2. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Keaton
3 years later
As soon as a flash lit up the night, I knew I had screwed up. How had those cursed paparazzi gotten on this property? Were the guards down by the gate there to just look pretty?
“Oh, Keaton, don’t be mean like that.” Although I had an arm around Charlotte Laurent, she swayed on her killer high heels. The result of too much booze, even though the night had just started. She puckered her bright red lips. Lips that had just been on mine, and now drew nearer again. “I know you want this, too.”
I turned my head away to avoid another lock. “Let’s get you inside before your dress gets wet.” No idea why I said that. There wasn’t a single cloud on the star-littered sky, the temperatures up in the eighties.
She giggled. “Who cares if you’re about to take it off anyway?” Even wasted she managed to sound sultry.
Ignoring her comment, I peeled her arms from around my neck. Gravel crunched under my leather loafers matching my Brioni suit as I escorted her from my Aston Martin Elysium—a custom-made that had cost me five mil—to the massive oak doors of her three-story empire. Perched atop a hill with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of Darkwater Refuge, the Laurent mansion sat on a sprawling hundred-and-fifty acres with its own golf course, tennis court, and three pools. Stuart Laurent was one of the country’s largest liquor distributors and our most valuable client.
And I had just kissed his wife.
Technically, she’d kissed me, but the media didn’t care about such details.
Crap.
I could already picture the headlines: Keaton Grady has affair with top client’s wife .
Crap, crap, crap. I had to find those paparazzi and either bribe them, or, if they didn’t toe the line, bring up the big guns. Namely the baseball bat in the trunk of my Elysium.
I opened the door of Stuart Laurent’s regal mansion and nudged Charlotte inside. No doubt the cameras were clicking away. Yeah, this looked even worse than our kiss.
As if I had a choice. I couldn’t just leave the woman standing outside, like I hadn’t been able to let her stagger around and embarrass herself at the gala.
“Where’s your butler?” I asked, steering her through the colossal foyer across the polished marble floor to the living room. My parents were billionaires—the result of owning the second largest whiskey company in the world—and their house was a palace, but it couldn’t compete with Mr. Laurent’s empire. He was the richest man on the island, and it showed.
“Not heeere. It’s just me and”—Charlotte tapped my nose with a manicured finger—“you.” Once again she slung her arms around my neck and tried to kiss me.
C’mon, enough of those games. I grabbed her by the waist and tossed her over my shoulder, eliciting a squeal from her. “Off to the sofa with you.”
How was it possible that none of the fifty plus employees were around?
Charlotte giggled hysterically as I marched through the open double-door entry, emerging in a living room of old-world luxury. Everything in here was red—the furniture, carpets, curtains . . . Even the walls. I stepped up to the silk divan and lowered Charlotte onto it.
A flash lit the room.
What the—
Cursing, I straightened, stalked to the double doors leading to a patio, and ripped them open. A broomstick of a man with a camera bag slung onto his back vaulted over a row of bushes and disappeared in the darkness of the backyard.
“I gotta go,” I said to Charlotte, turning to her.
She was sprawled on the divan, her mouth hanging open, and snoring. Wow, that was fast.
Fine with me. I had a gala to go back to. It was only ten p.m., and there were several interested parties I wanted to talk to.
Back outside, I pretended to go to my Elysium and scanned the manicured yard and bushes for the paparazzo. Pretty sure that punk was still here.
Another flash not even fifteen yards from me confirmed my assumption. I broke into a sprint.
When the guy realized I was coming for him, he whirled around and fled toward the stone wall surrounding the mansion. Did he really think I’d let him get away?
He lunged over rose bushes and flower beds, me right behind him. Having reached the wall, the guy started climbing. I caught up within two seconds, grabbed the strap of his camera bag, and ripped him down.
Ignoring his protests—only fair, considering he’d ignored mine first—I hauled him up by the collar of his shirt, and rammed his back into the wall. “You really thought you’d get away, didn’t you?”
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets from fear, the whites glinting in the moonlight. “What’s your business with Mrs. Laurent, Mr. Grady?”
Maybe not fear after all.
I yanked the camera from him.
“Wait, wait, wait, don’t break it! Please!”
I removed the memory card and tucked it into my slacks. Fury flared. When would these vultures stop invading my privacy?
Never if I didn’t make them respect me.
I slammed the camera over my knee, breaking the lens from the body. Then I tossed it to the ground and grabbed the paparazzo once again by the collar. “Get off this property before I do the same to your face.”
“You w-won’t call the cops?” Now he was definitely scared.
“Tonight’s your lucky night.” Cops meant I had to stick around, which I didn’t have time for. Had to get back to the gala.
“Thank you.”
“God forbid those pictures see the light of day,” I snarled, then shoved him away from me.
He scrambled to pick up the pieces of his broken camera, shoving them in his bag, then climbed the wall. Confident he was gone, I turned and stomped back to my Elysium.
“The shots were uploaded directly to a cloud!” the paparazzo yelled from behind the wall.
I halted in my tracks. Closed my eyes. That son of a—
A car door slammed, then an engine revved. For a moment I debated whether I should follow him, but by the time I’d get out of this empire, he’d be long gone.
I spat a curse. How had things gone sideways so fast? Not that I cared about my reputation. After all, I was Keaton Grady, party animal, millionaire, and bad boy. Or playboy. Depended on the tabloid. That image was why Lincoln Grady Distillery had a net worth in the billions, proof of just how messed up this world was. I was the face of the company, a man other men aspired to be and women adored. They bought our whiskey because of me, unaware of what that lifestyle did to a person.
But things were different this time. If the press made it look like I was having an affair with Stuart Laurent’s wife . . . We’d lose millions, and I could forget about taking over Lincoln Grady Distillery.
I tilted my head back and stared into the sea of stars stretching above me. Yeah, I had really screwed up this time.