Billionaire Brothers 01-04 The Complete Serial Box Set

by Meg Watson

I found my breath had tangled up in my throat and I didn't know what to say. He was looking at me with such naked appreciation I felt myself expanding like an inflated balloon.

  “I would like a, um —”

  “She'll have the Armand de Brignac,” came a voice too close to my ear.

  Instead of flinching I drew myself up as tall as I could go, trying to recapture some of the bombshell attitude I had managed earlier in the day.

  Don't forget who you are. You are the brazen sexpot who is going to get this job!

  Without turning my head I let a smile curl at the corner of my mouth and sighed, “I love champagne.”

  “Who doesn't?”

  The bartender nodded curtly, backing instantly away. “Of course, miss,” he said in a suddenly business-like tone.

  I turned slowly, trying to seem as gracious as possible.

  “Thank you so much for —”

  Lyle held up both his hands.

  “Don't say anything,” he said in a low rumble, his teeth gleaming in the flickering lamplight. “Just wait a few seconds for Owen to get here. I want him to see what I am seeing.”

  I raised my eyebrows and perched my hand on my hip, shifting my weight to one side and rolling my shoulders back like I was Scarlett Johansson or something.

  “And what is it you are seeing?” I countered.

  His nostrils flared as though he was inhaling me.

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  It was like a bit of a staring contest, trying to stand there as Lyle unabashedly inspected me from my jaw to my ankles, his eyes scooping out the hollow between my breasts in an almost tactile way. I had never just stood and let someone look me over like that before. My heart beat a little faster at the challenge.

  Well, I guess that's just how sexpots do it.

  “Your champagne, miss,” the bartender said in a politely distant tone of voice as he slid the flute to me across the bar and immediately scurried away. Was Lyle that intimidating? Yes. Yes he was. Standing there in a custom tuxedo and tie, his hair swept off his forehead and gleaming in dark golden waves, he was a matinee idol. He was Justin Timberlake and Jason Statham. And Chris Hemsworth. Oh my.

  I accepted the flute gratefully, happy for a distraction and something else to do with my hands besides fan the creeping heat that was advancing across my collarbones. It was nice to have a prop, though I was mindful that too much champagne was going to probably make me a little loose in the pelvic area, if history was any kind of indication.

  Boy, do I wish Melita was here. She would keep me on track.

  Who am I kidding? She would have me unzipped and greased up already.

  As the seconds ticked by, Lyle's expression seemed to shift subtly from a pompous dare to a friendly grin, almost as though I had won some kind of bet with him or passed some kind of trial.

  A few more long seconds, and I felt myself beginning to falter. How long was I going to be able to stand up to this staring contest? Then he wiggled his eyebrows at me once in a fast, knowing look.

  “You’re here,” Owen said, rolling into our shared personal space like a wave.

  Lyle slid slightly aside to make room for his brother.

  “Yes, and look, she's wearing blue.”

  Owen nodded seriously. His lips pursed into an intense bud as though tasting something on his tongue.

  “Extraordinary.”

  I clenched my jaw and sighed through my nose to indicate I was losing patience with this exchange even though, truthfully, I had rarely felt anything so exhilarating. I could never have been that brash, even with someone I knew intimately well. And here they were, sizing me up without even trying to conceal it? I felt exposed and excited at the same time.

  "So, gentlemen, are we going to get down to business?"

  "So soon?" Lyle growled.

  Owen scowled at him and nudged him with his elbow.

  "Let's give her a moment to adjust to us," he said gamely. "I have to apologize. We do tend to come on a little strong."

  "I think she can take it," Lyle said with a smirk.

  I looked back and forth between them, thrusting my weight onto one hip and rolling my shoulders back just like Melita would have done.

  "I came here to be serious," I said.

  "I am nothing but serious," Lyle said.

  Owen held out his hands in front of him to interrupt. "Okay, okay. I think what my brother means to say is that you look... stunning.”

  “Beyond gorgeous,” Lyle interjected, nodding.

  “Frankly, it's hard to concentrate on anything else."

  I checked their expressions for signs that they were teasing me or exaggerating and found none. What I found instead was, well, maybe worse in some ways. They looked like they absolutely meant every word.

  "Well — I mean, thank you," I stammered, my facade quickly folding up and flying away like an origami crane. I gulped at the champagne to conceal my flustered expression. "Why don't you show me around and we can get to talking about those, uh, lines of business?"

  "You see?" Owen asked Lyle, still bathing me in the light of his knowing smile. "Nothing is going to stand in this woman's way. Not even us."

  "All right then," Lyle conceded, holding out his elbow in a thoroughly chivalrous and old-fashioned way that made my heart flutter. "Shall we?"

  I nodded, suddenly mute and tremendously grateful to be able to move from the spot. With my fingers curled around the inside of Lyle's elbow and Owen just behind my other shoulder, we began to circle the room.

  Everywhere we went, all eyes seemed to turn toward us and conversations paused in mid-chatter. More than a few of the women glanced at me with the wide open eyes of utter astonishment. Their envy was palpable, and I began to absolutely love it.

  We glided around the room with ease and almost seemed like we had practiced it. While Lyle nodded and smiled at everyone who looked our way to greet them, Owen whispered their names and roles into my left ear from just behind me. Even though he was saying things like regional development director and foreign sales president, the words thrilled me as they tripped across my earlobes and twirled into the bottom of my sex-soaked lizard brain.

  "Doug Kimball," Owen whispered, sending shivers from the base of my upswept hairdo on down my spine. "He's a guy you might want to meet. He manages all the collections."

  "Collections?" I repeated in a sighing sing-song.

  Doug turned to us as we approached, his eyes flickering over my body and then landing on my face. He smiled as though maybe we knew each other or he was at least happy to see me.

  "Doug, I want you to meet Brienne Colson. She was the winner of that Ranger Fellowship a few years ago from PAFA," Owen said with a curt nod.

  Doug held out his hand toward me and I shook it even as my jaw went slightly agape.

  "Wow, that was you?"

  Well, yes, it was me. The question is: how the hell does anybody know that?

  Doug began nodding nervously, his brows knit together in a look of intense concentration. "I would really like to talk to you about your experiences if there is some time," he said quickly. "Any time, really."

  I tried to keep my jaw lifted but suddenly all I could hear was the white noise of waves crashing in my ears.

  "Of course, I would love to discuss it with you," I said in a casual tone as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Doug dropped his eyes like a schoolboy. He nodded and shuffled away, stammering and blushing, his forehead shiny under the overhead lights.

  I dipped my head toward Owen, trying to keep my voice in a whisper.

  "How did you know about that?" I asked.

  Owen plucked the empty champagne glass from my fingers and swiftly replaced it with another that he swiped from a passing tray.

  "How did I know about what?" he murmured back.

  "I hate to rush this," Lyle interrupted, "but I think we’re just about starting now."

  "Wait," I said, my voice starting to rise. "How did you know about the fellows
hip?"

  Owen stopped and I realized my fingers were pressed lightly against his chest, barring him from moving. He didn't seem to mind and in fact leaned a little bit into my touch. I actually had to press back more forcefully as his weight fell against my palm. I could feel his heart beating, slow and strong.

  "We need to get into the ballroom," he whispered playfully as his eyes twinkled.

  "I am not going anywhere unless you explain what this is. How did you know about that? What do you know about me? Do I know you?"

  "Owen," Lyle started in a warning tone.

  Owen covered my hand with both his hands so that he was pressing me even harder against his chest.

  "Did you think that I just invited you here because I knew you would look stunning in that dress?"

  I shook my head, struck silent.

  "Brienne, what is it that you think we do?" Lyle asked, suddenly serious. "Knowing things is our job."

  "Knowing things?" I repeated, confused, my brain whirling a mile a minute. "About me? About my personal life? You call that business?"

  Owen’s hands were soft and dry against mine and I remembered how easily he picked me up off the floor. Then I shoved that memory aside.

  Concentrate, sexpot! This is no joke!

  "Make no mistake," he murmured, "information is power. It is what we do, and we are… powerful men. But getting to know you is more than that, I promise you."

  "I don't like this," I mumbled. "I didn't come here for this kind of, I don't even know what to call it —"

  "Interview?" Lyle offered glibly. "I thought that was exactly what you came here for."

  "Invasion. That's what I would call it."

  I tried to tug my hand away but Owen tightened his grip and would not let me go. Lyle slid behind me, forming a protective space for the three of us. I was pinned between them and their energy seemed to keep the rest of the crowd at bay. It felt like we were absolutely alone together.

  “Brienne,” Owen began, his eyes serious and fixed on mine, “remember when I told you that you were better than that job in that coffee shop? Did you just think I was… flirting with you?”

  My mouth opened and closed, puppet-like. It seemed like a trick question. I wanted the answer to be No, but I wanted it to be Yes too.

  “He was totally flirting with you,” Lyle growled into my ear from behind me. I could feel his heat between my shoulderblades. He must have been very close. I shivered.

  Owen shot him a sour look. Then his eyes settled on me again. I could feel a connection crackling between us as the rest of the crowd fell away and silence covered us like a dome.

  “More importantly, I was scouting you. The offer is real, Brienne. The fellowship, your paper on modern structures in medieval tapestries--”

  “You read that?” I choked out.

  “Well,” he chuckled humbly. “I muddled through what I could understand. Truthfully it was way over my head. I don’t know if you realize this, Brienne, but you’re… extraordinary.”

  “Absolutely,” Lyle whispered behind me. I felt his breath fall on me like a cloak.

  “I’m not, uh--”

  “Of course you are,” Owen interjected seriously, his brow slightly furrowed.

  Run with it, Bree. Do not cave in now. Remember the bombshell! Breathe or something!

  “And when we felt the way you responded to us, to both of us yesterday,” Lyle breathed in a hot whisper that sizzled straight from my ear to the pit of my humid, throbbing…

  Woman overboard!

  My head started to swim and I realized I had gotten the in-out-in-out breathing pattern all wrong. The room started going fuzzy at the edges.

  What am I doing here? Pressed in between them like, like…

  “You’re practically too good to be true…”

  I’m not, though… You don’t even really know me...

  “Bree?”

  The voice cut through the fog like a knife and I took a choking breath, confused and gasping.

  My eyelids fluttered as I gained composure. Echoes of thoughts bounced around my skull: what am I? What do they mean? Isn’t it hot in here? Is that--

  Fucking Whitney?

  I seemed to slip outside my body for a moment as I turned to face her and some part of me realized that I actually didn’t look like the shipwreck that I truly was. Through a weird coincidence of still being breathless and confused by what the Jack brothers were really implying, when I turned to her it was with a completely inappropriate facial expression.

  I didn’t look horrified or devastated by a) what she had done to me or b) the fact she was now standing in front of me jibbering and wet-eyed in what looked like a pair of my own shoes.

  No. Through some miracle, I turned to her with completely the wrong expression for the occasion. I still had the Jack brothers firmly in mind. I looked flustered and overwhelmed by flattery. I looked half-drowned in compliments.

  I looked like I had my sex face on.

  My hand waved out toward Owen and he caught it smoothly in mid-air along with the again-empty champagne glass, steadying me instantly. Lyle took a half-step behind me, pivoting gracefully and applying a discreet pressure to the small of my back with the heel of his palm. Nothing could knock me down from there.

  They’re like fucking ballerinas, is what they are. Sexy fucking man-ballerinas.

  “Oh, Bree! Oh, oh... I am so glad you’re here. Bree, we have to talk--”

  “No.”

  “But,” she objected, her eyes wide and frantic. Her gaze darted from Owen to Jack and back again in rapid succession. “I want to explain…”

  “Ms. Avery,” Owen replied smoothly in a voice that slammed an invisible wall between us, “I’m sorry, we were just headed for the ballroom.”

  His hand tugged on mine like a dancer’s. All I had to do was follow his lead.

  “Bree, wait!” she squeaked, panting. Her fingers plaited the air between us like she was trying to dig her way through.

  And then he was there. Carl slid right up next to her, his face swiftly transforming from an expression of bland event-appropriate duty to a horrified scowl of shame and rage.

  “Oh my god, Brienne,” he grunted as his knees buckled. He couldn’t change directions fast enough. He was on a collision course with my personal space and looked like he might burn up on re-entry.

  “No,” I said again, dazzled and impressed by the confidence in my voice.

  Who is that? Is that me? Can I possibly be that fabulous?

  I felt it again, Owen’s hand just under mine. He tugged slightly and all I had to do was give in. He turned my whole body that way as though we had rehearsed it. Lyle stepped up at the same time, his palm guiding me from the base of my spine. The ballroom was just ahead and I knew I’d make it there, leaving Carl and Whitney behind me panting and sputtering in confusion.

  I was picked up and carried away like a leaf swept off a beach by the tide. It was so easy.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I have no idea what just happened back there,” Owen muttered in my ear as we glided into the ballroom, “but you were magnificent.”

  “That was nothing,” I breathed casually, dragging another champagne off a passing tray.

  I am only sad I didn’t have pepper spray.

  “Queen of composure,” Lyle agreed, pulling out a gold-detailed chair for me at the head table. “If you’re like that under pressure, we have some amazing opportunities for you.”

  “No,” Owen answered immediately, “Brienne can write her own ticket. Don't you think? Brienne, where do you see yourself?”

  I see myself smashed between a couple of man ballerinas.

  Whoo, champagne!

  "Oh, I think I have some ideas," I answered smoothly.

  "Well, put something together for us. We would love to see where you think you fit in."

  I looked between them, careful not to let any of the steamy thoughts boil over into my expression.

  Are they doing this on purpose
? Was that some kind of secret code for let’s try that sandwich thing again, only closer?

  "Give me a little time to assemble a proposal," I answered with an innocent smile. "Now, I know you brought me here for a reason, what sort of event is this?"

  The ballroom was filling with partygoers who all took their seats around large linen-covered tables. Each table had an enormous centerpiece in white and lavender lilies with small sprays of violet snapdragons. I eyed the tiny plates of tapas with mounting desire. My stomach rumbled ominously.

  I should probably have eaten today. I wonder how many glasses of champagne that was?

  "So we know you are graceful under fire and an innovative academic thinker," Lyle said with a grin. "How do you feel about trivia?"

  I blinked twice.

  "Are you serious?"

  "I already told you I am always serious," Owen said, dropping his chin and giving me a stare that can only be described as sultry. His nostrils flared and I stared at his thick, strong-looking lips. His hand dragged a light, discrete line down the back of my bare arm.

  I definitely felt that. That definitely happened.

  "It's a yearly competition between all the business heads in all our companies, Lyle explained. "Somehow we have never managed to win it, even though clearly we are the most brilliant men in the room."

  "Clearly," I agreed immediately.

  "And everyone's boss, too. Which I always assumed meant they should let us win."

  "I would hate it if they let us win," Owen growled. "I would rather lose."

  Lyle shrugged and popped a fat olive into his mouth, sending another waft of his cologne across my upper lip. If I wasn't getting drunk on the champagne I was definitely getting drunk on that aroma.

  "I would always rather win."

  "Winning is sort of my thing," I advised them coolly.

  Owen raised his eyebrows and shot Lyle a knowing grin.

  "I told you she was the right woman for the match."

  "How many times are you going to brag about that?" Lyle said, rolling his eyes.

  "Hopefully, a lot more times."

  The lights went down in the room and a single spotlight shot toward the long main table at the front of the room. A man who looked like a boxing ring announcer held up both of his hands as the audience engaged in energetic applause.