Epilogue

3 months later

Despite their closet declarations, they held off on any sort of commitment for several months.

It had been Audrey’s idea. Reese had been totally gung-ho about heading out to Hawaii the next morning on his private jet and dragging Audrey into a makeshift wedding. Except there had been Daphne to look after, and she didn’t feel comfortable leaving her twin while she was still in intensive care.

And then a few days later, she’d gotten her period, which eliminated any fear of pregnancy. After that, there’d been no need to rush, so Audrey had asked Reese if they could postpone for a little while. He’d agreed . . . as long as she’d move in with him.

So she did, and their lives returned to normal.

Well, for the most part, Audrey amended with a wry smile, looking out the small window of the jet at the clouds below them. There were some things they still didn’t see eye-to-eye on. She looked over at Reese, sprawled on the leather chair in the private jet, and extended her hand. “I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten, and when I open them, my phone had better be back in my hand.”

“No.” And he wiggled his eyebrows at her, that infuriating man.

“Reese Durham,” she said in a warning tone. “I need to check my email and make sure there’s nothing that requires Logan’s immediate attention.”

“You told me yourself that Logan hired two additional assistants. Let one of them handle it.” He put a finger to his goatee, as if coming up with a brilliant idea. “Or, I know. You could quit and spend more time with your soon-to-be husband.”

She rolled her eyes at him and got up from her chair. “Don’t make me search you.”

“What a terrible prospect,” he said in a dry voice, and put his hands behind his head. “Do with me as you will, firecracker.”

“You are a frustrating man,” she told him, and began to pat him down, searching for her phone.

“And you’re a frustrating woman,” he said, dragging her down on top of him and ignoring her squeal of protest. “I told you that you work too hard.”

She flailed against him for a moment, but when his hands went to her breasts, she made a soft sound of pleasure and slid down next to him on the couch. “I’m not working too hard.”

“You are. Look at how exhausted you’ve been lately.” His fingers stroked her cheek absently. “Last night when I came home, you were asleep already.”

She yawned at the thought. “Your poker game ran late.”

“Not that late,” he told her. “I told Logan he’s working you too hard and I’m going to fuck him up if he runs you into the ground.”

Audrey groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. “You did not. Reese, he’s my boss!”

“I can be your boss.”

“No, you’re going to be my husband, remember?”

“All the more reason for you to quit.”

“You’re trying to get me all pissed off so we can have angry sex, aren’t you?”

His hand caressed her breast, idly teasing the ultra-sensitive nipple through the fabric of her top. “If I was trying to get you angry, firecracker, I’d show you that white bikini I got for you to be married in.”

“Reese,” she said in a warning tone. “I’m not wearing a bikini on a public beach.”

“It’s a good thing it’s a private beach, eh?”

She should have protested. Pitched a fit. She knew he’d bought it purely to get a rise out of her. It was probably ridiculous—something with a string for a strap and a thong in the back. He seemed to think she was some sort of nubile ubervixen . . . not that she minded, really. But laying against him made her sleepy, and his hands felt so good on her breasts that she didn’t even complain.

“See?” he murmured, kissing her hair. “You’re exhausted. That does it. I’m letting Logan have it when we get back to New York.”

“No, you’re not,” she said softly. The reason for her exhaustion had nothing to do with her job.

She was pregnant.

It was, in retrospect, a bit of a nightmare. After that initial torrid interlude in the closet, she’d gotten on the Pill. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten on the Pill quick enough, and by the time her next period had rolled around, it didn’t happen. She blamed it on stress and the Pill itself because her life had been turned upside down. Stress from moving in with Reese, Daphne’s enrollment into rehab, juggling her job—all of it would have driven a normal person insane. But when she missed her period for the second month in a row, she went back to the doctor. Sure enough, she was pregnant.

And she didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t told Reese yet. Part of her was utterly terrified that he’d look at it as her trying to entrap him into a long-lasting relationship. She wondered if he’d blame her because she was supposed to be on the Pill. And she was, but she’d still somehow managed to get knocked up.

She had to tell him. Before they got married, so he could still get out of things. But she’d put it off. She’d meant to tell him before they’d left for Hawaii, but it had never been just the right time. Reese had been busy with plans for the new Durham Industries cruise line, along with the investment into an exclusive line of high-end luxury cars he’d partnered with Jonathan Lyons on. Once his billionaire buddies had heard about his financial issues, they’d leapt in with both feet to assist him, and Reese was doing better than ever.

Busier than ever, too.

She hugged him a little closer, resting her cheek against him.

“Why so sad, baby?” Reese ran his thumb over her lower lip, caressing her. He constantly touched her when they were together, something she found she enjoyed quite a bit. It was as if he couldn’t help himself and had to be touching and caressing her at all times. “Is it Daphne? Are you regretting our bet?”

She gave his abdomen a light smack. “You know I never back down from a bet.”

Dares and bets had become their thing. It was a fun way to get the other riled up, which led to passionate sex and then even more sex. Audrey dared Reese to invest in something he didn’t want to. Reese dared Audrey to wear something low cut. The stakes changed frequently, from kisses to public makeouts to anything and everything they could think of.

One stake frequently ended up on the table, though: anal sex.

Audrey was pretty sure Reese brought it up constantly as a trump card. But he hadn’t won a bet in which anal had been brought into play. They hadn’t explored that part of their relationship yet, but she had a bottle of lube in her carryon that she hadn’t told him about. They’d joked that they’d save it for the honeymoon and it was here.

Today’s bet had included anal, too. Reese had bet her that she couldn’t go without calling Daphne while on their honeymoon. She bet that she could. If she lost, they would have anal sex. If she won, he owed her a full body massage every day for a month.

She was dangerously close to losing the bet already, and the plane was still somewhere over the Pacific. Because right now? She desperately needed to talk to her twin. Despite being in extended on-location rehab, Daphne had been allowed a private cell phone that only had one number programmed into it—hers. It was her only condition on going into rehab, and one that all parties had given into gracefully. The twins talked on the phone daily, sharing secrets and discussing how Daphne was doing, how Audrey’s relationship was going, and everything in between.

Audrey had her sister back, and it was the best thing in the world.

She stroked a hand down Reese’s flat stomach. Well, tied for best thing in the world.

“You hungry?” Reese asked her, still running his hands over her body.

“Mmm, I could eat.”

“You lay here and I’ll let the attendant know we want lunch.” He slid off the couch and headed to the front of the private jet, where the attendant and pilot were located.

She waited for him to disappear, and then as soon as he did, she jumped up and ran to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. Since he still had her phone, she’d have to use the one in the bedroom. She had time for a quick call, too; Reese was good friends with the pilot and often stopped up to the cockpit to chat with him for a few minutes.

Audrey quickly dialed Daphne’s number.

Her twin picked up on the second ring. “I was wondering when you’d call. How’s it going?”

“Reese bet me that I wouldn’t call while we were on our honeymoon,” Audrey said with a sigh. “So I have to make this short.”

“That’s fine. I have group in about ten minutes anyhow.” Daphne’s voice was cheerful and strong. Gone was the thready uncertainty, the shaking, and the sullenness. The rehab seemed to be working, but Audrey wasn’t going to get her hopes up too much. She’d give it time. If Daphne could stay clean for a year, then maybe this had a chance. Three months made her optimistic, though. More than that, Daphne herself seemed to be changed. For the first time she truly, genuinely seemed to want to get better. She’d cut ties with her label, citing that she needed a career vacation. She still had two albums under contract with them, but since she’d been clear that she wasn’t interested in the money or fame any longer, they’d negotiated down to a remix album and a greatest hits album—for a much smaller price tag. Daphne hadn’t minded it at all.

She said she was done with music. Audrey didn’t know if that was the case, but she liked this new aspect of her twin.

“So did you tell him?” Daphne asked, excitement in her voice.

“Not yet,” Audrey said, a trembling note in hers. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be a baby. Just suck it up and tell him. I . . . are you crying?”

“No,” Audrey said, and then ruined it with a watery sniff. Damn it. The pregnancy hormones were making her insane. She’d cried three times in the last week over stupid stuff.

“Well, you need to stop,” Daphne said sensibly. “Especially if you want to keep this a secret. If he sees you crying, he’s really going to think something’s up.”

“I just don’t know what to do, Daph,” Audrey said, wiping away her tears. “What if he doesn’t want it?”

“Then the two of us raise that baby with Twinkie power,” Daphne said stubbornly. “It can have two moms. Or just one. We can pitch-hit and switch out. I’ll put on some boring clothes and re-dye my hair and the kid will never suspect a thing.”

Audrey gave a weepy giggle. “Great. Don’t forget that you need to put on some weight, too.”

“This is true. You have bras bigger than the dress I wore to last year’s Grammys.”

The comment made her think of the white bikini Reese had bought her, and she burst into new tears. A white bikini for their wedding. What if he didn’t want to get married when he found out she was pregnant?

“Oh, jeez,” Daphne said soothingly. “It’s going to be okay, Twinkie. Calm down.”

“Audrey?” Reese stood in the doorway of the bedroom, frowning at her.

“I gotta go. I’ll call you later,” she whispered to Daph, and hung up.

“Why are you crying?” Reese shut the door behind him and strode across the bedroom to her, a black look on his face.

“It’s nothing.”

His fingers swept over her cheeks, brushing away her tears. She looked up at him and the edges of his mouth whitened with anger. “It’s not nothing. Is it your sister?”

“No, Reese—”

“I’m going to fucking kill her if she’s pulling another one of her stunts. It’s bad enough that she’s stressing you out. What did she do this time?”

“Reese, she didn’t do anything—” Her hands brushed his aside.

“I’m going to turn this fucking plane around and then I’m going to go choke her by her scrawny neck for making you cry again. Goddamn, I—”

“Reese! Shut up!” Audrey exploded. “I’m pregnant, okay? I’m pregnant and I’m freaking out.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she clapped a hand over her lips. Oh, hell. That wasn’t how she’d wanted to tell him. How did he always manage to rile her so much?

“Pregnant?” Reese stared down at her, stunned. “You’re sure?”

“That’s why I’m tired,” she told him in a dull voice. “And that’s why I’m crying. Hormones, for the most part. So yeah. Pregnant. I guess I didn’t get on the Pill fast enough.” Her stomach was tying in knots of anxiety, and she had to force the next part out of her throat. “I wanted to tell you before we got married. So, you know, you had time to change your mind. I know we were relieved when—”

“Audrey?”

“Hmm?”

“Do me a favor and shut up.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

Reese leaned in and kissed her on the nose, his hand clasping the back of her neck. “A baby, huh?” A wide grin crossed his face. “Damn. I must have some incredible sperm.”

She snorted and gave him a light thwap on the abdomen. “Now you’re just trying to make me laugh.”

“Is it working?” He leaned in and kissed her again, this time on the mouth, and this time with more excitement. “You know I can’t stand to see you cry.”

“Well, I’m going to cry for the next seven months or so,” she said in an irritable voice. “So if you are going to stick around, you might want to get used to it.”

“Stick around? What the fuck does that mean?” He sounded genuinely offended.

Audrey sighed. “It means I won’t force you to get married, Reese. I know this isn’t what we wanted.”

“Audrey,” he said softly, and dropped to his knees in front of her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face against her stomach. “How can you think that I don’t want you or our child?”

She started to get weepy all over again. Reese was being so sweet, so wonderful. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really match the playboy lifestyle.”

“Neither does getting married,” Reese pointed out. “But I’ve been bugging you to marry me for the last three months. You’re the one dragging your feet.”

She was, it was true. Audrey sighed and brushed her fingertips through his hair. “You’re not upset?”

“Upset? At the thought of little ginger babies? Hell no.” He got back to his feet and grabbed her by the waist and swung her around. “Holy shit. We’re going to be parents.”

“Reese.” She tapped on his arm, torn between laughing and throwing up. “Can you put me down?”

“Absolutely.” He moved to the bed and dumped her on it, and then a moment later he was crawling over her before she had a chance to get up. He began to kiss her with fierce, sweeping movements of his tongue, and she responded immediately, growing slick with desire. He settled between her legs and she immediately wrapped them around his hips, tugging him against her.

“I love you, Audrey,” Reese told her between kisses. “That hasn’t changed a bit.” He raised his head for a moment and looked down at her, stunned. “Holy shit. We made a baby.”

“We did,” she said in a small voice, beginning to feel a little better about things. His excitement was genuine, and his excitement was making her excited. And then she smacked him on the arm. “Ginger baby?”

He grinned and cupped one of her breasts in his hand. “Are these beauties going to get bigger?”

“Yes.” They were already and her bras were fitting tight.

“Hot damn, I’m in heaven.” Reese kissed her again. “Big breasts and anal sex in an airplane on the way to Hawaii.”

She laughed at that. “I thought we were waiting for the honeymoon.”

“We were,” he said, then wiggled his eyebrows at her again in a cocky gesture. “But someone dared me that she couldn’t call her twin, and she lost. That makes me think she wants me pretty badly.”

Audrey gave a soft sigh, staring up at him. “I’ll always want you, Reese. I love you.”

“I love you, too, firecracker.” He kissed her again, this time soft and with wonder. “I love you and our baby.”

She smiled at him, her eyes brimming again.

And then he kissed her one more time. “But there’s no way you’re getting out of this bet now.”

And she laughed.

Keep reading for a preview of the first book in the Billionaire Boys Club series

STRANDED WITH A BILLIONAIRE

Available now from InterMix

Even though the bar was thumping with loud music and the crowd was shoulder to shoulder, no one approached Logan Hawkings. He stood alone, an island of calm in a roiling sea of bodies. It might have been the “fuck off” expression on his face, or the crisp cut of his expensive tailored clothing that told people he didn’t belong in this neighborhood. It could have been because he walked with an arrogant swagger that made men get out of the way and women nudge their girlfriends with interest.

None of that mattered. He wasn’t here to socialize.

He moved past the bar, down a narrow hall to a back room. A man—tall, head shaven—stood in front of the door there. The guard wore sunglasses despite being indoors, a suit, and an earpiece with a black cord that wound behind his ear and around the back of his neck. His posture becoming alert, the bodyguard watched Logan as he approached.

With a practiced ease, Logan swept the second and third fingers of his right hand over his shoulder and then rested them on his biceps in the exact spot where his tattoo lay under his clothing.

The man nodded and stepped aside.

Logan pushed the door open and strode down the stairs into the basement. Already there was a thick haze of cigar smoke above the large green octagon table set up in the center of the room. A buffet had been set up off to one side and was being ignored. Beer bottles and poker chips littered the table. Ah, Brotherhood night. His favorite night of the week. Logan gave the room a quick once-over. Everyone was here already; he was the last one to arrive. No surprise there.

The men seated at the table were roughly the same age. All were clean-cut, fit and wore clothes that spoke of money. They all carried themselves with the confidence that success brought, though in some, the confidence was more swagger than anything.

Beside the empty chair held for him sat Hunter Buchanan, the scarred, silent real-estate tycoon, and Logan’s most trusted friend. Next to him sat Reese Durham, a young, brash man on the cusp of hitting his billion-dollar fortune. Beside him sat Griffin Verdi, English aristocracy and the ‘professor’ of their small group. Then was Jonathan Lyons, owner of Lyon Automotives and notorious adventurer and thrill seeker. At his side was Cade Archer, the philanthropist of their group.

The five men barely glanced up from their cards as he entered.

“You’re late,” Reese Durham told him, a cigar hanging from his mouth. He examined his cards, face impassive.

Logan slipped his jacket off and tossed it into a corner, then moved to the only empty seat at the table. Cade raised a hand in greeting. Logan grasped it and then turned to clap Hunter Buchanan on the back. The man’s scars looked hideous in the dim light of the room.

“About time you got here,” Cade said in a pleasant voice. “Reese was just asking about Gloria.”

Logan frowned, shaking his head as he sat down between the two men. “Gloria who?”

Reese grinned at him across the table. “You know. Stacked Gloria with the big blond hair. I guess you’re not seeing her anymore? You brought her to the Stewart fund-raiser a few months ago.”

Had he? Logan couldn’t recall. He hadn’t had a second date with anyone since . . . well, since Danica. Hadn’t been interested enough and hadn’t made the time. “I don’t recall a Gloria.”

“So you wouldn’t care if I dated her? I met her at a party the other night and wouldn’t mind seeing her again.”

“Care?” Logan snorted. “I can’t even recall her face. She’s all yours.”

“Did you know she’s a friend of Danica’s?” Reese asked.

“Then you’re more than welcome to her,” Logan said, his voice cool. “If she’s a friend of Danica’s, she can burn in hell for all I care.”

“Thought you’d say that,” Reese said cheerfully.

“Just do me a favor and don’t bring up Danica again,” Logan said, his tone friendly but with a touch of warning.

The last thing he wanted to do was discuss a money-grubbing gold digger. She was in his past, and he had no intention of dwelling on her. His father had mocked him for falling for Danica. He’d said that Logan was being a stupid fool. Turned out the old buzzard had been right all along.

And that grated more than anything.

“So what took you so long?” Hunter pulled out a stack of chips, glancing over at Logan.

A smooth, effortless change of subject. Logan turned to Hunter and gave the scarred man a check for his share that evening. Hunter added it to the bank and shoved the pile of chips in his direction.

“I have a new driver,” Logan said. “He got lost.” His tone implied that it wouldn’t happen again.

Reese snorted and shook his head. “Excuses, excuses.” He gestured at the pile of chips in the center of the table. “Everyone in?”

The six men consulted cards as they were dealt. As cards were laid face up, Cade immediately tossed a bid into the pile. Four of the men folded. “The paladin there’s got three of a kind showing,” Jonathan said with a disgusted glance at Cade. “You know he can’t lie to save his ass.”

Reese sighed and put his cards down as well, the last in besides Cade. “Hell, you’re right. I fold, too.”

Cade grinned and raked the money toward him. “I might have been bluffing.”

“You weren’t,” Jonathan said, and took another swig of his beer, then leaned back to the catering table and snagged one for Logan. “You don’t know how.”

“All right,” Logan said, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap. He took a quick drink. “Now that we’re all here . . . This month’s meeting of the brotherhood is called to order.”

The men raised their drinks, clinking bottles together. “Fratres in prosperitatem,” they all said in unison, as they did every month. It was the motto of their clandestine society—“Brothers in Success.”

“First order of business is the round table,” Logan said. “We’ll start with Jonathan.”

“Lyons Automobiles continues to sell strongly in all quarters. We’re looking at adding a line of high-end convertibles that will have an electric engine but with enough horsepower to compete at Daytona.” He grinned. “I’m thinking about driving one myself. I’ll spare you the technical details.”

“Please do,” said Griffin in his cultured, bored voice.

Jonathan was undeterred. He picked up his cards, beginning to deal the next hand. “Prototype won’t be ready until next quarter at the earliest, but when we roll them out for mass production, you’ll each get one, compliments of the brotherhood.”

He discussed his car business a bit longer as the hand went on and then turned to Griffin. “You’re up.”

Griffin shrugged, examining his hand. “It’s money. It accumulates on its own.”

“Says a man that grew up with wealth,” Reese pointed out. “Not all of us were so lucky.”

“It’s not my fault I was born rich. Besides, I invested in Cade’s medical research facility,” Griffin pointed out, waving an idle hand. “I’m doing something with my money, at least.”

“Reese?” Logan asked.

“My newest acquisition, the Vegas Flush, seems poised to take the Stanley Cup this year. You’re all welcome to tickets, of course. Just contact my secretary. I’m also looking at acquiring a football team.” He grinned. “Maybe soccer. It’s a sport that can grow here in the States. Might be a solid investment worth looking at if I can get a superstar player to get people into the stands. Still debating.”

They discussed sports teams for a bit and then went on to Cade Archer, who talked about medical breakthroughs at his research facility and some upcoming charity events. Cade was their white knight. He made money, but he insisted on it having some sort of higher purpose or focus on the good of mankind.

The rest of them? They just liked to make money.

Reese, Logan, and Griffin all took their turns, sharing any news of the week, and then the conversation moved on. Hunter was last, and he kept things brief, as he always did. The real estate tycoon man was never one for talking much. He just sat back and enjoyed the company of his brothers most meetings. Tonight, though, he had something to share, and his dark gaze moved to Logan as he spoke. “Got wind of an investment property if you’re interested. There’s a large resort on an island in the Bahamas that’s in need of a cash influx. Exuma District. I have a friend that’s willing to sell to an interested investor, and I think it could be a solid deal.”

Logan nodded, only half paying attention to his cards. It did sound like something up his alley. Hawkings Conglomerate was all about buying failing businesses on the cheap, turning them into profitable organizations, and then reaping the benefits from that. “Prime location?”

“So I’ve been told. Worth taking a look. There’s a French billionaire interested, but I thought I’d bring it to the brotherhood first.”

Logan grunted, considering. For Hunter to have brought it up, it must have been an excellent deal. Normally Hunter was silent. He contributed funds if one of the others needed cash flow to ensure that his business did well, but other than that he kept to himself. Logan admired that. The man was an island. Logan suspected that he didn’t have many—if any—friends outside of the brotherhood.

“I’m busy right now, but I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” Logan said with a nod.

“Maybe you should check it out and take a vacation at the same time,” Reese told him. “Get away from the office for a few days. Forget your troubles.”

Logan scowled at Reese, throwing his ante for that hand onto the table. “My troubles are long gone.” After all, he’d shaken off Danica before they’d ever made it to the altar—a bullet dodged. And his bastard of a father had passed away at about the same time. That was two millstones no longer around his neck.

Reese looked amused at Logan’s response, as if he didn’t believe him. “Oh, really? Because that’s not what—”

“Stay out of it,” Logan said in a warning tone.

Reese simply grinned and shrugged, turned his attention back to his cards. “Suit yourself.”

Logan did keep thinking about Reese’s words, though, and was distracted enough that he stayed in despite having a garbage hand. He ended up losing two grand to Jonathan without even realizing it.

Reese thought he should take a “vacation.”

He wanted to laugh at the thought. Successful men didn’t get vacations. They just got more opportunities. Still, it sounded like an interesting investment, and he liked to keep Hawkings Conglomerate diverse. An island resort was definitely diverse.

He noticed Hunter watching him out of the corner of his eye. Had the real estate mogul decided that he’d toss the gem Logan’s way because he thought Logan could do an admirable job of flipping it? Or did he, too, think Logan needed a distraction?

That thought made his mood sour. First Reese was needling him, and now Hunter was in on it? He wouldn’t have thought that of Hunter. He was the quietest of their small, successful group, but sometimes he saw straight into the heart of the matter.

His father would have sneered at the thought of a vacation. To stay strong and on top of business, you kept a close eye on things and one hand on the rudder at all times. Vacation made you weak. Soft. And Hawkings men weren’t soft. They had poor taste in women, though. His father had married his mother, and that had been a mistake for all parties. And Logan had almost been fooled enough by Danica’s sweet face to go to the altar with her.

Logan stared at his cards, frowning, and tried to conjure up the face of someone named Gloria. Nothing. His memory was full of business meetings and contracts. No women.

Maybe a vacation/business trip was just what he needed at the moment.

“I’ll take a look at it,” he told Hunter.

***

Two Months Later

“Hate to say it, girl,” Sharon told Brontë and flopped down on her queen-sized bed. “But this is the shittiest resort I’ve ever stayed in.”

“It was free,” Brontë replied, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “You can’t really complain about free. Epicurus said, ‘Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance.’”

“Uh-huh,” Sharon said in a tone of voice that told Brontë that she wasn’t listening. Instead, she’d picked up the remote and, pointing it at the TV, began to hammer on the buttons. “They water down the drinks at the pool. Did you notice that?”

For the ninth time in two days, Brontë regretted bringing Sharon. When she’d won the trip through her local radio station, 99.9 Pop Fever, she’d been just thrilled to go. Her friends in Kansas City hadn’t been able to come, though—none of them could get off work. Her old roomies from college had “real” jobs with responsibility, and they couldn’t get away from work for a last-minute getaway vacation, no matter how free it was.

Seeing as how Brontë was a waitress at a diner, she had no problem getting the time off. She’d simply asked for someone else to cover her shifts. Sharon had overheard Brontë’s conversation, though, and just happened to have a passport and enough vacation time to be able to make the trip. She’d broken up with her boyfriend, and she could really use a few days away, and wouldn’t Brontë want company on the trip?

Sharon wasn’t Brontë’s favorite coworker, but they got along well enough. And Sharon had given her sad eyes and mentioned the trip so often that Brontë had felt guilty about letting a second ticket go to waste. So she’d relented and brought Sharon along.

Big mistake.

After a rocky flight, during which Sharon had whined the whole time, a horrible ferry ride out to the island (Sharon had whined all the way through that, too), and now sharing the world’s smallest hotel room? Brontë was starting to think that next time she’d just go alone. Forty-eight hours with Sharon was about forty-seven too many.

Even though Brontë was determined to enjoy the vacation, Sharon was making it difficult. She was a slob. Her clothing and shoes were strewn all over the small room. She hogged the bathroom and used all the hot water and took all the towels. She’d stayed out all night the previous night partying without Brontë. And she’d nearly cleaned out the minibar already, despite the fact that Brontë had pointed out that it would be charged to Brontë’s credit card since the room was in her name.

“This place is a total roach motel,” Sharon said, tossing her suitcase onto the bed and throwing clothing onto the floor until she uncovered her pink bikini. “You should have asked them to upgrade you to the penthouse.”

“The radio station gave me the vacation. I couldn’t exactly demand anything.”

“I would have demanded a room larger than a closet!” Sharon stripped off her sundress and began to change.

Brontë went back to her guidebook, ignoring Sharon’s incessant complaining. So the resort was a little on the . . . rundown side. Seaturtle Cay in the Bahamas was still a win in Brontë’s eyes. It was free, for starters. She hadn’t spent a dime on travel or the hotel, thanks to the radio station. Which was a good thing, seeing as how she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Mostly, it was just nice to get away from work. The beaches were gorgeous, and she’d seen a few advertisements for fun excursions like parasailing and snorkeling.

It just had to stop raining.

Brontë glanced out the window at the gray, gloomy skies and pouring rain. She sighed and flipped to the back of the guidebook, wondering if it included a list of rainy weather events.

Sharon finished adjusting her bikini and then glared out the window. “We’re not going to get one day of sunshine, are we?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a weatherman,” Brontë said without looking up, her voice as cheerful as possible. “Maybe you should go to the bar and see if anyone there has a weather report.”

“Now that sounds like a great idea.” Sharon put on a pair of enormous hoop earrings, slid into her sandals, and waved at Brontë. “I’ll be back soon. You want anything?”

Some peace and quiet? “I’m good.”

As soon as she was gone, Brontë exhaled in relief and stretched out on the bed. She grabbed a pair of earbuds and turned her music up to blot out the sound of her neighbors having sex—again. Brontë picked up her guidebook and flipped back to the beginning. A vacation was a vacation was a vacation, and she was going to enjoy this one, damn it. She turned a page. Swimming with stingrays. Huh. Maybe she’d try that. She glanced at the angry, cloudy sky again.

Just as soon as it was sunny.

***

A hand roughly jarred her awake from her nap. “Brontë! Ohmigod. Brontë! Wake up!”

She jerked up, tugging out the earbuds, only to see Sharon looming over her bed.

The other woman looked frazzled. “Did you not hear the loudspeakers?”

“Mmm? Loudspeakers?” Sure enough, there was a low tone echoing over and over. As she cocked her head to try to distinguish the sound, Brontë heard a voice chime in over the loudspeaker.

“Please make your way to the bus loading area,” it said, calm and smooth. “All guests will be transported to the evacuation site as soon as possible. Please remain calm and do not panic. There is plenty of time to evacuate the area prior to the hurricane. Refunds will not be issued. Guests will be given a voucher for a future visit.”

“Hurricane?” Brontë repeated slowly, as if trying to make the word register in her mind. “Are you serious?”

“Hurricane Latonya,” Sharon said, moving to her bed and throwing her suitcase onto the mattress. “Category three currently and heading toward category four or five. They’re evacuating this entire stupid island.”

A hurricane? It seemed ridiculous. Brontë had seen something about it on the news. Something like “not heading anywhere near the Bahamas.” The news was apparently a big fat liar.

She sat up in bed, alert. “Where do we go?”

“We’re all going to be shuttled over to a nearby cruise ship and taken back to the mainland.” Looking stressed, Sharon pulled a pair of jean shorts on over her bikini. “This whole vacation has been doomed.”

Brontë believed in making lemonade out of lemons as much as the next person, but she was starting to agree with Sharon. “I can’t believe the hurricane’s heading this way.”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be a big one, too. Pack your stuff. We have to go.”

They packed quickly, Brontë far more than Sharon, who had crammed her suitcase full of clothing and shoes and now found it wouldn’t all fit back in since she’d purchased some things in the gift shop. Sharon spent a good twenty minutes deciding which outfits to take with her and which to leave behind, and wailing about all of it. Just when Brontë was about to leap over the bed and take over, Sharon said she was ready. Suitcases in hand, they made their way out of the room.

A sea of people wandered the hallways, tourists with suitcases and small children. People were crying and arguing, and everyone was shoving to get ahead. The line for the elevator stretched down the hall and the bland, too-calm evacuation message played over the loudspeaker over and over again.

“Stairs?” Brontë asked Sharon.

“In heels? Down twenty floors? Are you kidding me? We can wait for the elevator.”

Brontë bit back her retort. “Fine. We’ll wait for the elevator.”

They did, and had to wait nearly half an hour just to get on the stupid thing. They made it down to the lobby only to find that it was packed shoulder to shoulder with guests. It was a complete and utter mess, and Brontë’s stomach sank at the sight of it.

Sharon pushed her way forward, and Brontë followed her. There was a line of buses in the parking lot, barely visible through the relentless rain and the crowd of bodies waiting to get out of the hotel. One harried looking man with a clipboard was trying to keep order—and failing miserably.

As they stood waiting, a man with a Red Cross symbol on his rain slicker headed inside. “All right,” he yelled, and the room quieted. “We’re going to need you to form an orderly line. Have your identification and your passport out and available. We’ll be taking you all to a nearby cruise ship that has agreed to sail back to the mainland and out of the storm’s way. Again, please have your passport and identification ready.”

The crowd murmured, digging into pockets and pulling out wallets. Brontë pulled out her small purse and removed her passport and license.

Sharon got a panicked look on her face and started digging through her purse.

“Sharon?” Brontë said nervously. “What is it?”

“I can’t find my passport,” Sharon said, moving aside as the line of people surged forward to get onto the bus.

Brontë pushed her way to Sharon’s side, trying not to be annoyed. “Is it in your suitcase?”

“I don’t know! It should be in my purse.” Sharon opened her purse and began to dig out a random assortment of makeup and brushes. She dropped a lipstick, and it rolled away under a sea of feet. Sharon stared after it, her gaze full of longing. “Shit. I loved that color.”

“You can buy a new one,” Brontë told her, her patience nearly gone. “Find your passport.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s at the bar?”

“Either the bar or the room.” Seeing as how those were the only two places Sharon had been since they’d gotten to the resort.

“Bus number two is loading,” the man called. “Please form an orderly line for the evacuation!”

They ignored him. Sharon clutched a double handful of makeup and was still digging in her purse. “It’s not in here. Can you go back to the room and check?”

Brontë stared at Sharon. “Seriously?”

“Yes!” Sharon snapped, no longer bothering to be friendly. She stuffed the makeup back in and sat down on the floor, unzipping her luggage and ignoring the mob glaring at her. “I’ll check my suitcase here and then go to the bar and see if it’s there. We can save some time if you go double-check the room for me.”

“Line up for bus number three!” the man yelled.

“How many buses do they have?” Brontë asked nervously. “I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I’ll call your cell if I find it,” Sharon said. “Leave your suitcase here, and I’ll watch it for you.”

Brontë hesitated. She really didn’t want go hunting for the missing passport. Sharon had been awful to room with, and it had only been two days. Two very, very long days. She was almost at the point where she didn’t care if Sharon stayed or not. And now there was a freaking hurricane on the way, which just made things go from bad to worse. “There’s a hurricane, Sharon. I’m sure they’re not going to bother to check everyone’s passports. They’ll let you on without it.”

“Please, Brontë,” Sharon said, and her voice sounded tearful even as she began to rip her suitcases open and frantically dig into messy piles of clothing. “Help me, Brontë. It won’t take five minutes! I promise I won’t let them leave without you. Look at all these people standing here. It’s going to take them an hour to evacuate everyone.”

There were a lot of people, Brontë had to admit. And there had been a line at the elevator upstairs. It would take a while for the resort to clear out. She thought of the upset wobble in Sharon’s voice. Damn it. With a sigh, she pulled out her cellphone and waved it in front of Sharon’s face. “Call me the moment you find it,” she said in a firm voice. “Hurry,” Sharon told her.

No “Thank you.” No “I appreciate it.” No “You’re the best.” Just a “Hurry.” Figured. Parking her suitcase next to Sharon, she turned and ran for the elevator.

She was definitely going on the next trip alone.

***

The passport wasn’t in the room. At least, Brontë was pretty sure it wasn’t. It was hard to tell with the mess Sharon had made of things. But Brontë had dutifully upended the garbage can, searched through the assortment of half-used bottles in the small bathroom, shaken out every towel, and even looked between the mattresses.

And then, because she hadn’t gotten a call from Sharon and because she felt like she couldn’t go back without Sharon’s passport, she checked one more time. Anxiety made her stomach feel as if it were tied in knots. Were the buses still downstairs? They wouldn’t leave anyone behind, would they?

Brontë moved to the window and peered out, but it was raining even harder, the skies gray and dark. It was impossible to see anything out there except more rain.

She checked under the bed one last time and then couldn’t stand it any longer. She was just going to have to admit defeat. With a final glance at the empty room, Brontë closed the door behind her.

The hall was empty this time, but that annoying tone was still going off over the loudspeakers. Crossing her arms over her chest, she headed to the elevator and hit the button. She drummed her fingers as she waited, every second seeming like a million years. She checked the screen of her phone for a message from Sharon. Nothing.

The elevator door chimed. It opened slowly, revealing a lone occupant. A man in a double-breasted gray suit stood at the back of the elevator. There was a white name badge over one breast of his jacket, indicating that he worked at the hotel. He frowned at the sight of Brontë, looking as if he was incredibly annoyed that the elevator had bothered to stop on her floor.

Yeah, well, she was annoyed, too. Brontë stepped inside and smacked the lobby button, even though it was already lit up. She punched it a few more times for good measure. Great. She was probably in the elevator with the manager or something. She supposed it was lucky that she’d gone back to the room and not Sharon. If Sharon had seen the manager, she’d have filled his ears with complaints about how horrible the hotel was. The free hotel.

She stared at the buttons, watching them light up as the elevator moved down. Twenty floors, and she’d been on the nineteenth. The man on the elevator must have been in the floor above her. The penthouse. If she had to guess, Brontë would have assumed those guests had been evacuated first. Maybe the manager had gone up to count the bathrobes or something.

They were evacuating the entire island. Good lord. So much for her fun, relaxing vacation. She’d been trying so hard to make this vacation enjoyable, and it had fought her at every turn, as if determined to suck, and hard. So much for “fun” or even “relaxing.” Brontë’d never felt so stressed out in her entire life.

A freaking hurricane. The perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.

The elevator panel lit up on two. Brontë drummed her fingers on her arm, waiting for it to roll over to one. And waited . . .

And waited . . .

The elevator shuddered just as the power went out. The elevator car was plunged into darkness, and Brontë lost her breath, terror gripping her.

“Great,” the manager said behind her. “Just fucking great.”

A hysterical giggle rose in Brontë’s throat. Nope. That was the perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.

Keep reading for a preview of the second book in the Billionaire Boys Club series

BEAUTY AND THE BILLIONAIRE

Available now from InterMix

Hunter Buchanan didn’t believe in love at first sight. Hell, he didn’t much believe in love at all.

But the moment he’d seen the tall redhead standing in the foyer of one of his empty houses, a box of books in her arms and a skeptical look on her face, he’d felt . . . something. She’d been bold and fearless with her words, something that attracted him as a man that clung to the shadows.

And when she’d admitted to her quiet friend that most men bored her and she wanted something different in a relationship than just a pretty face?

Hunter knew she was meant for him.

She was pretty, young, and single. She had a smart mind and a sharp tongue. He liked that about her. She was unafraid and laughed easily. Days had passed since he’d glimpsed her and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. She haunted his dreams.

Hunter was smart as well, and rich, and only a few years older than her. It shouldn’t have been unattainable.

Unconsciously, he touched the deeply gouged scars on his face, fingers tracing the thick line of the scar at the corner of his mouth where damaged tissue had been reconstructed.

There was one thing preventing Hunter from pursuing a woman like that. His face. His hideous, scarred face. He could hide the scars on his chest and arm with clothing. He could clench his hand and no one would notice that he was missing a finger. But he couldn’t hide his face. When he chose to leave his house, people crossed the street to avoid him. Men frowned as if there were something unnerving about him. Women flinched away from the sight of it.

Just like the woman next to him currently was doing.

Brontë, Logan’s big-eyed girlfriend, sat next to him at the Brotherhood’s poker table. The dark basement was filled with a haze of cigar smoke and the scent of liquor. Normally the room was filled with his five best friends, but they’d gone upstairs to ‘talk’ to Logan about the fact that he’d brought his new girlfriend with him to a secret society meeting. Brontë had stayed behind . . . with him. It was clearly not by her choice, either. She sat at the table quietly, nursing her wine glass and trying not to look as if she’d wanted to bolt from the table once she’d gotten a good look at his face. Her gaze slid to his damaged hand, and then back to his face again.

He was used to that sort of thing. And he wondered if the redhead who was her friend would react the same way to his face.

Experience told him that she would. But he remembered the redhead’s sarcastic little smile and that shake of her head. The words she’d said.

“Save me from rich, attractive alpha males. They think they’re the heroes from a fairy tale. Little do they know, they’re more like the villains.”

And he found he had to know more.

“Your friend,” he said to Brontë. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

She looked over at him again, those dark eyes wide and surprised, pupils dilated from alcohol. “You mean Gretchen?”

“Yes.” He knew her first name, but he wanted to know more about her. “What is her last name?”

“Why? How do you know about Gretchen?”

“I saw her with you the other day. Tell me more about Gretchen.”

She frowned at him. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

Hunter glanced down at his cards and tried not to suppress the annoyance he felt at her caginess. Couldn’t a man ask a simple question? “I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

“Like a stalker.”

“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

“That’s what a stalker would say.”

Hunter gritted his teeth, glancing over at her. She automatically shied back, her expression a little alarmed as she studied his scars. He ignored that. “Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests. I simply wish to learn more about her.”

After all, what woman would want to date a man with a grotesque face? Only ones that wanted his money, and he wasn’t interested in those. He wanted a companion, not a whore.

“Oh,” Brontë said, and studied her wineglass as if it were fascinating to her. “Petty,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

Now they were getting somewhere. He mentally filed the information away. Gretchen Petty, author. He could see that. She had a sharp mind. “What kinds of books?”

“Books with other people’s names on them.”

He gave her an impatient stare, hating the way she shrank back in her chair just a bit. “A ghost writer?”

Brontë nodded. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

“Cooper? Who is Cooper?” Whoever it was, Hunter fucking hated him. Probably good looking, smug, and not nearly good enough for her. Damn it.

“Cooper’s her friend. It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. Gretchen likes guys that are different. She likes to be challenged.”

He snorted. Well, she’d definitely get a challenge with him.

They chatted for a bit longer, the conversation awkward. Brontë kept turning her face to the door, no doubt anxiously awaiting Logan’s return. Logan was a good looking man, tall, strong, and unscarred. Brontë was a soft, sweet creature, but he doubted she’d ever look at someone like him with anything more than revulsion or pity.

He’d had his share of pity already, thanks.

Gretchen Petty, he repeated to himself. A ghostwriter. Someone that wrote books for others and hid behind their names. Why, he wondered. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind a moniker. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind anything. And that fascinated him. What would draw a woman like her to him? Did he even want to try? Did he want to see if she looked at him with a horror that she was trying desperately to hide for the sake of politeness, just like Logan’s woman? Or would she see the person behind the scars and determine that he was just as interesting as any other man?

“I’d rather have a man not in love with his own reflection than one that needs hair product or designer labels.”

A plan began to form in his mind.

It wasn’t a nice plan, or a very honest one. The good thing about money, though, was that it allowed you to take control of almost any situation, and Hunter definitely planned on using what he had to his advantage.

***

The Brotherhood played poker on into the night while his bodyguard stood at the door, keeping out anyone that would disturb them. They drank, they smoked cigars, and they played cards. It was one of their usual meetings, if one could ignore the quietly sleeping woman curled up on the couch in the corner of the room, Logan’s jacket a blanket over her shoulders. Business was discussed, alcohol drank in quantity, and notes taken for analyzing in the morning. Tips were shared back and forth, investment opportunities and the like.

The Brotherhood had met like this once a week since their college days, vowing to help one another. At the time, it had seemed like an idealistic pledge—that those born with money would help the others succeed, and as a result, they would all rise to the top of the ladder of success.

It had been an easy vow to make for Hunter. When Logan had befriended him in an Economics class, he’d been oddly relieved to have a friend. After being home schooled for the majority of his education, Dartmouth seemed like a nightmare landscape to him. People were everywhere, and they stared at his hideous face and scarred arm like he was a freak. He had no roommate or companions to introduce him to others on campus, and so he’d lurked in the background of the bustling campus society, avoiding eye contact and silent.

Logan had been popular—wealthy, handsome, and outgoing, he knew what he wanted and pursued it. Women flocked to him and other guys liked him. It had surprised Hunter when Logan had struck up a conversation with him one day. No one talked to the scarred outcast. But Logan had stared at Hunter’s scars for a long moment, and then gone right back to their Economics homework, discussing the syllabus and how he felt the class was missing some of the vital concepts they would need to succeed. Hunter had privately agreed, having learned quite a bit of his father’s business on his own, and they’d shared ideas. After a week or two of casual conversation, Logan had taken him aside and suggested that Hunter attend a meeting he was putting together.

It was a secret meeting, the kind legendary on the older Ivy League campuses and spoke about in hushed whispers. Hunter was immediately suspicious. As a Buchanan, his father was one of the wealthiest men in the nation, a legend among business owners for the sheer amount of property he owned. Their family name was instantly recognizable, and several of their houses landmarks. His father’s real estate investments had made him a billionaire, and Hunter was his only heir. He’d learned long ago to suspect others of ulterior motives.

But Logan was incredibly wealthy in his own right. He had no need for Hunter’s money. And Hunter was . . . lonely, though he would never admit such things to anyone that asked. So he’d gone to the meeting, expecting it to be a scam or a joke—or worse, a shakedown.

Instead, he’d been surprised. The six men attending had come from all walks of life and had a variety of majors. Reese Duncan was attending college on a scholarship, and his clothes were worn and ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He’d been ribbed about being a charity case by the other wealthy students, and had gotten into a few fist fights. Ditto Cade Archer, though he was a favorite on campus with his easy, open demeanor and friendly attitude. His family did not come from money, and rumor had it that they were up to their necks in debt to send Cade to college. He did recognize Griffin Verdi, the only foreigner. British and titled, the Verdi family was well connected with the throne and still owned ancestral lands. And there was Jonathan Lynde, whose family had some wealth, but had lost it all in a business scandal.

It was an eclectic group to say the least, and Hunter had been immediately wary. But once Logan had begun to speak, the reality of their gathering came to light: Logan Hawkings wanted to start a secret society. A brotherhood of business-oriented men that would help each other rise to the top of their selective fields and assist one another. He believed that the ones that had power could use that power to elevate their friends, and in doing so, could expand upon their empire. And he’d selected like-minded individuals that he hoped would have the same goals as him.

Hunter had been reluctant at first, since his family had the most money of all of the attendees. The others had been equally skeptical, of course. But once they began to talk, ideas were shared and concepts and strategies born. And Hunter realized that these men might not be after his family’s wealth after all, but to make some of their own.

He’d joined Logan’s secret society. The Brotherhood was formed, and over the years, he’d gone from no friends to having five men that were closer to him than brothers.

And even though years had passed, they still met weekly (unless business travel prevented it) and still caught up with each other and shared leads.

Until tonight, a woman had never been invited. The others had been unhappy at Logan’s invitation to Brontë, but Hunter didn’t mind. He was actually inwardly pleased, though he’d shown no outward reaction.

Brontë’s inclusion into their secret meant that she would be around a lot more. And Brontë was good friends with his mysterious redhead—Gretchen.

This was information that Hunter could use. And so he didn’t protest when Logan had brought her in. She’d given him plenty of information, too. His Gretchen was a writer. A ghost writer. There had to be a way to get in contact with her. Spend time with her without arousing her suspicions. He simply wanted to be around her. To have a conversation with her. To enjoy her presence.

Of course he wanted more, but a man like him knew his limits. He knew his face was unpleasant. He’d seen women clutch their mouths at the sight of him. He’d never have someone like Gretchen—smart, beautiful, funny—unless she was interested in his money. And the thought of that repulsed him.

He’d take friendship with a beautiful woman, if friendship was all he could have.

Jessica Clare also writes as Jill Myles and Jessica Sims. As Jessica Clare, she writes sexy contemporary romance.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 612