Release Me (The Beckett Brothers #5)

Prologue

Rian

Three years earlier

I’ve always known I was the best man, but it’s taken twenty-two years of friendship for Anthony De Courcy to finally admit it.

My best friend is getting married.

At first, I thought it was a joke.

The Anthony I know doesn’t do marriage—he does vodka shots, poker tables, and women he can’t remember the names of in the morning.

At twenty-five, he’s an even bigger player than me—and that’s no mean feat.

Perhaps that’s why his father arranged a merger with an American publishing house, where marrying the heiress was one of the stipulations.

Either way, it’s a great excuse for a party, which is why I find myself at the De Courcy mansion tonight.

The décor drips with obscene wealth. No detail has been spared for Anthony’s engagement party.

Everyone who is anyone in Dublin’s elite social circle is here, bumping shoulders, clinking drinks and competing in an unspoken dick-measuring competition.

It’s superficial bullshit, but I know how to play the game—I’ve been doing it my entire life.

The crowd parts as I cross the room, a benefit of being a Beckett. I might be the youngest of my brothers, but my name, and the fact I’ve carved out my own lucrative chain of bars and nightclubs, is enough to ensure I’m treated with the utmost respect.

Men nod reverentially as I pass through, offering congratulations on my latest acquisition—a sought-after club just off Grafton Street.

Women eye me like I’m the last bag of sweets in the candy shop.

I smile as I spot a blonde I fucked in the toilets at a charity ball last month.

She bites her lip coyly as I brush past her; the look in her eyes openly assures me she’s up for a repeat.

I’m not entirely averse to the idea once she understands a repeat doesn’t mean a relationship—because that’s not on the cards for me.

Not for another ten years at least.

And not with anyone from around here. When I do eventually settle, it’ll be with someone who hasn’t done half of Dublin to drag their way up the social ladder.

‘Rian!’

Anthony’s mother, Marianne De Courcy, coos.

‘Mrs De Courcy.’ I grin. Anthony’s mother is like a second mother to me. I spent my entire childhood in this house. Anthony is an only child, and I think having me here helped ease her guilt about that. ‘You look stunning.’ I wink and press a kiss to her cheek.

She scoffs, swatting a hand in front of her face, but I don’t miss the blush that creeps into her cheeks. ‘Now, now, Baby Beckett, you know flattery will get you absolutely nowhere with me.’ She pats her ash-blonde bob nevertheless.

‘And you know I can’t help but try.’ Flirting comes as naturally to me as breathing. I can’t help it. I love women, and they love me.

‘You should be using that smart mouth of yours to find yourself a wife. Then you and Anthony can double date.’

It’s my turn to scoff. ‘Please. I’m too young to settle down.’

‘Age won’t come into it when you meet the right one.’ Her bright blue eyes glitter with mirth. ‘One day, a woman will walk into your life and knock you clean off your feet. And I, for one, can’t wait for that to happen.’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’ I help myself to a tumbler of whiskey from a pretty waitress. ‘Where is the happy couple?’ I scan the crowd.

There are plenty of faces I don’t recognise.

They must be from the bride’s side. Anthony’s fiancée, Rebekka Remington, is from New York.

No doubt she brought an entourage with her.

While I’ve heard Anthony banging on about her perfect tits and ass that he can’t wait to fuck, I’ve yet to lay eyes on her myself.

Curiosity flickers in my chest about the woman who is entering our lives—because it is our lives, not just his. We move in the same circles.

‘Anthony’s brokering a deal in his office.

’ Mrs De Courcy rolls her eyes. ‘You know my son. Every event is an opportunity. Even his engagement party.’ She shakes her head good-naturedly.

‘Rebekka was here a moment ago.’ She twists her head to scan the crowd.

‘Maybe she’s gone to get some air. All of this must be overwhelming—the engagement, moving to a new country, a new job. ’

‘I’m sure Anthony will help her settle in smoothly.’ Thankfully, my tone is more convincing than I feel. I know my friend, and his track record with women is poor. Still, now he’s getting married, he’ll have to grow up a bit.

Before she can answer, she’s pulled away into a group of gaggling women, cooing over her outfit and squealing over her son’s engagement.

All this talk of settling down is giving me a headache.

I make my way through the high-ceilinged drawing room towards the De Courcy library, where I know for a fact Anthony keeps his secret stash of Cohiba Behikes.

The music fades as I slip further away from the party.

I know this house as well as my own—I spent hours playing hide and seek here as a kid.

I duck under the curved archway and push open the heavy double doors.

Silence greets me, along with the rich scent of mahogany and leather.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line the walls, their shelves crammed with hardbacks that look more ornamental than read.

A dome-like ceiling soars overhead, painted with a fading mural of gods and angels staring down in judgement.

Deep leather armchairs sit like sentinels around a marble fireplace, its grate polished to perfection.

I sigh as the door closes behind me, my gaze homing in on the huge ornate desk that not only houses a stash of the world’s finest cigars but a crystal decanter containing my family’s best whiskey—Beckett’s Gold.

I stride purposely towards it, running a hand over the front of my sleek suit jacket, pausing as I spot a silhouette standing in front of the huge diamond-shaped window overlooking the mansion’s vast lawns.

‘Sorry.’ I raise my hands. ‘I didn’t realise there was anyone in here.’

A woman turns to face me, spinning on glittering heels that accentuate her long, sculpted legs.

The wind whooshes from my chest as I drink her in slowly.

Fuck—those eyes. They’re enormous, emerald, and utterly fucking arresting. They meet mine with an intensity that’s so powerful it feels like a head on collision–shocking and soul-shattering in equal measure.

She’s breathtaking—literally. The air continues to rush from my lungs, my heart thunders in my chest, and for once in my life, I’m lost for one of my famous flirtatious lines.

This woman, this ethereal creature, possesses the kind of beauty that belongs on the pages of glossy magazines. She looks untouchable. Airbrushed to perfection—except she needs no such illusion.

A lavish ivory pencil dress clings reverently to her body, sculpting her form like fine art. She’s perfectly polished, impossibly poised—she isn’t just beautiful. She’s fucking devastating. A vision designed to ruin men.

‘It’s okay.’ She shrugs. Her lips kick upwards, revealing her gorgeous white Hollywood smile, but it doesn’t fully reach her eyes. No, her eyes are hollow. Haunted even.

Prominent cheekbones gleam with a luminosity beneath the sunset slanting in through the window.

Her flawless skin is like porcelain. Her glossy blonde hair is swept into a classy upstyle, with a few stray strategically placed tendrils to soften the severity of it.

She assesses me warily, her full, plump lips twisting into a position of uncertainty as we take each other in.

Instinctively, I gravitate towards her. My eyes rake over every inch of this goddess-like creature.

White tipped, manicured fingers clutch a crystal glass like her life depends on it.

Finally, my tongue remembers its purpose in life—well, one of them anyway.

‘Looks like we both had the same idea, sneaking away from the party.’

‘I’m not much of a party person,’ she confesses in a soft American accent.

She must be here for the bride. Dear God, is it possible that Rebekka Remington has a hot friend?

Cousin? Sister? She’s older than me, not that she looks it, but she radiates an aura of someone who’s seen too much, experienced too much, and has the battle scars to prove it.

Whoever this woman is, the urge to learn more about her consumes me from the inside out.

Fuck, maybe Mrs De Courcy is right. Double dating doesn’t sound quite so ludicrous if it involves this stunning creature.

‘You mustn’t have been going to the right parties.’ I wink, and my lips tip up in a grin.

Her mouth stretches into a slow smile, a real one this time, if the twinkle in her eyes is anything to go on. ‘Why do I get the feeling you could take me to one?’

‘Ah—I see you’re astute as well as utterly arresting.’ I raise my whiskey in a silent toast.

Her smile widens further, but she shakes her head like she doesn’t agree. Either she’s unaccustomed to being complimented, which is hard to believe given her appearance—or she struggles to accept said compliments.

Her gaze drops to her glass, and I notice she’s in need of a refill.

‘Let me get you a drink.’ A Persian rug swallows my footsteps as I strut towards the huge mahogany desk, forcing back a million graphic images of all the things I’d love to do to this woman on top of it.

I grab the decanter and stride back to her as quickly as my feet will carry me, terrified she’ll fade like a mirage if I don’t move fast enough. .

‘Is that Macallan?’ She eyes the whisky suspiciously.

I snort. ‘No. It’s much better.’

‘Doubtful.’ She arches an eyebrow and smirks.

‘Trust me.’ I pour a generous measure into her glass. Her feminine scent floods my senses, vanilla and amber, soft and decadent, like something I want to taste on my tongue forever.

‘I don’t trust easily,’ she admits, her huge eyes meeting mine again. Electricity courses through the air between us, pulsing like an invisible short circuit.

‘Smart woman,’ I concede, filling my own glass without breaking eye contact. ‘Who hurt you?’

Her smile freezes on her face, and that hollowness returns to her eyes. She huffs out a breath. ‘Where do I start?’

‘Give me a list of names and I’ll take care of them.’ I’m only half-joking. My brother Killian is the CEO of Europe’s most successful security company. His men are highly skilled, lethal and discreet.

‘If only.’ She reaches up to tuck a glossy lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Thanks for the offer though.’ She forces another small smile. I preferred the genuine one. Suddenly, it’s my mission to coax it out of her again.

‘Try the whisky. It’s better than sex.’ I arch an eyebrow, nodding towards her drink.

Her pupils flare, and then she tosses a version of my line right back in my face. ‘You mustn’t have been having sex with the right people.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you could…’

She holds up a hand. ‘Don’t finish that sentence.’ A full-blown grin splits open her lips, and her jade eyes glitter.

Mission complete.

‘Why not?’ I inch closer, unable to help myself. Suddenly we’re toe to toe. Hip to hip. My body vibrates with the need to touch her. To taste her. To kiss her.

She sucks in a ragged breath and jolts back like she’s been burned. Crimson stains appear on both her cheeks. ‘Because you’ll get us both in trouble.’ Her focus falls to the floor.

‘Trouble is underrated.’ I step forward, closing the distance between us again, and reach for her chin.

Placing a finger beneath it, I gently tip it up until our eyes lock again.

Heat scalds my skin. She feels it too. I know she does.

Desire oozes from her every pore, the same way it oozes from mine.

I’ve never experienced such a raw, visceral, primal attraction to a woman before.

I came here in search of a smoke—what I got was an inferno.

‘Not when I’m here for the wedding.’ She winces.

‘You’re here with the bride.’ It’s not a question. With that accent, it’s the only explanation.

She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, then blinks them open again. ‘I am the bride.’

Fuck.