The Everest Brothers: An Alpha Billionaires Series

by S. L. Scott

  “They sound the same.”

  I fall to the side of her, and say, “You’re actually supposed to call out uncle. Not aunt or ant.”

  “Why?”

  Grabbing my side, I sit up. “I have no idea, but that makes me wonder what else you missed out on living in the palace. Did you ever play Marco Polo as a kid?”

  “There’s a children’s game named after the Italian explorer?”

  I shake my head. “We have a lot to catch you up on.”

  She stretches to reach the remote and clicks on the TV. “Another time. It’s Monday. You know what that means?”

  “Do I need to worry about your football addiction?”

  “No. Shhh. We missed the first quarter.”

  Standing totally naked next to the bed, I ask, “What is it that you love about football so much?”

  “What’s not to love? Tight pants. Big men.”

  “How do you feel about no pants? I’m working that angle hard right now.”

  She glances and then does a double take. Clicking the TV off, she says, “No pants on you should totally be a thing, a regular thing. Like always. We can make it a bylaw.” She comes crawling right across the top of the bed, and when she reaches me, she looks up. “What do you want to do?”

  “You. Are you up for a little role play?”

  “Let me get the tiara.” When she scrambles to the end of the bed, she lifts her grandmother’s crown from the post and sets it on her head. My wife is stunning with her bare breasts, full hips, and the confidence to wear a tiara valued over one million dollars to bed.

  It’s crooked. As it should be.

  When she lies back down, she asks, “Want to make a baby?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now about that mustard . . .”

  “I love you, my queen.”

  She pulls me to her and kisses me hard. “I love you, too, my king.”

  * * *

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  BENNETT

  Copyright © 2019 by S.L. SCOTT

  All rights reserved.

  The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940071-79-4

  Design: RBA Designs

  Photography by Rafa G. Catala

  Cover Model: Chema Malavia

  Editing:

  Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts

  Jenny Sims, Editing 4 Indies

  Marla Esposito, Proofing Style

  Kristen Johnson, Proofreader

  Amy Halter, Proofreader

  Team Readers: Lynsey Johnson and Andrea Johnston

  French Phrases: Merci to Veronique Chayer

  FORCE of NATURE

  On paper, he's perfect. In real life, he's even better.

  ~~~

  It was supposed to be easy.

  Get in. Get the girl. Close the deal.

  But nothing about Winter Nobleman is simple.

  Her stormy blue eyes captivate me, her quick wit entertains me, and the secrets she hides behind her pouty pink Mona Lisa smile intrigue me.

  Winter is determined to save herself without my help.

  Yet, somewhere along the way, she saves me.

  Even though our introduction is cloaked in deception, secrets don't stay buried forever.

  If the lies don't kill us ... the truth may set us free.

  Prologue

  STRIKE

  Our lips part the moment the shot rings out. A silent scream replaces the stars in her eyes, and she looks at me as if I’m the last person she’ll ever see.

  FALL

  The snap of another bullet punctures the air, and my body curls around, shielding her as we hit the ground. Debris cuts into my hands as I cradle her head to break the fall.

  PROTECT

  A car door swings open, and a familiar voice commands us to get in. With no time to think, I act. Hopefully . . . outwitting death.

  DEFEND

  Our eyes stay focused on each other while we speed away even as a gunshot ricochets off the bulletproof vehicle. Hovering over her, I stay steady. Her body trembles under my hands. “Breathe, Winter.”

  Her sweet scent covers me in a succession of quick exhales and then slows when the words tumble off her tongue. “Are we safe?”

  “Yes.”

  For now.

  1

  Bennett Everest

  Paris is gray. Everywhere I look—gray skies, gray sidewalks, gray buildings. I don’t know what I expected before I arrived, but it wasn’t gray.

  When I volunteered for the job, I didn’t realize I would be in the right city in the wrong season. I hear it’s nice in springtime. Maybe I’ll come back in six months and get something other than gray with the bonus from the deal I’m about seal.

  To block the cool wind from hitting my neck, I pop up the lapels of my suit jacket and round the corner of the avenue. My feet stop when I see her.

  Bourbon-colored hair that shines even under the light of the red bistro sign at dusk, a swan-like slope where her neck meets the top of her shoulders, a bright pink sweater clinging to her slender frame. Winter Nobleman is a burst of color on a cloudy day.

  I pull the photo from my pocket and compare it to the woman sitting at the small table drinking coffee. It’s her, and although she’s attractive in the picture, it doesn’t do her beauty justice.

  Her father worries about her safety but seeing her sitting contentedly at a sidewalk café makes me wonder why. I look around as if to find something other than peaceful in this scene. I’ve yet to detect any threat of danger.

  There’s more to this story than I’ve been told. Typical. This seems too easy, which means it’s more complicated than I was told.

  This deal won’t close unless I can get her home. How will I do that if she’s staying away on purpose? I’m a good-looking guy and the right one for the job, or so her father said. So why does this suddenly feel like a fool’s mission?

  Get in.

  Get the girl.

  Get out.

  Easy.

  So what is keeping this gorgeous brunette here? Maybe she’s purposely avoiding her family. But is that my concern? Not really.

  Why she’s here isn’t my business, but closing the deal is. I’m confident enough to deliver this deal sealed with a kiss. So I’ll just be honest with her. My job here is done if I can give Mr. Nobleman the assurance that his daughter is fine (and damn is she fine . . .), so he can continue with business and sign this deal. Then if she wants to fly back to Paris the next day, she can. An eight-million-dollar contract is worth a quick trip to Paris, but now it’s time to close it.

  I start walking, my pace slowing as I approach. The early evening still allows the last of the daylight to sneak in before night covers us in darkness. I watch her with rapt attention. Her lips understated and nude, long lashes painted black, drawing my eyes to hers and wondering if they’re violet or blue. It was hard to decipher from the photos, and even though the file says blue, I can’t help but want to see for myself.

  What the—?

  My feet stop, and I turn to face a bakery, pretending to window shop. Whoa! What is the obsession with macarons? It’s a cookie, for fuck’s sake. Out of the corners of my eyes, I watch as a man with a half-eaten baguette
in one hand and bottle of wine in the other makes himself at home across from Winter. Although the cadence of his French is not harsh, her tone is.

  Since I took Spanish in high school, my basic foreign language skills are useless. So I spy on them instead, keeping a sharp eye on his body language. The waiter returns and attempts to shoo him away, but when he wobbles on his feet to get up, his body lags back into the seat.

  I don’t have to speak the language to know the drunk is hitting on her. Fucker. The waiter returns, shouting a barrage of what sounds like threats, causing the asshole to stand. He leans over the table, making his motives more obvious despite her clear and definitive, “Non!”

  When he doesn’t get the hint, she leans back, appearing uneasy. Fuck this guy. I start walking, pounding the pavement with purpose. Weaving through the tables, I’m focused on them. She looks up when I arrive, her eyes going wide and lips parting just enough for me to see the tip of her tongue dip out and I catch a little pleasure in our shared second before it disappears.

  Edging past, and with an elbow to the asshole’s arm, I give her my best grin. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, mon chéri.” I have no idea where that came from. Is mon chéri a candy or a real French phrase? I’m hoping for the latter, or now I’m going to look like the asshole.

  As her sweet features are colored surprised, she replies, “It’s okay. You’re here now, mon chéri. Remember how I taught you that you call me ma chérie because I’m a female.”

  I lean down, kiss her cheek, and whisper in her ear, “It’s lovely to meet you, ma chérie.”

  The Frenchman tugs me back. Reeking of red wine, he slurs, “Who are you, Américain?”

  “I’m her boyfriend, that’s the fuck who.” I square my shoulders and crack my neck, glancing down at his hand that he has the nerve to continue touching me with, and add, “I suggest you back up and keep walking. The lady’s not interested, and I’m not a patient man.”

  I don’t know why a little John Wayne slips into my tone, but it seems to do the trick. His hands go up in surrender still holding his prized bread and wine as he backs up. Too bad his mouth is still flapping. Dumb bastard. On the positive, I have no idea what he’s going on about. I remain standing until he’s down the street and still mumbling out loud.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know?” There’s a kick to her voice, a gentle tone with an edge to it.

  I turn around to find Winter looking up at me. “Gray,” I say.

  “Gray?”

  “Your eyes.”

  Looking everywhere but at me, she replies casually, “Overcast.”

  “Your eyes?”

  “No, the day. My eyes are blue in the sunlight.”

  “I look forward to seeing for myself.” I’m just about to get down to the reason I’m there when she laughs.

  The tone is lighter than the church bells ringing in the distance, and she asks, “Do those quippy flirtations work for you?”

  “Often. May I join you?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You got rid of one guy trying to talk to me so you could replace him?”

  “He wasn’t interested in talking to you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Amused, she props her chin on her palm and watches me with a small smile. “Then what was he interested in?”

  “Fucking you.” Taking a seat at the table next to hers, I hold my hand up to get the waiter’s attention.

  That innocent pink sweater never fooled me. She remains indifferent, but she does ask, “Then what are you interested in?”

  “Baseball that starts in the spring, camping in the fall, snowboarding in the winter, and boating in the summer.” She rolls her eyes and sits back. I ask, “Why the eye roll?”

  “Sports for every season. Typical male. When is the last time you spent time in a museum? Or maybe you never have? When’s the last time you drank a cup of coffee out of a cup and saucer and enjoyed the scenery instead of getting everything to go?”

  The waiter finally comes over, and I point at her drink. “I’ll have what she’s having. Coffee.”

  She says to him, “Café, s'il vous plâit.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle. Monsieur,” he replies.

  When we’re alone again, I say, “I like hiking and cold beers on a hot day.”

  “You like physical ways to occupy your time.”

  I take that as an invitation to readjust and sit a little closer. The way these tables are packed in here, it doesn’t take much maneuvering. “I like being physical and hands on.”

  “Look, Mister . . .?”

  “Everest.” I hold out my hand.

  “For real?”

  “Very much for real.”

  With my hand wrapped around hers, she says, “I’m not available if that’s the bush you’re beating around.”

  “Available is a fascinating word to use.”

  She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a fascinating woman.”

  “You sure are. You’re clearly an American as well, so why are you in Paris?”

  “People come to France to lose themselves in the culture, the slower pace, the joie de vivre of the city. Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s why I’m here.”

  “To escape real life.”

  “That’s quite the assumption coming from practically a stranger.”

  “You know my name, so I think we’re past stranger and ‘practically’ gets us one degree closer to friends.” I wink, and she rolls her eyes again. The waiter sets my coffee down, and I add, “See how cultured I can be? Believe it or not, I’m even housebroken. So maybe I’m not the pig you make me out to be.”

  “You know what they say about first impressions?”

  “What do they say?”

  “Never trust them.”

  “And here I would have thought the opposite.”

  “Guess it’s all in the way you look at things.”

  She triggers my sarcasm. “Glass half full or, in your case, half empty.”

  Pulling a few coins and bills from her purse, she sets them down on the table, and says, “It wasn’t the coffee that told me who you were by first impression. It was your mouth.” After snapping her purse shut, she says, “Bonsoir, Monsieur Everest.”

  2

  Bennett

  Winter doesn’t make it twenty steps past the bistro before I toss money on the table and dash after her. She seemed serene in pink, but the woman has some bite to her bark. I like it.

  It’s easy to be distracted by her, but I’m here for a reason.

  One reason only—to get her home so her dad will sign the media contract—but watching her walk down the avenue like she has no intention of leaving Paris anytime soon really makes me wonder again why he’s alarmed.

  Dressed in fitted black pants, she whips around on pink flats and plants her hand on her hip. “Are you following me?”

  I stop with a good ten feet between us. Looking around, I reply, “I assume I’m free to walk wherever I want in France like I am in the States?”

  “You are.”

  “Awesome.” I close the gap and stand next to her.

  “But you can’t follow me.”

  “All right.”

  “Good,” she says with a curt nod of her head. When she starts walking, I do too. Then she stops and glares at me. “I said you can’t follow me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what are you doing, Mr. Everest?”

  “Walking with you.”

  “I don’t want you walking with me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Fine.” She starts walking, and I keep pace next to her. Her arms fly out, and she yells, “What are you doing?”

  “Walking beside you.”

  Her hands ball at her sides and she starts what sounds like swearing up a storm in French. Feisty. “Can you walk . . . not beside me?”

  “If that’s what you’d like.”

  “That’s what I’d like.”

  “Okay, but only if you tell me what the t
itle of your favorite song is.”

  “You don’t even know my name, and you want to know my favorite song?”

  “Yes, I do.” I push my hands into the pockets of my pants.

  “Why?”

  “I think knowing a person’s favorite song, or movie, or even dessert tells more about them than their name. It’s more intimate.”

  “So Everest doesn’t represent the man? It represents your ego instead?”

  Her quick wit has me grinning. “My ego aside, my surname represents me in many ways, but it doesn’t make up the whole of me.”

  She begins a slow stroll, and this time, she doesn’t seem bothered by my presence. “Winter.” Turning to glance back at me, she slows as if she wants me to catch up, so I do. Then we continue walking side by side.

  “Winter,” I repeat for no other reason than I want to hear how it sounds in the evening air.

  “That’s my name.”

  My attention darts her way, her words a reminder that she doesn’t know who I am. I’m not sure what to say. I hate lying and, more so, starting in a place that could only lead to regret. I stop walking, pulling my hands from my pockets. “Winter?”

  She turns back, her expression softening with a smile. “Yes, Mr. Everest?”

  I should tell her.

  I need to tell her.

  I can’t lie to her.

  I shouldn’t.

  There’s such an innocence about this moment we’re sharing that I don’t want to ruin it. Her smile grows as her blue eyes narrow in question. “Are you coming?” she asks.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to follow you?”

  “I don’t, but I haven’t minded your silent company next to me.”

  Something is so captivating about this woman that I’m willing to play the role of her quiet companion to steal more time alone with her. I have a feeling the mention of her father’s wish for her return won’t go over as well as when I told him I would help make it happen.

  Tucking my hands back in my pockets, I start walking again. The pinch between her questioning eyes releases, and a satisfied grin appears as we stroll together. “Winter is unique.”