele with expensive tastes.” It’s all part of cultivating the luxury experience they would expect.

“Which is why I insisted on paying for her wardrobe myself,” she states firmly. Then she presses her lips together as if that’s the end of it.

And there it is. “I see.” Our most recent blowout was over her spending, specifically what she was throwing at Abigail without a second thought.

“She went out again this morning and got everything she needed for the rest of the trip.”

“Of course she did.” The champagne turns bitter in my mouth. Why not take advantage of the fact I’m not around, and go spend my mother’s money? She was biding her time, trying to have her shopping trip covered. Six or seven days’ worth of clothing would run thousands of dollars, maybe even tens of thousands.

“Oh come now, Barron.” She shakes her head. “You can’t blame a girl for doing a bit of shopping while on vacation. The shops here are divine.”

I certainly can. And I will. Though I reply with nothing more than a grunt.

“I asked Holly to take her around when they went off to set up for the photographer,” she says with an air of satisfaction.

“So, she spent my money instead of yours,” I retort.

She presses her lips into that line of disapproval. “Whatever Abigail spent,” she states quietly, “is nothing compared to what you’ve already spent on the girl to begin with.”

It’s a beautifully landed blow. I pause, giving her the barest nod to acknowledge the score. Had this happened to someone else, I would applaud at how well she turned the tables on the poor fool.

Draining the last swallow of champagne, I set the flute down with a dull thunk and rise to my feet, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mother, I need to go oversee things at the club for a bit this evening.” The waiter arrives, setting a stand beside our table.

“Barron,” she chastises in a hushed tone, “this is incredibly rude.”

“I’m sure it’s to be expected.” I smooth down my suit coat. “Considering how often you remind me I’m so much like my father.”

With that, I turn on my heel and stride away, leaving her to her dinner.