Billionaires On the Beach: The Anderson Brothers

by Elizabeth Lennox

  Wyatt’s phone beeped and he looked down, thinking it was Laine. He laughed when he saw his brother, Logan’s message.

  “Mom says to remind you to be nice to the nanny and don’t have her climbing the walls.”

  He texted back, “What if I’m the one climbing the walls?”

  “You’re on the roof, aren’t you?”

  “You know me well.”

  ***

  “Van, it’s ridiculous. I wonder if you’re conspiring with him. He’s like some teenager jacked up on energy drinks and I can’t keep my hands off him.”

  “You’ve been lonely too long, girl. You are the envy of five million people right now, holed up in a mansion with this guy. I started following him on Insta.”

  Vanessa passed Laine her phone. Laine scrolled through screen after screen of gorgeous, exotic location photos, videos of Wyatt cliff diving in Jamaica, exploring caves in Central America and climbing some huge temple in Thailand. And pictures of women, gorgeous ones in scraps of designer clothing, dancing in clubs and on rooftops. No wonder he was so bored stuck inside with her.

  Laine handed the phone back to her friend and dropped her head onto the table.

  “Don’t get your hair in the ice cream,” Vanessa warned, “Did you see his latest post?”

  “What is it? Pictures of his sock drawer since he’s trapped in boredom hell?”

  “This,” Vanessa showed her a snap of a dinner plate, the plate of her stuffed creminis, captioned ‘tastes like heaven’. Laine tried to shrug, tried to hide her smile. Even if it was a plate of food she’d prepared, she had done something worthy of posting on that wall full of international adventures.

  “His life is a fantasy, extreme sports and supermodels. Now he’s planted in one place for a month and you have exclusive access. Tap that ass.”

  “We were in the garden and we almost kissed and his ankle bracelet went off and there I was, ready to jump an inmate. I would’ve given you the fifty bucks and lost the bet for that kiss. He smells incredible. I want to think it’s just cologne that smells like pine trees in the mountains and black pepper and, just, like, sex. Because if that’s how his skin smells I’m in danger of sneaking up behind him and licking his neck. It’s that bad.”

  “It sounds like it’s that good.”

  “Yeah, you don’t work for him and he doesn’t call you boring like six times a day,” Laine said miserably. “And even with all that, I still want to grab him most of the time.”

  “So what’s stopping you? It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Plus, if you two are boning, I’m basically guaranteed his celebrity endorsement of the new flavor. I’m calling it Three Way—it’s Marion berries, blueberries and lemon and I thought, three fruits, ménage a trois, and there’s the name. These things just come to me, it’s a talent.”

  “It’s something, I’ll give you that much. I have to get back. He was on the roof last night. Today starts Tiki time.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know because you would have to perjure yourself when he violates his restrictions.”

  “I wish he’d just violate you and get on with it,” Vanessa said.

  “You’re horrible. If it weren’t for the free milkshakes, I’d never talk to you at all.”

  “Love you, too. Now go. Scurry back to your hot prisoner. Your love slave, oh wait, love slave would be a great flavor name! Coconut? Dark chocolate?” Vanessa wandered back behind the counter, mumbling to herself about the next luscious lick to add to the menu board.

  Later, Laine was hanging up Wyatt’s dry cleaning and leaned into the hallway at the sound of his footsteps. Her gaze followed him, his shirtless form as he bounded down the steps with a green and white surfboard under his arm.

  “Going to worship at Tiki time?” she called out.

  Wyatt looked back over his shoulder, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for this forever. The two-hour time slot begins in four minutes and you can bet I’ll be standing at the property line ready so I don’t miss a second of it! God, I can’t wait to get out of here!” he was practically vibrating with excitement.

  “Just be back here before you turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella,” she said.

  She went to the window and looked out, watching him burst out of the gate and run across the sand toward the open water. From her spot at the window on the upper floor, she watched him break into a loose-limbed run into the surf, spiking his board onto the water and vaulting atop it in a confident stance as he surged atop a wave, staying on his feet until the water pushed him ashore. When he paddled back out, she turned from the window, feeling a twist of sadness. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t have joined him, she wasn’t the one bound to stay on the property. But he hadn’t asked. He’d taken off by himself for the water as if he wanted more than anything to get away from her for a couple hours.

  Laine kept busy, leveling up on her Sudoku app and flipping through some cookbooks. The lights flickered and went out. She had been so deep in her cookbook she hadn’t noticed the wind, the windows darkening, the distant rumble of thunder. Checking the time on her phone, she saw that his two hours had expired, and Wyatt should be home. The power kicked back on with a hum. She called his phone, but it went to voicemail time after time. Reasoning that if she missed the beginning of the storm, she could have missed his arrival, Laine dashed through the house, looking in all the rooms and even in the butler’s pantry, only to confirm that she was alone as the rain started whipping against the windows. She ran back to the window where she’d watched him leave. Looking down on the empty beach, the sky heavy with gathering clouds, she felt her stomach knot. He had left her to cover for him or turn him in.

  She was on the verge of calling Officer Wiseman to report the infraction when she remembered that tattling wouldn’t get her a reference, and she was in this to advance her career. Admitting that she couldn’t keep a twenty something under house arrest for so much as a week was tantamount to declaring herself useless in the care and entertainment of any future charge. The agency would blame her for his irresponsibility.

  Pacing the kitchen as a rumble of thunder seemed to shake the ground, Laine heard the phone ring. It was the check in call she’d known would come. When she’d escorted Wiseman out the night before, he’d indicated they’d be doing a voice test periodically, that Wyatt would have to answer the landline and confirm his identity for the record to meet the terms of his sentence. Now she jumped, startled by the shriek of the cordless phone as the lights flickered back on. If only the power had stayed off, if only he’d come back in time to take the call instead of leaving her to clean up his mess. Her hand hovered near the receiver. Her imagination cast about wildly for excuses—he was in the shower? On the toilet? On a crucial business call? The last one seemed the best since it didn’t involve nudity or diarrhea, but it wasn’t really believable, since what could be more important than proving you weren’t in contempt of court?

  She looked around helplessly, at the storm lashing against the glass, at the screech of the phone on its third ring. She dialed Wyatt’s number again and when it went to voicemail, she shrieked, “What the HELL is wrong with you? You’re supposed to be here!” She knew it was futile. So when she heard the front door whip open, she assumed it was Officer Wiseman’s posse come to arrest him.

  Wyatt came into the kitchen, soaked to the skin, dripping pools of water from his t-shirt and board shorts, from the dark hair plastered to his forehead, his wicked grin dimmed to sheepish. The phone rang again and he grabbed it, “Wyatt Anderson,” he said.

  Laine tried to draw a breath of relief but she felt nothing except welling rage. As soon as he hung up the receiver, she squared off in front of him and shoved him. He didn’t even stagger. She was furious that he was so reckless that he’d jeopardized his house arrest, and more furious that she’d pictured herself with him, in his arms. His callous disregard for the court order, for her future with the temp agency, for her heart, boiled over.

 
; “Where WERE you? And why are you so stupid? You could be in jail right now because you stayed out past the curfew of your fake religion time simply to get away from me—” she broke off, angry tears spilling over.

  She realized, embarrassed, that she was clutching his shirt, so drenched that it was clammy. His face was close to hers and she felt the thud of her heart and the hot tears on her face. She wanted him to kiss her so much that her mouth went dry. She backed away. He still hadn’t said a word to her.

  “You need to go dry off, or take a hot shower,” she said. “You’re dripping all over the hardwood floors.” Laine was annoyed with this inconsiderate mess he was making and she grabbed a dishtowel to wipe at the floor. She saw smears of blood on his arm, a long gash. Looking up, she met his eyes.

  “Sit,” she said, gesturing to a kitchen chair.

  Laine rushed back with first aid kit. She took him by the wrist and stretched his arm across the table so she could look at it. It wasn’t a deep gash, but it was jagged, a series of scrapes around a longer cut.

  “How did you do this?”

  “It’s a reef cut. You’ll need to pour alcohol on those scissors and cut away the dead skin flap.” He said calmly.

  “Are you kidding? I have to cut you?”

  “I’d do it myself but it’s my right arm. I’ve dealt with these before. We have to wash it and then flush it with half peroxide, half sterile water to remove any coral dust.”

  “I’ll go boil some water,” she said a little shakily. “Can you get your shirt off?”

  “You’re going to have to cut it off, I’m afraid,” he said. “It hurt like the devil putting the stupid shirt on, can’t imagine why I did it after I got that scrape.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital? I’m sure if I call the officer, they’d let you.”

  “The storm knocked out their GPS so they couldn’t track me for a while. They don’t know I was late. You can bust me if you like, tell Wiseman and his crew. They’d probably give a parade in your honor.”

  “I’m not going to tell on you. It wouldn’t achieve anything.”

  “Meaning you’d lose a reference for a job well done,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I thought maybe you’d cover for me because you liked me.”

  “I definitely wouldn’t let you self-destruct if I liked you,” she said, pouring alcohol over the scissor blades.

  “How comforting,” he said half to himself. She put a glass of whiskey in his good hand and he drained it in one.

  Laine cut the sleeve open and peeled his saturated t-shirt off. His muscled arms and chest were before her, cool from the rain, slick with the taste of salt. Her fingers skated along a dark curve of ink on his shoulder.

  “Where did you get the tattoo?”

  “The high priest in New Guinea gave it to me. It means something about the sun and the sea and, probably, free cell phones,” he said wryly.

  “It’s sort of beautiful,” she said, hesitating, drawing her hand away. She positioned his arm for cleaning and lined up her supplies.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Laine followed his instructions, wincing in sympathy, as she had to clean his wound, as grit and blood slid into the dishpan she’d placed beneath his arm. She flushed the wound, glancing at his face to see that his lips were tight in a determined line, a furrow of his brow that made his gorgeous face look suddenly serious. When she was finished cleaning the wound, she put antibiotic cream and a dressing on it. She stood to clear away the mess, but he caught her arm.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Laine touched his face, trying to smooth away the pain and worry with her fingertips. A tugging in her chest, a heat in her blood drew her to him. Wyatt released her wrist, his arm going around her hips and pulling her off balance into his lap. She blinked at him, slid her arms around his neck and leaned her forehead against his, her breathing hard.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispered.

  “So you do like me a little?” he teased, his arm anchoring her against him, his breath fanning against her lips. She let her eyes drop shut and a rueful smile played at her lips.

  “God, yes,” she breathed, and he kissed her then, so tenderly that a soft sound escaped her.

  Wyatt’s mouth was on hers, soft, insinuating, coaxing her lips apart. He kissed her slowly, persuasively until she clung to his bare shoulders for support because she felt limp, consumed by him. When he drew away, she stood up, self-conscious.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding husky. “You’re hurt and I screamed at you and then sat on your lap. You should—rest probably.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Laine. As for rest, I think we should watch a movie. You should probably monitor my healing in case I go into shock or something. Don’t look so worried, I’m joking,” he said with a wicked grin.

  “A movie?”

  “Or we could play Truth or Dare.”

  “I’m sorry, are you thirteen? And a girl?” she asked. “I think there’s a Bond marathon tonight. Let’s see if we can catch Skyfall. I hated Spectre.”

  “I liked the one with Halle Berry.”

  “Ugh, Pierce Brosnan was too dumb to be Bond. I prefer the rugged boxer looking Bond.”

  “If Brosnan was too shiny for you, what chance do I have?” he joked.

  “Aw, next time you wipe out on the surfboard, stay away from the reef and just break your nose. It works for Daniel Craig.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind. So while you’re looking through the schedule for which Bond movie is on, tell me something. Is Laine your real name? Is it Elaine or Alaina or what?”

  “Jazmyn,” she sighed heavily.

  “How’d you get Laine from Jazmyn?”

  “How’d you get stiff from Wyatt?”

  “Oh, that’s an ugly story. You first.”

  “Fine, my parents named me Jazmyn Leilani. I went with the least offensive nickname I could get from that, once I got out of being called Jaz.”

  “Jaz?”

  “It matched my parents, don’t ask.”

  “How can I not ask now? I’m intrigued.”

  “I’m embarrassed. My parents were a pop duo, Jix and Jax. I hope you haven’t heard of them. Anyway, they toured all over in the nineties and their music was really popular in, like, Swedish discos and crap. So by the time I was born, they decided I could bring some cuteness to the act. So they put me in a satin dress and paraded me out on stage every night starting when I was three and I could sing along with some of their hits. It was Jix & Jax & Jaz.” She winced, “Pretty soon, it got bad. It was fine when I was tiny and adorable, but I grew and that made it obvious they were getting older and I’ll never forget having to wear my hair in pigtails and a big baggy Jix & Jax concert tee for a magazine shoot when I was thirteen because they were saying I was only ten to make them seem younger. I was done then. I went along on tour and got paid to babysit the crew’s kids. That’s how the nanny thing got started I guess, me wanting to be the responsible person for a bunch of kids like me who may have gotten to travel all around and stay in some increasingly crappy motels, but never went to the same school two years in a row. I had all these adventures growing up—that’s what my mom called them—meeting famous people and seeing other countries, and to me, it just kept me from being close to my parents. The adventures got in the way.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I know. Not exactly a sob story but it was annoying growing up. Now where’s your nickname come from?”

  “The summer before prep school, before I got shipped off to follow in Sloan’s brilliant footsteps. The five of us were sent to summer camp. We all had blue eyes and dark hair and then there were two more kids who had the same coloring and we were all in the same bunkhouse—my friend, Camden, was one of them. The counselor said he had to find a way to tell us apart. He gave us names. Sloan, of course, was the Champ, the guy who called me on th
e phone the other day is Camden Franklin V so they called him the Fifth, and I was the one who was homesick and had no sense of fun and adventure so they called me the Stiff.”

  “That’s not you at all!” she protested.

  “It was then. I was a scaredy cat kid. I was so humiliated when everyone started calling me that. I decided I was never going to be a boring wimp again. So I climbed the lookout tower that had this clock on it. It had been donated by some famous family like the Roosevelts or something, and it was the pride of the camp. I figured out how to screw up the time on the clock so it tolled and woke everyone at four a.m. instead of six. Then I started doing this daredevil crap and pulling pranks on everyone to get a rise out of them.”

  “So you’ve spent, what? Ten, fifteen years trying to prove that you’re not what some loser sixteen-year-old counselor said you were?”

  “The name stuck, Laine. I don’t see you running around proclaiming that you’re Jaz, offspring of dance party pop duo Jix & Jax. Aren’t they in Vegas?”

  “A residency, yes. God save us all. I will not be attending those shows.”

  “Sure you don’t want to put your hair in pigtails and turn up for a nice chorus at the finale?”

  “Bite me, Stiff,” she declared. “I moved in with my aunt when I was fifteen and went to high school here. It was the single greatest thing for me—I got a stable home environment, learned a lot about logic puzzles, and finally put down roots someplace. It feels like home here, the only one I ever had.”

  “My family has dozens of homes around the world. This was always one of my favorites. I have a great beachfront house, very modern, outside San Diego. The surf is great.”

  “Better than Hawaii?”

  “Flight’s too long to get there. I get bored. Sitting still, even on a private jet, is annoying after about three hours.”

  “How’d you make it as far as New Guinea and discover your worshipful cult?”

  “I had to go for work and I had stopovers in Kenya and again in New Zealand. I didn’t fly all the way to Australia from LaGuardia.”