The Unwanted Bride (The Lasker Brothers #7)
Chapter One
Huxley
“How’s business?”
The question is innocuous, and delivered in a sweet tone that says my grandmother Catalina Huxley is merely curious. But I know better. The sentiment hidden beneath those two words is I hope your agency fails so you have no choice but to join the firm .
“Great. Got more work than we can handle, so we’re hiring. Why, you know anyone who’s interested?” My words are honeyed, my smile polished as I let out a puff of smoke from my cigar. It’s a vice I indulge in around the Huxley side of the family because I need something to soothe my temper. Sometimes whiskey just isn’t strong enough to cut it.
“Of course.” Her smile remains as glitteringly brilliant as the chandelier over our long table. Everything about her is polished and expensive, from her glossy, dark hair to the deep blue dress that fits her slim form. Very few lines mar her elegant face—just a couple of furrows between her eyebrows that her cosmetic surgeon couldn’t get rid of. They came from years of unconscious frowning while dealing with criminals who deserved to be put behind bars. Underneath that concerned maternal expression is a Machiavellian heart that makes Lucrezia Borgia look like Florence Nightingale. Grandma spares no one, not even her own grandchildren. “I’d love to refer a few.”
“Awesome. Looking forward to meeting them.” She’s going to send me saboteurs. If she could, she’d find a way to sue my agency out of existence, except that she knows that I’d fight back, and I fight dirty. She doesn’t want that kind of mud splattered on her pristine reputation as a highly successful former prosecutor.
Part of me wishes I could just throw my hands up in the air, say fuck you all and walk out, but some old guilt holds me back—I don’t want Grandma to focus all her intensity on my cousins. They’ve told me to go see a therapist, but what’s the point? No therapist has the power to travel back in time and stop me from being the ignorant moron who endangered his cousins. Ares still bears the scars.
Her housekeeper brings us small plates of tart samplers and coffee. Grandma has a definite preference for desserts, and today it’s bite-sized tiramisu, chiffon cake and some kind of berry-topped custard.
My eyes flick to the gloomy sky outside—a storm is coming. Rain doesn’t bother me, but it’s a good excuse to end this farce early. I should’ve known better when I walked into Grandma’s dining hall and saw no one except her and my mother Jeremiah.
The latter is sipping Merlot and also puffing on a cigar. She must’ve just eviscerated some opposing counsel and won a major victory for her client. Merlot and a cigar is how she celebrates every triumph. If she could, she’d drink her opponent’s blood, but that’s frowned upon these days. And the Huxleys prize their reputation.
Wonder what she’d drink if I finally caved in and agreed to join Huxley it could fail again.
But hopefully he’s sterile now. The world doesn’t need more children to suffer through fucked-up childhoods.
The girl rubs her arms. Soon her teeth are chattering loudly enough that I can hear them over Beethoven. The A/C is blowing icy air, which is how I like it, but it’s probably too chilly for her. I turn it down. “Better?”
“Thank you.” Her beautiful eyes focus me, then crinkle as she smiles. “You’re really nice.”
“It’s just the A/C,” I say gruffly, slightly uncomfortable at the thanks.
The warm smile she flashes at me lances my heart. “Yeah, but a lot of people wouldn’t notice. Or maybe wouldn’t care.” She sniffs.
More like she’s surrounded by assholes who don’t give a damn about anybody. I keep my mouth shut to discourage her from sharing more.
“My half-sister wrecked my car and didn’t bother to get it repaired yet,” she says, then expels a frustrated breath.
I grunt, so glad I don’t have a half-sister who drives like a drunken teenager. If I did, and if she wrecked my car, I’d put her on a one-way flight to Africa with my brother Noah. He doesn’t believe in luxury travel. His goal is to take the best wildlife shots possible, which means rolling around in dirt, bugs and snakes until he can position himself to get the photos he needs.
“So what’s wrong with your mom? A car accident?” As soon as I say it, I bite my tongue. It’s none of my business. I’m never going to see her again.
“No. She collapsed, and…” She takes a shaky breath. “Why do people collapse, do you suppose? Low blood sugar?”
When the pause stretches, I realize she’s waiting for a response. I shouldn’t engage. But the sight of her pleading eyes makes my resolve weaken. “I’m not a doctor, so I wouldn’t know.” The women in my family don’t faint. They make the other party do so with fear.
“She’s too young to have something serious, I’m sure. She’s not some health freak, but she’s fit enough.”
I don’t tell her that just because you look okay from the outside doesn’t mean your insides are in top shape. Young and seemingly healthy people get diagnosed with cancer all the time. One of my friends’ fathers died in his forties of stomach cancer that way.
Soon we pull into the entrance of the ER. The area is a madhouse, with an ambulance pulling up, people shouting. Coming from a wreck, judging from the way a mangled man on a stretcher is bleeding.
“Thank you. Here…” My hitchhiker reaches into her pocket…and pulls out the saddest-looking dollar bill I’ve ever seen. She flushes. “Um, sorry. It’s all I have, but wait. Lemme Venmo you.” She grabs her phone from a back pocket, but it’s also soaked. “Shit.” She pushes buttons, but obviously nothing’s happening.
Or maybe it is responding, but she’s playing dumb. Honestly, I don’t care. I didn’t drive her here for the money. Still, a glimmer of respect stirs in my heart that she’s at least trying.
Curiosity over how she plans to get out of the situation she’s in keeps me quiet. If she has no cash and her phone isn’t working, what are her options? Write me an IOU? A check? Ask me to drive her to an ATM? But would she do that if the situation with her mom is urgent enough for her to jump in front of a car?
“Here.” She takes the pen I keep on the console and writes on the dollar bill. “This is my number. Please call me and I’ll send you the money.” She looks down at the wet seat. “And I’m sorry about your car seat. I’ll pay for this, too.”
She lifts the damp bill, waiting for me. I stare at it for a while. The number’s probably fake, the cynic in me says. Still, she’s waiting, so I accept it gingerly between my index finger and thumb.
She beams at me. “Thanks again!” She runs out, disappearing into the ER.
I look at the limp bill and toss it on the seat she was occupying just seconds ago. “Hope your mom’s okay,” I mutter. The car suddenly feels empty and quiet as I pull out to head home.