Ruthless Legacy (Sinclair Brothers #3)

Chapter One

Ryder

E lliot Perry is late.

I shift on the seat in his waiting room at his understated offices. The pretty receptionist has flirted, undone three buttons on her form-fitting top to let me admire her tits, and given me her number.

One I just might use.

I close my eyes. No, Ryder, no. That’s the kind of shit that’s gotten me sitting here in the first place.

Normally I wouldn’t give a flying fuck about image. But apparently, others do. Including my father. Who’s dead.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

“Mr. Sinclair?” The receptionist breathes the words in a way that would put Marilyn Monroe to shame, and as I stand, she flutters long eyelashes over green eyes that have to be tinted lenses.

Not that I care. The package is pretty, tempting, and put together by a masterful hand.

I saunter over to her and lean forward on the desk. “Your boss needs to learn time is money.”

She leans in, giving me an interesting view right down into her cleavage, and the soft swell of those breasts are basically begging to be touched.

I’d like to touch them.

Pity taking her up on her offer is what they like to call a very bad idea, and I’m on a tight schedule. But I take the time to smile and wink at Lena—according to the nameplate—not just because she’s curvy and hot and willing, but I know the supposedly inconsequential people are always way more important than one might suspect. I know of deals that have fallen by the wayside because a mail guy didn’t like how the prospective client spoke to them.

Not me.

Besides, I’d totally do her.

Four weeks. That’s all. Four weeks of good behavior.

And then I’ll finally have my slice of the family heritage pie.

“Which way, Lena?”

Her hand flutters as she points down the small, plain hall on the fifth floor of the offices nestled in the heart of SoHo. “To your left.”

“Gotcha.”

I stride down and see the nameplate in discreet gold letters. Elliot Perry.

This dude is meant to be the best, so good most people haven’t heard of him. And he’s what I think I’m going to need.

I give a perfunctory knock, then open the door, stepping into the art deco styled room. Cozy and understated. The kind of look that says competence, confidence, and discretion.

The parquet floor glows and shows off its intricate design of dark and pale woods, the desk is a high gloss satinwood with rounded edges and small detailing. It looks original, a Ruhlmann if I’m not mistaken. And the chairs with their wide matching curves and burnt orange leather backs and seats are gorgeous.

The paneled glass window that looks out over Prince Street and its wintry-like day draws the eye, as does the mirror edged in black and gold with a graceful silhouetted Twenties woman on it that’s more art than function. It sits to the right on another curved table, this one higher, with a growing orchid, slender, beautiful in its purple shades balancing it out.

There’s a lady palm to the left and a long, curved deco sofa against the far wall.

And no one inside.

I glance about and see a door. It’s tucked to the far right along the way, and when it’s shut, you might not see it. But it’s open and bright light spills out.

I sit in the chair opposite the desk and cross my legs, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the day’s schedule I already have in my head. I don’t mind waiting, but not for this kind of shit. So I clear my throat.

“My time’s tight today,” I say, “so if you don’t mind, I’ll start.”

No answer, but I hear, above the sound of traffic swishing through the wet street from the rain earlier, water running.

“Four weeks. I need you to turn me into a boring, solid pillar of fucking society.”

Boring. That’s the word.

“I’ve heard you’re the best. And that’s what I need. It has to seem natural, like I’m on a path of self-discovery or growth or whatever floats their boat.” I check the time on my phone. “I just need to look good, and then we can go pick up chicks to celebrate when those four weeks are done.”

Seriously, I don’t know why I say this. I’ve never met this guy. I don’t know if I want to hang with him after four weeks of keeping me on the straight and narrow and away from pussy, of making me shine. I don’t even know if he’s married or got a piece or what.

I’m just irritated he’s not here, facing me, so I’m pushing buttons.

I’m also irritated I can’t tap the receptionist, who’s about a mile above most I meet. And I’m even more annoyed that I can’t fuck the blonde babe I met right after I got the rude and unnecessary hauling over the coals. Not the first one, the last one, that came with the letter from dear old dead Dad.

Last night.

I’m hung over, grumpy, and don’t want to be here, so acting like some small child.

But I also want this, so pissed off or not, here I am. Trying to figure out if this Elliot Perry is worth my time or if I should see what else is out there.

What am I thinking? This isn’t exactly a service provided on LinkedIn. At least not one that provides what I want.

And time is of the essence. I’m here. I need this guy to be what I need.

“Picking up chicks, as you so charmingly put it, really isn’t my jam, Sinclair.”

The voice, rich with a hint of smoke and spice rolls through me.

Two things are immediately apparent by the voice.

One—Elliot Perry’s got attitude.

Two—Elliot Perry is most certainly not male.

Three—I didn’t do my homework.

Yeah. Make that three.

“That’s either Mr. Sinclair,” I say, keeping my tone casual, confident and laid back, the one that has panties dropping in a half-mile radius. “Or Ryder. I’d suggest some kind of pet name, but I don’t think we’re going to have that kind of relationship.”

Heels click on the floor as the merest hint of gardenias floats about me. “I’m not sure we’ll be having any relationship at all.”

“Why?” I don’t turn. I don’t do the sort of thing like handing people like her all the power. That’s what turning around will do, and since she’s going to be guiding me in my life, exactly where I don’t want outsiders, even ones I hire, I’m not giving everything up. “Not enough money?”

“I’m not sure I have enough to work with.”

I smile. She sounds tall and willowy, with the kind of breasts a man can lose himself in. And long legs. I’m picturing a smoldering beauty, dressed to match this place, dressed like elegant sex, a hot woman who can get real dirty when she’s played just right. I’m seeing long black hair, loose, and—

“Interesting. Why are you smiling?”

My imagination is a little too free and easy.

“Because you sound like you’re testing me.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m highly discreet, I’m top of my game, and I take on clients of my choosing. You’re lucky I let you in.”

She leans against the desk and crosses her arms over her tits. My imagination got those spot on. Lush and full. Like her body. Some might say plump, but I don’t mind that. I like them all shapes, all sizes, as long as the woman is beautiful and willing and knows my game.

But the rest of her?

She’s plain. A wide mouth, pointed little nose, and red hair that’s pinned back in some kind of hell bun. She wears dark gray wide trousers with those heels, and a tie and buttoned up shirt.

There’s intelligence in her face that makes her interesting, and her soft gold eyes are full of fire. She’s more interesting than beautiful. Or could be.

And again, I’m not here to score. I’m here to win.

“I could buy your company a hundred times over.”

She laughs. “Why on Earth would you do that? You’re in real estate.”

“I like to invest.”

“Does your kind understand the value of quality?”

I narrow my eyes because this is going dark, wild places. “Are you calling me shallow?”

“Does the nine hundred dollar loafer fit?”

“How dare you.” I should be pissed off, but I’m not. She’s fun. “I’ve never worn a loafer in my life. And what about you? With your try-hard art deco pieces?”

Her mouth twitches as she drops her arms to rest on the edge of the desk next to her hips. “I like art deco. I like style.”

“So do I.” I clear my throat and look up at her from my seat. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m in need of your services. Four weeks.”

“You want the pig’s ear to silken purse treatment?”

“If that means staid and boring and someone who’s responsible and able to carry their family’s flagship, then yes.”

This time, she laughs. Then the laughter fades. “Tell me why I should take you on.”

A lot of reasons go through my head, but I dismiss them all. I go for the truth.

“My esteemed late father decided to set out a task for each of his sons. And when we get our letter, we have four weeks to prove we have what it takes.”

“Save me from the mega rich.”

I ignore her tone and words on account I need her magic touch.

“The infamous and rumored Sinclair jewels are real and we’re each getting a piece. A family heirloom, basically. For some reason I can’t fathom, this is tied up with the Sinclair real estate flagship. The original company. It seems my job is to prove I can be responsible and upstanding. Enough to please the stipulations laid out by the board.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t like me much. Which is insane. She doesn’t know me. And, she’s a woman. “So you miss out on an expensive piece of jewelry if you don’t do this.”

“It’s an heirloom. Beyond monetary value. Part of my family history. And the company hangs in the balance. It’s private now; the shares fall on my family’s side. If I fail, if I don’t prove I’m capable of being figurehead—” I’m pretty damn sure that didn’t come from anyone other than Jenson and my mother “—then the balance of shares will go public and it won’t be our company.”

Elliot looks anything but impressed. “You’re loaded. Buy it.”

“I can’t. There are stipulations and rules.”

Those were my fathers, I think. But this whole figurehead crap, I know my mother’s somehow behind this. How much and why…I’ll find out.

“And,” I add, “I don’t want to let my family down.”

“Your scandal didn’t help.”

“I don’t need you to point that out. Just help me do this.”

She taps her fingers against the desk. “Isn’t getting help outside the rules?”

“No. I just have to do it. Any way, any means.” Fuck, I’m going to have to say it. “I can’t do it on my own.”

And then she does something I don’t think a woman’s ever done.

She turns me down.

Cold.