Chapter Nineteen
Rhys
Despite the immaculately blue SoCal sky, thunderclouds seem to gather over me. Not only did I not have my passport, but the Beissen deal got fucked again, so I had to jet back to London for two weeks as soon as I got the replacement passport from the embassy.
I haven’t contacted Max even once, and she hasn’t texted me either. It’s as though we’re engaged in some kind of battle of wills to see who folds first.
She’d better initiate communication, because I’ve made enough overtures already.
Annoyance and outrage simmer in my gut at the way she ran off and ghosted me.
Didn’t we mutually enjoy the night? I didn’t imagine her pussy rippling around me every time she climaxed.
Not only that, she kissed me first, damn it!
The more I think about it, the more irritated I become.
Our chemistry was off the charts, and I did a great job of showing her she’s better off without that idiot Jeffrey.
I was planning to continue to demonstrate how amazing she is—and she ruined it all.
If she doesn’t reach out, what are you going to do? a rational voice asks.
As irritated as I am, it’s still a good question. She’s returning to work tomorrow. She has to lay out the day for me, and manage my schedule, draft all the memos and create minutes based on audio recordings of the meetings in London. If she acts like absolutely nothing happened—
“Welcome home!” My driver-slash-bodyguard Angelo waves from the tarmac, standing in front of my shiny black Cullinan.
His suit emphasizes the strength in his bulging frame perfectly.
Nothing off the rack fits him, so I had my tailor make him a few suits.
Since then, he’s gotten even more serious in his duties, always wearing dark sunglasses to hide his puppy-dog eyes and make him appear menacing.
I wasn’t sure about hiring him at first because he seemed a bit too soft—in both heart and head. But when I saw him move and shoot, all my objections vanished.
“Beautiful day, huh?” he says cheerily. His personality is always sunny and eager, like a golden retriever. His blond hair is slicked back, but without any wax, it hangs limply.
“Hey.” I step down and hand him my bag.
“Where to?”
“Silas’s place.”
As tired as I am, missing the monthly lunch at my brother’s home is simply not an option. He’s an excellent cook who loves to experiment and host our group of brothers—and it’s a chance for all of us to take a moment from our busy lives and relax together.
Silas lives in a sprawling eight-bedroom mansion with a ballroom for entertainment.
Not sure why he bought the place, since he’s never hosted a large party.
His garden is ruthlessly groomed; nothing is allowed to leave its designated space—except for the herbs.
He grows his own and lets them go wild. Even finicky culinary plants like French tarragon and wasabi thrive under his care.
The irritation that’s been lingering since Max ran off eases as I step inside Silas’s home.
A contemporary spiral chandelier hangs from the twenty-foot-high domed ceiling in the foyer.
The early afternoon sunlight pours in through the skylight, and the place smells of amazing food—like a warm, welcoming home.
I feel human again, not just a moneymaking machine people look up to.
As I make my way to the dining room, the comforting buzz of my brothers’ voices grows.
Everyone’s already seated at the big, round table.
A pale pink bowl of fancy orchids sits in the center—probably another thing Silas grew.
There’s nothing he can’t nurture into gorgeous blooming.
If he ever gets tired of working at Platcher, he could become a world-class horticulturist.
“Hey, you missed the grilled artichoke hearts,” Roarke says.
“Saved you some,” Silas says.
“Hey! You said there weren’t any more,” Liam complains.
“They had Rhys’s name on ’em.”
I laugh a little, the weeks-long tension easing, and take the only empty seat at the table.
All of us got our father’s coloring—the black hair and blue eyes—except Silas, who was born out of Mom’s affair with some Italian she met during a trip in Sicily. Silas has the dark hair, but also dark eyes and a slightly olive skin tone.
Luckily, our facial features took after our birth mothers.
Silas, Gideon, Liam and I have the same bone structure—inherited from our mother—while Roarke, Finn and Xavier each have their own looks from their mothers.
Dad was very prolific in fathering babies with his partners.
He’s always on the lookout for the next beauty to delight him and make him feel young and carefree.
If he makes babies along the way, no big deal.
I don’t find it a big problem either, since otherwise I wouldn’t have Roarke, Finn and Xavier, which would’ve been a great loss.
“I’m starving,” I say as I cut into the artichoke heart.
Silas serves the entrée—beef bourguignon. Bottles of red Rh?ne and Pinot Noir breathe on the table. My mouth waters at the scent. He makes better food than most top hotel restaurant chefs, and his wine pairing is superb.
“Great choice,” Roarke comments, admiring the wines. He’s in the liquor business and loves good alcohol.
Finn pours me a taste of the Rh?ne, since I’m very partial to it. “Sorry about making you take all the burden with Beissen and Ohimesama.”
“Don’t be. It was a mercy to be away from Grandma for so long. Why can’t she be like Grandpa?” I swallow the sample, nod approvingly, and Finn pours me more.
“If he was more like her, they would’ve killed each other a long time ago,” Xavier says.
Liam tastes a spoonful of the hearty stew and gives Silas a thumbs-up. “Better than the last one. You should open a restaurant.”
“Nope. Only cook for people I care about,” Silas says before diving into his.
Xavier raises his glass, probably glad we’re included in the small group of people Silas cares about. I take a big spoonful of the beef and mushrooms. Liam’s correct that Silas’s recipe has improved. It’s the best beef bourguignon I’ve ever had.
Roarke turns to Liam. “By the way, what’s up with you and that couple last Thursday? You looked a little pissed.”
“What happened?” I’ve been out of the loop for too long.
“I went over to Kingswood Stones & Designs to have a drink with him,” Roarke says, “you know, just to shoot the bull, and saw him looking at a couple like he wanted to murder them. Felt personal.”
Liam scowls like he just found a roach in his wine. “Ah, I just hate them. The guy’s engaged to her sister, but he let her try on the engagement ring. Well, not the final design, but still…”
“Maybe he needed a model?” Gideon shrugs.
“Model, my ass.” Liam snorts. “Their heads were like this.” He puts his palms together. “I’m shocked their lips weren’t touching. They whispered like schoolgirls the entire time, smiling and giggling.”
“Scumbags and their bitches are everywhere,” I say cynically, thinking of Trevor and Boobsie Barbie. And Slick and his chick of the day. Disgusting. I drink some Rh?ne, but the honeysuckle-sweet over-notes do very little to wash away the bitter disgust.
“Sure. But the girl—his fiancée—deserves better,” Liam says, his blue eyes darkening with something more than sympathy.
I study him. “Huh. You have feelings for the fiancée?”
He closes his eyes briefly. “It’s Olivia.”
Everyone around the table freezes. There’s only one Olivia who could put that longing expression on Liam’s face.
“It’s been years,” Gideon says.
“A decade.” Finn shakes his head.
Liam stiffens. “So?”
“Don’t get involved in a couple’s drama. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes,” Roarke says.
The light in Liam’s eyes dims. I pat his back, wishing he’d been able to get together with the girl he fell for at first sight.
But apparently, she was an infamous ice queen on campus, and he didn’t get to ask her out, not even once.
I don’t blame him, though. He was only twenty, and hormones and nervousness probably got to him.
Xavier sighs, then shifts toward me, clearly signaling a change of subject. “Any progress on that high school kid scandal?”
“Nope. Jeremiah reached out, but the kid isn’t really a kid. She’s twenty-six.”
Liam frowns, shaking his head.
“I hope she isn’t still in high school.” Xavier’s tone drops with disgust and sarcasm.
“No. That part sounded like an exaggeration from the tabloid, for which Jeremiah sent a strongly worded letter demanding retraction and an apology, plus some sort of financial compensation big enough to hurt. But Ms. Not Actually in High School is digging in her heels. Says she won’t meet a lawyer because they’re out to get her.
” I roll my eyes, but not too hard because it isn’t entirely stupid of her to avoid meeting somebody like Jeremiah, who drinks the blood of past opponents every morning before starting her day.
Gideon washes down some bread and the bourguignon with Pinot Noir. “Who could’ve put her up to this? And why?”
“I don’t know, but when I find out, I’m going to murder them.”
“Excellent. I’ll bury them in my herb garden. Bodies make great compost,” Silas says.
“Does that mean we’ll be indirectly consuming the bastard every time we get together?” Liam asks.
“Heavily recycled. Besides, we can’t have some shithead harassing one of us, thinking they can get away with it,” Roarke says.
“Watch your back, though. Czarina’s been a little too quiet.
I feel like she’s getting ready to pounce, just like how she got ready before a big jump.
” Gideon’s voice holds a mixture of warning and awe.
She used to be a principal ballerina at the Mariinsky until an ankle injury on her thirtieth birthday abruptly ended her career.
We’ve seen her old clips, and she could leap so effortlessly on the stage.
“She rarely did anything to signal a jump,” Liam says.
“Oh, she did. It’s just that it was subtle.”
“You’re making ballet sound like some kind of covert op.” Ugh. I don’t want to think about Grandma right now. I love her, but she also drives me absolutely insane with her need to mold our lives to fit her desires.
And if you don’t cooperate, she finds a way. Once, we ignored her summons, and she actually sued us to force us all into a room with her. When we protested, she said, “Be grateful I didn’t hire people to drag you over.”
Since then, we try not to ignore or push her too much. Getting served isn’t fun—and it disrupts all our schedules.
Roarke wags his finger. “Ballet’s fine. It’s Czarina who’s the problem. Wouldn’t want you to fall victim to her machinations.”
“She failed with Dad.” Liam gives me a don’t-worry nod.
“Past performance isn’t indicative of future outcomes,” Finn says.
“I got this,” I say. “There’s absolutely nothing she can do to shake my status quo.”