The Protective Groom: Billionaire Marriage Brokers

by Lucy McConnell

  The Protective Groom

  Billionaire Marriage Brokers

  Lucy McConnell

  Pepin Publishing Company

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Newsletter Information

  Country Bride Chapter 1

  Also by Lucy McConnell

  Jennifer’s First Chapter

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Lucy McConnell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter 1

  Harley Wilson let out a sigh as she slipped off her three-inch black stilettos in the back of the limo. “Mama outdid herself this year,” she said to her older brother, Wyatt, as they rode through the secluded area of Houston on their way home from the annual Air and Space Gala held at the Four Seasons Hotel.

  The planning committee headed by none other than the amazing Julia Wilson—Harley’s mother—had transformed the Four Seasons into a space museum with artifacts brought directly from the moon. “How on earth did she find those moon rocks? And the space rover …”

  “She’s a force of nature,” said Harley’s dad, who sat across from Harley and Wyatt, brooding. He hated leaving Mama behind to supervise the cleanup even though she’d insisted they all head home without her. Harley’s daddy loved her mama as long as Texas was wide. He never truly smiled unless Julia was near. Oh, he loved his children—took his role as a parent as serious as the business end of a .45—but he adored his bride.

  Wyatt pulled out his phone. “I don’t think she expected Harley to jump into that space suit, though.” He flipped his phone around, and Harley watched a video of herself in a genuine space suit, complete with a flag on the arm and the bubble helmet, connected to a giant elastic rope and supported by a heavy beam in the ceiling that let her bounce across the floor as if she were walking on the moon. At the end of the video, she shook her blond hair out and had a smile as bright as the noonday sun.

  That was more fun than a carnival ride.

  Getting into the suit had been a bit tricky with her floor-length aqua-green dress. She’d thought her dad was goin’ to clean her plow when she hiked the fabric up to mid-thigh to step her bare feet inside the puffy legs. Even now he stared out the window, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. “Send me that video, will ya?” she asked Wyatt.

  Wyatt lifted one side of his mouth in a crooked smile that had every female in the Lone Star State drooling over him.

  As his sister, Harley wasn’t amused. “You already posted it, didn’t you?”

  He winked in reply.

  Harley groaned. Wyatt had a thing with Facebook. He friended everyone and anyone and rarely filtered what he posted. If you were close enough to hit by swingin’ a dead cat, you were probably on his page. If he’d posted the video, five-thousand-plus people had already seen it—her little hop-hop was probably trending.

  Leaning close, Wyatt whispered, “It’s good for the family image. We don’t want the world thinking we’re all like the General.”

  “Just because I’m not lookin’ at you doesn’t mean I can’t hear you,” said John, his deep voice rumbling through the limo’s stuffy air like tanks over an open field. Harley would have loved to roll down a window or, heaven forbid, open the sunroof, but that was strictly against protocol until after they’d cleared security and entered the gates to their private community, or “the compound,” as Wyatt called it.

  The vehicle made the turn off the main road to Shady Spot Lane and lurched, making Harley grab the door handle to keep from flying across the space between the seats and into her dad. The high-pitched squeal of rubber against road pierced the air as the car skidded to a stop.

  A thin line of moisture gathered at the base of Harley’s neck. Limousines weren’t supposed to skid—ever. And Robert was smart as a hooty owl when it came to driving. He kept a bell on the floor of the passenger side of the vehicle. Harley asked him about it once, and he said that if the bell rang, he knew he was turning or stopping too quickly. In the past five years Robert had been her personal driver, Harley had never heard the ring-a-ding-ding—until now.

  Daddy pushed the button to lower the divider and barked at Robert, “What happened?”

  Straightening her dress, Harley peered past her dad and out the windshield where a package lay in the middle of the road. She and Wyatt exchanged a look that said, I’ve got your back. Harley pulled a Glock 42 from her purse, and Wyatt slid his .45 out of the holster he’d worn under his tuxedo. Daddy had an identical gun in his palm. Harley couldn’t remember seeing him reach for it. He was a quick draw, and darn proud of it.

  “Would you like me to go around, sir?” asked Robert.

  “No. If it’s a bomb, the vibrations from the tires could set it off.”

  “Do you think it’s a trap?” asked Harley, glancing out the back window. She couldn’t see anything with the heavy tint. She wasn’t worried about getting shot while in the car; it had reinforced siding and bulletproof windows. “I’ll—” Harley was about to offer to scout the rear of the vehicle, but then she zeroed in on the tug of her dress around her middle. Not only would the sequins light her up like a Christmas tree in the dead of night on an open prairie, she didn’t have the proper shoes for a foot chase. Scowling, she held her tongue.

  Despite their precautions, there was always the possibility of one of them getting hurt, and that was as acceptable as a porcupine in a nudist colony. As a child, Harley was terrified of being kidnapped—which wasn’t an unfounded fear, as she’d had a bag stuffed over her golden curls and was hauled off when her nanny screamed. If it hadn’t been for a good Samaritan ripping her away from the man, she might not have made it home. Her fear followed her into the house, where Daddy told her it wasn’t a matter of if an intruder was shot; it was only a matter of what caliber gun got him first. As soon as she turned eight, he’d taught her how to use a firearm for self-protection. Now she spent regular time in their private range keeping her skills high and her aim true.

  Daddy had his phone to his ear, updating their head of security, an old Air Force friend, on the situation. “Stew, have you seen anything on the cameras?” He hit the speaker button, and Harley leaned forward.

  “Nothing close to the gate or the houses. Let me check the fences.”

  There was a momentary pause, and Harley imagined Stew clicking away as several of his men—dressed in black pants and shirts and weapons hooked to their belts—flipped through the images for signs of foul play. Though Daddy was serious about security, he wanted the many guards
around them to disappear into the background of their lives. His plan worked; Harley didn’t notice the patrols. Her house was searched, and the men cleared out each day before she set foot on the Guatemalan tile in her entryway.

  “It’s all clear on this end. Whoever put that out there stayed on the surveillance perimeter.”

  Wyatt cursed under his breath. His green eyes had gone hard.

  Stew continued, “We’re sending a team out now to retrieve the item. They’re bringing Rover.”

  “Stew’s probably lovin’ this,” commented Harley. Rover was his baby.

  “I’m gonna be mad as sin if that thing blows up my robot,” said Stew through the speakerphone.

  Harley, who’d forgotten he was still there, widened her eyes at Wyatt. He snickered. They’d grown up with Stew. There was no slack in that man’s rope, but he had a tender spot for Harley, and she knew it.

  Daddy grunted, and Harley and Wyatt turned their attention back to the drama unfolding through the windshield. Harley sent up a quick prayer for the safety of those outside the vehicle. She didn’t know them all by name, but she didn’t want anyone hurt. Everybody was someone’s sweetheart—everyone except her, but that was a topic better left on the back porch for now.

  Harley transferred herself to the other side of the vehicle with her daddy. Facing the back of the seat she hooked her arm behind the headrest and her knees pressed against the leather. The gate yawned open, and a squad of eight men in full body armor and holding protective shields, lookin’ ready to charge the devil himself with a bucket of ice water, advanced toward the package.

  The two men in the middle carried Rover between them. Setting the heavy piece of equipment down with care, they backed away and let the robot cover the thirty-foot distance to the package on its own.

  Harley squinted, trying to get a better view of the box. For such a pretty little bundle, it sure was causing a ruckus. Wrapped in hot-pink paper with exact corners and folds, the whole thing was topped off with a silver bow.

  Rover, controlled by Stewart from the security room inside the gatehouse, scooted close enough that he could poke the box with a mechanical arm. The thud-thud of his tread on the pavement and the high whine of his motor came through the speakerphone. According to the briefing they’d gotten from Stewart when he purchased Rover, the robot had several microphones that could be used to pick up the sound of a ticking bomb or the beep of a timer counting down.

  Hearing what was going on made Harley feel like a frog in a pot of slowly heating water. A bead of sweat trickled down her back.

  Rover flicked the box, and a tinkling sound came over the phone. Rover froze.

  “Was that … music?” asked Wyatt, tipping his head.

  Harley shrugged, unsure.

  Daddy shook his head. “I couldn’t tell.”

  After a moment, Rover nudged the box again and the sound came through the phone. Harley tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and listened closer as Rover picked up the box and shook it several times. A faint, tinny sound came through.

  “Hmmm-mmm-mmmm-mm,” hummed Daddy. “Sounds like a music box.”

  “Rover’s in one piece. I’m sending in the squad with a scanner,” said Stewart.

  As one, the men crossed the distance to the package and used a machine shaped like a metal detector to investigate.

  “That’s an all-clear.”

  Daddy let out a breath. “Send out another squad to clear the immediate area and check for snipers. Have this squad sweep for wires before we pull ahead. I’ll call Julia and tell her I’m on my way to pick her up. We’ll meet you in the gatehouse.”

  “Roger that,” echoed Stewart’s voice before Daddy ended the call.

  “Let go of the seat, sugar,” said Daddy.

  Harley checked her hands and found her fingers digging into the butter-colored leather, her Glock smashed under her right palm. She mentally forced her muscles to let go, and twisted so she was facing the other direction. Her hands were white, and they stung with the influx of blood as she made sure the safety was on and the chamber empty. Returning her weapon to her purse, she reined her mind away from what could have happened and focused instead on the plush carpet.

  “Wyatt, stay with Harley until I get back with your mama.”

  Harley straightened in her seat. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Daddy.”

  “It’s not for you, sugar. Poor Wyatt here is as pale as the moon.”

  Wyatt stared out the window. Harley was sure his coloring was just fine and her dad was being overprotective. But he certainly was sweet about it, and when the General made up his mind, there wasn’t much use arguing with him.

  “Fine, you can stay.” She folded her arms. “But stay out of my freezer—Ben & Jerry are all mine.”

  If one were to drive through the heavy gates and straight on down the road, they’d run smack dab into her parents’ cream stucco home with Roman columns and a huge wraparound porch. On their east side was Wyatt’s castle, complete with turrets and a dungeon where he stored his vast collection of baseball memorabilia.

  Harley’s house was next, the first one on the left when you drove down Shady Spot Lane. She’d built herself a Tuscany villa that wrapped around a large stone courtyard.

  To the west of her parents’ was an empty lot owned by Harley’s older sister, Sydney, who was out of the country for the foreseeable future.

  Next to Syd was Jackson, their half brother and Harley’s reluctant business partner, who might as well hang a do-not-come-near sign in his front yard with his hooded front entry and dark windowed house.

  Once inside her door, Harley changed into a pair of yoga pants and a boatneck sweatshirt. Wyatt removed his jacket and tie and all evidence of Salted Caramel Brownie goodness from her freezer before rolling up on her couch like a hound dog in front of the fire.

  Despite the full evening, sleep was like a ghost in the sunlight. Perhaps it was her old childhood fears coming to the surface or womanly intuition whispering that there was more to the evening’s surprise than they’d first thought, but Harley couldn’t settle in. She roamed the house, gun in hand, peering through the curtains and watching the gardens for shadows and movement.

  Chapter 2

  Noah Baker stood up in the stirrups to gaze across Camp Buckeye’s pond from under his light straw cowboy hat. The yawning sun bathed the area in pink and gold. Breathing in the scent of dewy grass, clean air, and poppies, he settled back into the saddle. This was how a man was meant to live. Just him and his horse. Riding the trails. Not answering to anyone or anything.

  As if the universe had a sense of humor, Noah’s cell phone beeped twice before it screamed, “Answer the phone!”

  Shaking his head at the annoying ringtone one of his younger sisters must have uploaded, Noah dug into his shirt pocket. The caller ID said BMB. Noah slid from the saddle and placed his back to the horse, surveying the area. Rebel Rouser huffed, but didn’t move away. The palomino flicked his blond tail, hitting Noah in the shoulder. Noah gave him a nudge with his elbow as he said, “Hello?”

  “Noah Baker, please,” the caller said in a sweet, matter-of-fact tone.

  Relaxing his stance, Noah pictured Pamela Jones, the owner of an exclusive matchmaking company, who had short blond hair and a commanding presence. Even at this early hour, he was sure she was dressed for business and eager to get to work.

  Since joining up with Billionaire Marriage Brokers as a prospective groom, Noah had signed his name more times than he had the whole year he learned to write cursive, been shopping with Trish more times than he wanted to admit, and made friends with just about everyone in the office save the mysterious owner. He’d even gone to a couple 49ers home games with Harrison, Pamela’s lawyer.

  Just over a year ago, Paige, Noah’s sister, had secretly signed up with BMB as a bride. Seduced by the huge paycheck and guaranteed annulment after a year, Paige had married a man she’d never met and became a mother to his daughter, Addison.

&nbs
p; At first, Noah was furious with his sister for putting herself into such a precarious situation. She had no idea who Cody was. He could have been a drunk, an abusive spouse, or a deranged lunatic pulling in his next victim. Thankfully, Cody was as steady as they come, and he and Paige had fallen in love—renegotiating their one-year marriage contract into something more permanent.

  Noah wasn’t pining for love—no way. What he wanted was the money, a personal trainer, an expense account, and time to work on his ‘57 Ford ... but most of all, he needed a reason to run away from home.

  Not that living and working at Camp Buckeye was bad—it just didn’t fulfill him like it used to. In fact, he’d been empty for quite some time. Ever since …

  Swinging into the saddle, Noah flung his dark thoughts away, imagining them flying across the lake and staying there. “What can I do for ya, Ms. Jones?” He still couldn’t bring himself to call her Pamela, no matter how many times she insisted.

  “I know it’s early, but something’s come up. Is there any way you can make it to the office by ten?”

  Noah flipped the phone away from his ear and checked the time. BMB offices were an hour’s drive south. If he hurried, he could take care of the horse, shower, and be there in time. He nudged Rebel with the heel of his boot and steered him back up the path. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. I have a possible match, but it’s time sensitive.” She faded off as if there were more to it than finding Noah a bride.

  Noah pulled Rebel to a stop at the top of the hill. From here, his family’s land fell both in front of him and behind him. The cabins used for campers dotted the landscape ahead. Peace, brought on by sleepy campers snuggled deep in their sleeping bags, was like a shield, a shield Noah had needed desperately just a short time ago. Now it felt like a wet tarp. “And …?” he prodded.

  “And I would like to talk to you about it in person.”

  Noah jerked his chin. He had a lot of respect for Ms. Jones. She made big decisions, and she made them fast. She didn’t mess around with people’s lives. In his time spent with BMB employees, he had learned that Pamela had only made three mismatches, as they called them, in over a hundred marriages. “I’ll be there.”