The Wrong Brother (The Wrongs #2)

Chapter 1

Noah

The second Beatrice Wrong charges into the resort lobby like a storm in a sundress, I know this arranged marriage bullshit just got infinitely more complicated.

The woman from the dossier—the one with a prim smile and carefully arranged hair—has nothing on this live wire. My body reacts to her before my brain can shut it down, and I shift my stance against the pillar, grateful for my loose shorts.

The lobby ceiling fans have been spinning lazily overhead, doing nothing against the island’s damp heat that plasters my shirt to my back.

The smell of salt and furniture polish hangs in the air while guests mill around the marble check-in counter.

The concierge keeps glancing at my duffel like I’ve left roadkill on his pristine floor.

I’ve been waiting at least thirty minutes for Ezra who should have arrived by now.

Typical—probably pacing some hallway with his phone glued to his ear, completely oblivious to the time.

Without Martin shadowing him with reminders and schedules, my brother might as well be wandering in the wilderness.

And here I am, the one who arrived in paradise on time to play babysitter for his soon-to-be-fiancé.

I glance at my phone again, swiping away three missed calls from the last assistant I fired this morning.

Fourth one this season, which is not my fault; I keep getting these oddly incompetent people from the temp agency HR assigned to me.

Apparently, I’m ‘too difficult to work with’ to keep someone on the company’s payroll.

I’ve got an email with a request for a minor design update on one of the buildings I wrapped up last month and tons of emails and messages from the office, but other than that, my phone screen remains stubbornly empty of brother-related notifications.

Dinner with his future in-laws starts in an hour, and he’s still AWOL.

“I just need a few extra hours in New York,” he said. “Go now to smooth everything over, and I’ll be on the next flight after yours,” he promised.

I nudge my lone duffel with my foot—travel light, leave fast: family motto of the spare heir.

The manila folder with Beatrice’s photo peeks out from the bag’s side pocket.

Her soulless eyes stare up from the page, hands folded neatly in her lap.

The perfect corporate wife for Ezra. The perfect business arrangement for King Developers.

When the woman storms through the lobby though, I have to shift my weight from one leg to another, trying to loosen the rapidly changing situation in my shorts.

The photo of her? Understated. In person?

She’s a knockout—wild blond hair cascading down her back, a pink sundress clinging to curves that demand every asshole’s attention, and giant baby-blue eyes flashing impatience.

A far cry from the picture we were given.

My pulse hammers in my throat. Shit. I drag my gaze away while my jaw clenches. Ezra’s future wife. Off-limits. Down, boy.

Unaware of my internal battle, she spins suddenly, her sandal catching on my duffel, and then she stumbles forward with a colorful curse that ricochets off the teak floor.

“Who the hell leaves their crap in the middle of a lobby?” Her loud voice cuts through the air as she steadies herself against the pillar next to me. The sound cuts deep into my ears, high and sharp enough that I almost wince—I wasn’t prepared for a Valkyrie’s shriek this early in the day.

Up close, the woman is lethal—skin flushed from the sun, full lips parted in fury, and that scent, coconut sunscreen and sweet defiance, hitting me like a sucker punch right in the gut, causing another traitorous twitch beneath my shorts.

Damn this tropical heat and these thin fabrics. I angle my hips away from her so we don’t have an uncomfortable situation on our hands. Or in my pants, to be precise.

My brother’s initials are practically stamped across her forehead: property of Ezra King, don’t touch. Even though he agreed to the wedding only a couple days ago, it changes nothing. She is totally forbidden but absolutely fucking hypnotic.

I move away from the pillar, creating distance between us so I can get a clearer head.

“Careful, little mouse,” I drawl, dropping my voice an octave lower than necessary—something I do instinctively when my predator mode gets activated. I do love a good hunt. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Her pupils shrink to pinpoints while her nostrils flare.

The blue of her irises darkens like the sky before a storm.

My pulse quickens, a drumbeat in my throat that makes swallowing difficult.

She steps forward—one deliberate step—and tilts her chin up, close enough that I can identify that specific scent of sunscreen warming on her skin.

“Little mouse?” The words slip between her teeth, barely audible above the lobby’s ambient chatter. “Call me that again, caveman, and I’ll show you exactly how sharp my teeth are.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression neutral while heat crawls up my neck.

“Interesting threat,” I murmur, my voice dropping even lower without permission. “But maybe watch where you’re walking instead of expecting the red-carpet treatment.”

She inches closer until I can count the individual freckles across her nose. The air between us seems to evaporate, and I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe again until she steps back.

“Me?” Her breath hits my collarbone. “You’re the one with designer luggage blocking the walkway. What’s wrong—your butler on vacation?”

I laugh, the sound scraping low in my throat as I try to hold my ground. “One bag, princess. Not a crime. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Shit. Wrong word choice.

Her cheeks flush crimson as her fingers curl into fists at her sides. The air between us practically crackles. “Keep your junk out of my way, or I’ll kick it into the ocean.”

“Try it, little mouse,” I growl, leaning forward just enough to let that coconut scent mixed with her sweet perfume hit me like a wave. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing against mine for half a second.

Images flash through my mind—her back against this marble, that pink fabric bunched around her waist, her head thrown back as she moans my name. The lobby suddenly feels twenty degrees hotter.

I grip the pillar behind me until my knuckles whiten. Ezra’s. She’s Ezra’s.

Her hand connects with my chest, five hot points of pressure, and I feel every single one of them. “Touch me again, and I’ll show you exactly what three years of Krav Maga look like,” she hisses as her nostrils flare and pupils dilate despite the lobby’s brightness.

I take half a step back, feeling the corners of my mouth lifting involuntarily. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to follow her hand.

“Noah,” I say, extending my hand even as my gaze drops to the papers clutched against her chest—the same dossier that’s been burning a hole in my bag since yesterday. “And you are?” Though I know who she is, I want to see if she knows who I am, knows what I do.

“Done with you,” she snaps, spinning on her heel while straightening the papers in her hands.

Her sundress catches the wind from outside the lobby, fabric clinging to the curve of her ass with each step.

My mouth goes desert dry. I swallow hard, twice, but can’t tear my eyes away.

My fingers twitch at my sides, an electric current running from my palms straight to my groin.

The willpower of a grown man is nonexistent at this point.

In fact, it’s so weak, it’s embarrassing.

Ten steps away, she freezes as if sensing my internal thoughts.

Her shoulders rise with a deep breath before she pivots back, narrowing her eyes to blue slits.

Then she storms toward me, papers clutched white-knuckled in her fist. Her eyes narrow as recognition finally flashes across her face.

A punch to my ego—apparently not everyone knows me even in elite society.

So much for being an eligible bachelor of New York.

“You’re his brother.” Not a question, rather an accusation. She slams the contract against the pillar beside my head, so close I have to inch to the right to avoid it being smashed into my face. With her finger jabbing at a clause circled in thick black marker, she orders, “Sign this.”

My gaze drops to where her sundress cleaves to her collarbone, damp with sweat. The scent of coconut sunscreen hits me again, and the circled clause becomes the last thing on my mind.

“Sign,” she repeats loudly, shaking the stack again.

Deliberately slow, without moving my body from the pillar, I take the papers, scanning the circled text. Twelve-month opt-out. Clean break. No strings.

“Planning your escape before the wedding?” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Having second thoughts about Ezra?”

Her jaw tightens. “Just. Sign. It.”

I flip through the pages slowly, glancing up at her pulse hammering on the side of her neck that keeps drawing my attention for some unexplainable, primal reason.

“Interesting.” I tap the page where her personal details are listed as if she were livestock. I read this contract at least a dozen times on the flight here and can rehearse it by memory. “Says here you’re obedient. Mellow.”

She exhales through her nose, a quiet “Typical douchebag” barely audible.

“Then why marry him?” My voice turns coarse as I lean closer because I like torturing myself.

Her jaw tightens. Those big, blue eyes don’t blink. “Sign the damn clause, or I walk before the vows.”

My fingers twitch at my sides. The pillar’s cool marble presses against my back, acting as a source of gravity fighting the magnetic pull of her presence. My tongue darts out to wet my lower lip.

“Leave it,” I say, the words scraping my throat. “You’ll get a response after I look through it. If I do.”

She inhales sharply, her tiny nostrils flaring with obvious anger. Her knuckles whiten as her fists tighten visibly, and she spins with her sundress flaring around her thighs.

“You’re a dick,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“You’re a brat,” I call after her, my gaze locked on the sway of her hips.

The lobby’s digital clock glows 4:30 p.m. Sixty minutes until dinner, and Ezra is nowhere in sight.

My fingers cradle the contract—the corners of the pages are curled from her iron grip.

The clause she circled feels like a neon sign: one-year escape clause, no strings attached, zero alimony.

She’s planning her getaway before the ink dries on the vows.

I scan the contract again. Airtight, except for her escape clause—a time bomb that could detonate our entire corporate defense strategy if she walks after a year.

There’s no way to say if the shares will be pulled away along with her escape.

We can put it into the contract, but no one knows if her father won’t start a legal battle over that when the deed is done, and by the time we win that war, our company will be lost to the board.

Even after she’s long gone, her cocktail scent lingers in the air, pushing away every other smell of the tropical island.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her parted lips or the curve of her hips beneath that sundress.

I press my spine against the cool marble pillar again in hopes it will chill my excited mood.

She’s Ezra’s, not mine. Yet I’m fixated on my brother’s fiancé to the point that I’m ready to follow her through this lobby just to see how far I can push her. Consequences be damned.

I drop the contract on a side table next to me with a crack, tugging at my hair while the lobby bustles around me—bellhops with luggage, complaining guests, laughing children. Everything is too fucking loud.

But still no Ezra. No explanation. He landed yesterday on the main island—I confirmed it.

The plan was for us to meet here today. When I landed in Bora Bora yesterday morning, I stayed in a hotel not far from the airport because I didn’t want to face the Wrongs by myself.

This morning, I took a ferry from the main island to Maupiti, like everyone does around here, and I expected him to be here already.

His phone has been off since he landed yesterday, but I didn’t pay attention to it because it’s not unknown for him to forget a charger if his assistant doesn’t push it into his hands.

He’s supposed to be here by now.

So where the hell is he? Half the wedding party—the whole damn groom—is missing. The only ones here are the bride and groom’s brother—me, the damn bodyguard. So I text Ezra again.

Where the hell are you? Your wedding is around the corner.

The message sits undelivered.

The massive lobby fan suddenly stops working, and humidity and heat hit me all at once.

Sweat instantly beads at my hairline as I squint against the glare coming off the windows of the entryway.

My shirt sticks to my back within seconds.

I check my phone again—nothing from Ezra, nothing from Martin.

The air gets heavier.

The doors clack against a wall behind me. I whip around, but it’s just a family with giant suitcases and very loud voices. My head starts pounding.

‘You’re a dick.’ Her voice plays on repeat in my mind, each syllable precise and cutting.

I pull on my collar, but it doesn’t help. The cold marble suddenly burns hot against my palms as I grip it, watching the scattered waves of people move around me. I grab the contract, and it feels heavier than it should. I’ve held hundreds of them. Why does this one feel different?

My phone buzzes. For a second, hope surges that it’s my missing brother. Or even Martin. Anything to put me back on track of the mission I came here with.

But it’s just a calendar reminder for tonight’s dinner with the Wrongs where we are supposed to talk business.

I close my eyes in hopes of erasing the pain, but it intensifies tenfold because all I see is blue. The same shade as her damn eyes.

Ezra had better show—fast—or I’m fucked.