Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER ONE

GRIFFITHLYKAOISTRACED a finger over the scar that cut through his right eyebrow, skimmed the corner of his eye and sliced over his cheek. Another scar stretched from the side of his mouth down to his chin, surprisingly smooth to the touch. Still a visible angry red slash even when he combed his beard to cover it. As he sat in the leather high-back chair by the balcony doors, a glass of whiskey within reach, he could picture his ghoulish visage in his mind as if he was looking in a mirror. The past eleven months had faded the scars to dull pink. But time hadn’t dimmed the memory of the first time he’d seen himself. Stitches crisscrossing the fresh wounds. Eyes bloodshot and unfocused from the medication they’d pumped into him.

Monstrous.

Her horrified voice had slithered through him, that word burying under his skin, as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness that first day.

Not even his status as the son of a wealthy shipping magnate, with millions in the bank, had been enough to make Kacey Dupree want to stick around. Not when her boyfriend had looked more like a beast than a man.

Surely you must understand, Griff.

Her voice had sounded like nails on a chalkboard, digging into his brain like sharp talons as he’d tried to wrap his mind around the fact that his father had been killed and he’d been left scarred.

All because he hadn’t been paying attention. Had been focused on himself, as his father had just accused him of, before the world had been tossed upside down with a bone-wrenching jolt and screeching metal.

The word echoed in his mind as he dropped his hand from his face and grabbed the glass. A sip of the whiskey, straight and tinged with spice, burned down his throat. He avoided getting drunk. Too easy of an out.

But he allowed himself just enough to dull the pain.

Monstrous.

Kacey had visited him the second day in the hospital, her glistening blond hair twisted into an elegant chignon that had displayed her pale, heart-shaped features perfectly. A beauty that hadn’t even registered as he’d fought against pain and grief. She’d laid her hand on his shoulder, then snatched it back quickly, her plump red lips twisted into an expression of disgust when she’d seen the blood seeping through the bandage.

Rage had simmered beneath the dressings. His father had just died.

“Surely you must understand, Griff.”

“Give me the necklace.”

Her mouth had dropped open. She’d switched from placating to furious in seconds, raging at him for daring to take away the one thing that would leave her with memories of what they’d had before the accident. It had only been when he’d threatened to sue her for theft and ensure the news made it into the papers that she’d taken off the four-million-dollar ruby necklace and hurled it at him before rushing out in a fit of tears.

That his first thought had been Good riddance said more about their six-month relationship than he ever could have. It had hurt more that it hadn’t hurt much at all.

With one hand still wrapped around the glass, his other came up, fingers touching the tiny moon-shaped scar on the left side of his face. The only visible injury to that side. The thin scar high on his left temple from where his head had slammed into the doorframe had been covered by hair.

But he could feel it. Feel it when he combed his hair. Feel it when it throbbed at night with a pain that felt as deep and fresh as the moment he’d heard his father shout his name before everything had turned black.

Kacey had been right about one thing. He was a monster. Inside and out.

He took another sip of whiskey. Aged sixty years in the wilds of Ireland, one of the hand-painted bottles fetched over one million dollars at Sotheby’s New York location. A year ago, he would have been on top of the world with one of Europe’s most coveted models sitting across from him, the finest jewels his money could buy around her neck, and the whiskey in his glass.

Now it was merely a means to an end. A good-tasting whiskey that eased his discomfort and helped pass the time.

Fate, he’d discovered, had a very cruel sense of humor. For the past ten years he’d been consumed by money and image. When he’d first heard of the Diamond Club four years ago, envy had been an ugly shadow dodging his steps. The clubhouse, a casual name for an opulent town house in London, offered refuge for the ten wealthiest people in the world. Rumors had spread like wildfire of the amenities: a helipad on the roof, columns fashioned from Calcutta marble and suites designed to its residents’ particular tastes.

Now, as he stood and walked through the suite his father had had decorated, he no longer felt envy.

He just felt sick.

Three months after the accident, when his spinal fractures had been declared healed enough for him to remove the back brace, a lawyer had visited him at the family estate in Kent. His father had branched out over the past few years, investing in everything from real estate to technology. Those investments had resulted in a fortune worth billions.

Enough billions that the lawyer’s visit had been shortly followed by an invitation. The cream-colored envelope had been delivered by a woman in a black suit that matched the limo she arrived in. She had inclined her head and handed him the envelope as she told him Mr. Raj Belanger cordially invited him to take his father’s place at the Diamond Club.

Once one of his loftiest goals, now achieved. At the expense of his father’s life.

Yes. Fate was very, very cruel.

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave the safety of Kent, the familiarity of the gleaming wood floors, the antique furniture he’d once scoffed at. Now he understood his father’s inability to get rid of the chesterfield sofa with its worn arms where he’d once sat with his mother as they watched old movies. His refusal to sell the faded Persian rug in front of the fireplace where Griffith had sat in the winter and opened Christmas presents.

Too late, he saw the value, saw the wisdom of his father’s words, understood the caution urged upon him not to get too caught up in opulence and bank statements. With both his parents gone now, the pieces of furniture were no longer old heirlooms he wanted to replace, the home no longer old and lacking the polish he preferred in his purchases. Now the sofas and rugs and chairs inspired memories of times he could never get back. The home welcomed him with open arms, despite all the disparaging remarks he’d made.

Much as his parents had.

Kent had become a harbor, a place to hide. The familiarity of his surroundings, the warmth of a place he’d once called home, had given him the kind of solace none of his ritzy penthouses and expensive town houses had.

But his refuge had been ruined a week ago when he’d been out walking along the shores of the private lake and a light had flashed in the trees. The next day, a picture of him looking down at the ground had appeared on the front of a tabloid magazine. The picture had been a touch out of focus, enough to blur the worst of his scars. But it was evident that the man who had once been lauded as one of the handsomest in Europe was no longer so.

The story had included a full recounting of the car accident that had claimed the life of his father, Belen Lykaois. It had also revealed that the head of Lykaois Shipping had been worth far more than hundreds of millions of dollars. He had been worth billions.

Billions that had been left to his sole surviving heir, Griffith Lykaois.

The phone calls had started less than an hour later. The vultures had descended, including invitations to charity galas, private yacht vacations, dinner parties and of course more investments, scams, people clawing for a piece of his wealth.

Wealth he had once dreamed of. Wealth he could barely now stomach the thought of possessing.

Kacey’s call had been the final straw. He’d just gotten off the phone with his secretary in London who had been fielding calls for interviews, events and the like. His private cell phone had rung, and he’d answered without checking.

Kacey had greeted him with that nickname he’d loathed—Griff—and told him she missed him and could she see him please to apologize—

He’d tossed the phone out the window into the pond below without a second thought.

Security had caught two more paparazzi later that evening. His sanctuary tainted, he’d taken his limo down to London, to the one place he knew would be as secure, if not more so, than Buckingham Palace.

The Diamond Club.

He’d walked into the lobby from a private back entrance off the mews and been greeted by a portly man with a beak-like nose and one of the most elaborate silver moustaches he’d ever seen. Lazlo, as the man had introduced himself with a deferential bow, had led him across the marbled floor of the grand hall and up a sweeping staircase. The hallway had been covered in silk carpeting that masked the sound of their footsteps as they’d walked to a black door with a gold number eight.

He’d been here for six days now, stalking around the suite like a caged animal. That Griffith’s father had had it decorated not for himself, but for his son, had been obvious. Soaring windows with black trim on one side, an accent wall of red brick, and creamy-colored paint elsewhere balanced warmth with the industrial look Griffith favored. After his mother’s death, he’d grown to detest the old-world charm of their estate in Kent. The style he imagined his father would have selected if he’d decorated for himself. But Belen had chosen gleaming metal and glass, the style Griffith preferred that, as Griffith had argued numerous times, signified progress.

Whenever Griffith looked around, at the leather furniture, at the original artwork on the walls, he didn’t experience any pleasure. Just shame. Shame and a deep-rooted self-loathing that he had rejected everything his father stood for, kept him at arm’s length for so long while Belen had continued to love him from afar. He’d even eschewed his own preferences as he decorated the Diamond Club suite for his ungrateful son.

Griffith had everything he’d talked of wanting, only to find that he was missing the one thing he’d had all along and never appreciated. The last conversation he’d had with his father, more of an argument than a discussion, had been an old one. Belen had been concerned about...well, everything. Griffith’s long work hours. His relationship with Kacey. His spending.

“I don’t spend your money,”Griffith had snapped as he stopped at a light. “I spend the money I earn. You yourself just acknowledged I work my ass off for this company.”

“And for what?” Belen retorted. “Rolex watches? Paintings and sculptures you stash away in one of your numerous penthouses?”

“You own beautiful things.”

“Yes, and I enjoy them. I don’t just buy them to have them. Your grandfather built Lykaois Shipping from nothing. My early years were poor. Your grandfather lived most of his life poor. To have the wealth we have now—”

“Is earned, not a right,” Griffith finished. The edge in his voice widened the growing chasm between them.

Belen had sighed, a sigh that cut straight through Griffith’s anger and lodged in the part of his heart that would always be a boy seeking his father’s approval.

“There’s more to life, son, than things.”

“Things are like trophies. Evidence of success. The result of hard work.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Tangible.”

Griffith shoved the memory away before he could relive what had followed. He moved to the balcony, leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Plush chairs surrounded a glass fire pit. Wrought iron fencing rose up just high enough to interrupt prying eyes from nearby buildings. Black lanterns fixed to the fencing gleamed bright as gray clouds rolled across the sky, growing darker with impending rain.

What was he going to do? Lykaois Shipping, his grandfather’s pride and the legacy that had elevated their family from poverty-stricken resistance fighters in World War II to the upper echelons of the world’s wealthy, was being run by an efficient team in his absence. No one had questioned his request for a yearlong sabbatical. Between his extensive injuries and his father’s death, not to mention the international scrutiny, the board had vocalized complete support in the virtual meeting he’d conducted. He’d kept his camera turned off.

Not because they’d wanted to be rid of him. No, as his executive assistant had shared, they wanted him to rest so that he would come back stronger than ever. After he’d been put in charge of the British division of Lykaois Shipping five years ago, everything had soared: the company’s share of container traffic, accuracy, profits. The board wanted him to do the same for the entire company. Even if they had to wait a year for him to bury his ghosts and adjust to his new reality.

Griffith stepped out onto the balcony, moved to the edge and gazed out over London, the blend of old and new. A cool wind whipped across the rooftops. A few miles away lay the London office of Lykaois Shipping. What had once energized him, given him a reason to get up in the morning, now felt hollow.

An icy-cold raindrop fell on his face. Before he could turn away, the clouds unleashed a downpour that soaked him before he could make it to the door.

Perfect.

He stepped inside, shaking raindrops off like a dog, just in time to hear the quiet buzz of his private line.

“Yes.”

“Sir.” Lazlo’s voice, deep and proper, rolled through the line. “There’s a young lady to see you.”

If anger could manifest into something physical, steam would rise from his clothes.

“You can tell Miss Dupree that she can ride her broomstick back to wherever she came from or go straight to hell. I don’t care which.”

“As enjoyable as that would be, sir, it’s not Miss Dupree.”

Griffith frowned.

“Who is it?”

“Rosalind Sutton of Nettleton Thompson.”

The firm that had handled all of his father’s estate planning. A firm that dated back over two hundred years and managed the assets, wills and trusts of CEOs, politicians, even the occasional royal. They wanted him to sign the papers that would officially transfer his father’s fortune to him. This woman, Rosalind Sutton, had certainly been tenacious, from calling his private number to showing up at his various offices and even his home in Kent. Thankfully, he’d been gone that weekend. Otherwise, she might have found herself a guest of the local constabulary for the night.

He knew at some point he would have to cave. Would have to sign the damned papers and acknowledge that his father was gone.

But not today. He wasn’t ready.

You’ll never be ready.

Ignoring that nasty little voice inside his head, his next words were terse. “Tell her I’ll contact her later.”

“Of course, sir.”

A rustling sound eclipsed Lazlo’s voice.

“Miss Sutton—”

A feminine voice, strong yet muffled, replied, “Give me the phone. I need to—”

Griffith paused. He knew the voice, had heard it on the one voice mail he’d listened to before deleting it and blocking the number. Cool and professional. Yet this version of the voice was vibrant, feminine with a brash confidence that awoke something inside him.

Lazlo’s exasperated voice cut through once more. “Miss Sutton—”

The line went dead.