Chapter 1
Jameson
You really don’t realize how many times a day/hour/minute you think about sex until you’re trying not to think about sex because you can’t actually have any sex.
“Stop the car.”
I growl the words before I even know I’m going to, and the Bentley rolls to a stop in the middle of the street. Sex has invaded my brain like a thought-numbing toxin.
A woman stands in the street, bent over.
There’s a rolling suitcase at her feet, split wide open. The contents have dumped out onto the pavement, but that’s not what I’m staring at. She’s wearing a soft terra-cotta-colored sundress, the ruffled skirt fluttering around her smooth, bare thighs in the breeze.
“I figured I’d go around, take the next street…” Locke’s gruff voice from the front seat interrupts my staring and I meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror. The woman and her suitcase are blocking the street to the right, where we’d normally turn to reach the street where I live. “But you’re right. We should offer her help.”
It didn’t occur to me to offer her help. The only thing that occurred to me was her bare legs and her drifting hemline.
He’sright, though. And he’s already opening his door.
“Stay here.”
Locke stops as I clear my throat of whatever’s clogging it—lust?—and get out, fastening a button on my suit jacket as I walk over to her. I hear Locke shut his door.
She’s crouched down and has managed to stuff most of her things back into her flimsy-looking suitcase. She’s now tugging on the zipper, which isn’t budging. Maybe she hears my crisp, agitated footsteps on the pavement, because she looks up.
The early-evening sun flashes in her amber eyes. Her long brown hair dances across her face and she tucks the soft waves behind one ear as she gazes up at me, eyes widening.
My jaw clenches.
Irritating. That’s the only word I’ll acknowledge to describe the feeling in my body right now.
“Uh, hi.” Her voice is soft and sexy, which just irritates me more.
“You need help.” I mean it as an offer, but it comes out as a rude observation.
“I’m fine.” She stuffs her things, which are spilling into the street again, back into the broken suitcase. She seems harried, her smile forced, but it still lights up her pretty face.
I try not to look directly at her eyes.
Or her breasts.
The sundress has little white flowers on it. The short skirt flows loose, but the waist is cinched, the bodice fitted, and I have a direct view down her mouthwatering cleavage.
I clear my throat again. “Okay. But you’re kind of blocking traffic.” Again, I sound like a rude, impatient asshole.
I guess I am.
She glances past me, at the dead-quiet residential street where the only sound is the purr of my idling Bentayga. There’s no other car around, no other humans other than the ones tucked into their mansions.
“Uh… I’m sorry? I’ll just get this fixed real quick and get out of your way.” She laughs under her breath and tingles actually run down my spine, like she’s swept her fingertip along it. “That high curb murdered my suitcase. The zipper split when I rolled it over, and once it started, I couldn’t get it to stop.”
“Why don’t I help you.”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t need any help.” Her tone is fake cheerful, a wary edge beneath.
My gaze slides to the lacy bits of what has to be lingerie peeking out of the suitcase. And the white lace bra on the pavement that she snatches up.
She stuffs it out of sight.
“See, I knew this might happen…” She digs in her other bag, a well-worn hiking backpack that in no way suits her current outfit, and pulls out… bungee cords.
I watch, my irritation/fascination growing as she stuffs her remaining personal effects into her split suitcase, slams it together and wraps the whole thing in red bungee cords, all while trying to keep smiling. “No problem.”
“You carry bungee cords around?”
“You have to be prepared for anything,” she says brightly, really forcing the I’ve got this vibe. She rights the rolling suitcase. It resembles a sloppily made sandwich, bits of her lacy clothes poking out like wilted lettuce in the summer heat.
My eyebrow creeps up. “Large chance that’s falling apart on you again.”
“I’m not going far.” She gets to her feet and brushes off her dress, her flushed skin coated in a fine sweat that makes me think of luxurious summer sex.
“We can give you a ride.” Even as I offer, I mentally punch myself in the balls.
Getting in a backseat with this woman will hardly make my day any better.
“Oh. Um…” She glances at the SUV, where she can clearly see Locke behind the wheel, neck tattoos and all, and probably weighs the risks of getting into a car with two men she doesn’t know, one of whom looks like a well-dressed felon. “I really don’t need a ride. But thank you.”
Good. See? You’re not driving her anywhere.
We stare at each other.
She looks so… vulnerable… standing there with her sad little suitcase, the ruffled edge of her sundress fluttering limply.
No. She looks irritating.
Just walk away. She’ll be fine.
It’s a safe neighborhood.
“Well, good luck,” I force out.
Why am I still standing here?
“Thank you.”
“Nice meeting you.” Why I throw that in before I walk away, I’ll never know. It wasn’t nice. We didn’t meet. We didn’t exchange names or shake hands.
We’ll never see each other again.
I stalk back to the car with blood pumping to my cock. I’m half-hard, my pants are too hot, and I’m itching to get home and change out of this suit. I yank at my tie, loosening it, and I swear Locke smirks at me.
I feel way more agitated than I already did before we stopped.
I climb back into the Bentley and growl, “Take me home,” half wondering if one of my brothers planted that woman in the street just to fuck with me. A little welcome home gift.
Harlan.
Harlan would totally do such a thing. If he could.
As we turn the corner and drive past, though, I doubt very much that a woman like that would ever be bought or bribed by a man like Harlan Vance, for any price. She’s standing on the curb, wearing her backpack and holding the handle of her ridiculous bungeed suitcase.
I know she can’t see me through the tinted window, but her eyes seem to meet mine as she gives the car a little salute, like royalty’s driving by. Then she rolls her eyes like she’s mentally kicking herself.
I almost smile.
Then she’s gone from view.
Nope; way too sweet, not to mention human, to be on Harlan’s payroll.
I almost want to turn so I can see her out the back window, but I don’t.
Maybe instead of “Good luck,” I should’ve said, “Have dinner with me.”
Maybe I would’ve, if not for the game.
This fucking challenge.
I never actually thought my siblings hated me, even Harlan, but I’m seriously starting to wonder.
I’m also half sure they all expect me to fail.
Which is a huge question mark.
Do my siblings really want me out of the family business? Cut off from my inheritance? I can’t believe that, no matter how much we piss each other off. At the end of the day, we’ve always had each other’s backs.
One of them definitely wanted me to suffer through this no-sex dry spell, though.
Why?
We already lost a one-billion-dollar portion of Granddad’s estate to his now-not-so-secret lover, thanks to the little surprise in his will. Valerie isn’t even related by blood or marriage.
What next, I lose my entire inheritance to my siblings and lose my job to whatever greedy pion they promote to replace me, all over some ridiculous personal challenge gone too far?
No.
No way I’m going through this for nothing.
I’m almost halfway through this challenge; I just need to stay away from attractive women and stop thinking about sex every thirty seconds.
Like right now.
The hem of her little sundress fluttering as that sweet ass bounces in my lap…
And those plump tits bounce in my face.
I rearrange my package and decide to send a text to my—I assume—most sexually active brother. The one who owns a sex club.
Me: You’re an asshole.
I’ve sent him a text along these lines once a day for forty-three days straight.
He gets back to me remarkably quick; maybe he’s not having sex right this second.
Damian: Love you too little brother.
Then he sends me a kissy-face emoji. So fucking smug atop his high horse at the club, where he can have sex at the snap of his fingers.
Any kind of sex he wants.
I grimace as the woman in the street flashes in my head. In my mind, the breeze lifts her dress a little higher, and I glimpse her panties. They’re white and lacy, like that bra.
I tried not to mentally undress her when she was right in front of me, literally on her knees…
But she was fucking gorgeous.
Her soft hair.
Her bright amber eyes.
The swell of her tits in that little dress…
Me: We’ll just see who’s laughing when you get your challenge.
If only I knew what it was.
* * *
Locke parks the Bentley in my garage and comes around to open my door, but I’m already stepping out. I leave him to collect my bags. Clara’s waiting to greet me as I stalk into the house, shucking off my suit jacket and handing it to her.
“Welcome back, Mr. Vance.” She follows me as I grunt a response and make my way up the back hall to the living room, her high heels clipping along as I tear off my tie. “How was Las Vegas?”
“Vegas was Vegas. So, a shitshow.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she says politely, following me straight to the bar, where I pour myself a drink.
I snort. “No, you’re not.”
She gives me a small, professional smile. Clara is my live-in personal assistant and house manager. She’s fifty-one, infinitely patient and well-mannered, and probably deserves a raise for dealing with my mood swings over the last forty-three days alone.
Don’t be an asshole. Last thing you need is Clara quitting.
She doesn’t know the personal hell you’re in right now.
I slug back the whiskey and grimace. She watches me, probably mentally updating her résumé as I pour myself another.
“Before I forget,” I tell her, “have Annabeth set up another meeting with the distillery. The whiskey’s not where it should be.” I slug back another mouthful and swish it around, trying to put my finger on what’s wrong with it.
My latest brainchild is another celebrity alcohol brand, and who better to sell whiskey than a rock star? I might think it’s just my bitter mood souring things, but the taste still isn’t quite there. Jesse Mayes himself, the aforementioned rock star and my neighbor, told me as much over the phone while I was in Vegas.
“I see you’re still drinking it,” Clara notes dryly.
“It’s not perfect. But it’s not bad.”
“Annabeth called from the office, actually, just now. Your brother wants to see you as soon as you get back?—”
“Which one?”
“The nefarious one.”
Harlan, then.
“No.”
“That’s your entire response?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll pass that along.” She hurries to follow me as I cross the living room. “There’s more. Mr. Hudson is here?—”
“Ten minutes.” I hold up my hand, silencing her. It’s quiet in the house, which is just the way I want it right now, but my best friend is the only person I actually want to see. “Just tell him to hang tight and we’ll have dinner. Give me ten minutes for a shower, then meet me in my office for a debriefing. I need some of my travel plans adjusted.” Cancelled, actually.
I need my entire fucking life cancelled for the next forty-seven days, before the limitations imposed upon me by this fucking challenge make me lose my mind.
“Of course. And by ten minutes, you mean twenty?”
“I might mean an hour, and I’ll expect you there, waiting, whenever I show up.” I hold up my drink. “And bring me a refill.”
“Perhaps I should bring the whole bottle?”
“You should, if you want a raise next quarter.”
“Ten minutes it is.”
Clara’s high heels clip away as I stalk down the long hall toward my private wing, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. It’s humid this evening. I can smell the scent of the freshly cut lawn drifting in, sticky and sweet.
Just as I’m starting up my private staircase to the second floor, my head of security creeps up in that ninja-silent way of his. I feel Locke before I hear him, and I turn to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs, hulking and stone-faced.
He says nothing—just holds out his phone to me.
“What is it?”
“You best see for yourself, boss.”
I take the phone. On the screen, a web browser is open to a celebrity gossip site—showing a photo of me, holding hands with A-list actress Geneviève Blaise.
I scroll, finding three more photos, all similar to the first. Stalker-style paparazzi shots of me and Geneviève, walking out of one of my family’s hotels together.
Pulling out my silenced phone, I scroll through messages from Annabeth and the rest of my team at the office, which I ignored in the car. They’re all trying to reach me, to alert me to this breaking scandal.
It’s all over the internet already.
Apparently, just moments ago, while I was standing in the street watching a stranger bungee-wrap her broken suitcase, these photos hit the web and the whole online world decided that I’m fucking a movie star.
My family included, I’m sure.
I swear and shove the phone back at Locke. “I’m going for a shower.”
As I stalk up the stairs and into my bedroom, I wonder if Mr. Hudson—my best friend, Cole—is out by the pool. Or in the games room. Or the basketball court.
Or fucking someone in his guest room, because he doesn’t have some overbearing older sibling who’s banned him from sex because they’ve decided his cock is a scandal magnet.
It’s in moments like these that I can’t totally say that I blame them.