The Protective Groom: Billionaire Marriage Brokers

by Lucy McConnell

  “I’ll see you then.”

  They said goodbye, and Noah kicked Rebel into a gallop. The pounding of the horse’s hooves thrummed along with Noah’s heart. This could be it. He could be getting married. He’d always pictured himself settling down one day with a wife and kids just like his older brother Jacob, who went home to a loving family every night. His brother’s happiness and set of priorities were all Noah had ever wanted, and he’d been close enough to see the beauty of his future until one horrible night had ripped it all away.

  Rebel’s gait slowed in the barnyard and Noah dismounted, leading the animal into his stall on foot. Once the saddle and blanket were put away, he called Paige, filling her in as he brushed down Rebel’s tawny coat.

  “I’m coming with you,” Paige announced.

  Noah had an odd sense of déjà vu. He’d shouldered his way into Paige’s first BMB appointment—and wedding ceremony, come to think of it. “No way. I don’t need my little sister tagging along.”

  “Pft. You don’t have a choice.”

  Noah raked his hand down his unshaved face. He’d need some quality time with a razor and mirror before he met his bride. His suddenly cramped schedule didn’t leave room enough to talk Paige out of coming; besides, she’d probably show up at the office anyway. It wasn’t like she didn’t know where it was. “All right.”

  A half hour later, Paige pulled up in a small car, her massively curly red hair filling up half the space. She honked and motioned for him to get in. Noah considered his gas-guzzling truck before opening the passenger door. He and Paige always drove trucks, and seeing her in this compact tin can was just plain strange.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked. Like he had to ask. Cody owned several dealerships and enjoyed bringing home the merchandise.

  Paige made a face. “It’s a commuter car.”

  “Are you commuting now?” asked Noah as he buckled in.

  “Only to get Addison to and from school.”

  “Huh.” Noah played with the window, rolling it up and down at the press of a button. “You guys have stupid money.”

  “Stupid money?”

  “Yeah, enough money that you can afford to do stupid things like buy a car just to drive your daughter to school.”

  Paige’s face fell, her feelings obviously hurt.

  Noah immediately felt like a horse’s present left in the barnyard. Cody and Paige were two of the most generous people he knew. They never threw their excess in his face, never talked down to him or made him feel less than awesome, and they would help him out in any way. They were also doing an amazing job of raising Addison. “I didn’t mean you were stupid. It’s just weird to think of someone buying a car the way I buy pants.”

  Paige rubbed her forehead. “I know. It overwhelms me at times, too. We didn’t grow up with extra, and I’m still getting used to things.”

  Noah shrugged. “But you’re happy?”

  Paige smiled. “Cody and Addison are my life. You can have the money as long as I get to keep them.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes as Noah contemplated her words. Great, now Jacob and Paige had everything they ever wanted. Shaking his shoulders, he promised himself that he would have what she had—someday—and this marriage was a good first step. Sometimes, Noah wondered how far off “someday” really was. How long would it before he found a woman who would love him despite what he’d done?

  Paige broke the silence. “So, are you ready for this—ready to meet your fiancée?”

  Thankful for Paige’s brightness, because she radiated light from the crown of her shiny head to the silver tips of her boots, Noah drank in his sister’s joy and let it drag him away from his melancholy thoughts. He rubbed his palms together. “I’ve been ready for months.”

  “Ha! You think you’re ready.” Paige gave him a little shove.

  “I mean it. I need this new start, maybe even a new town. Ms. Jones said most of her brides are from out of state.” He scratched his ear. “I know it’s time to move on—move out—I’m not qualified for anything besides police work, and that’s the last path I want to follow.”

  “It’s too bad. You loved it, right up until-” Paige cut off before she said the words that made Noah want to hop on Rebel and disappear into the hills.

  “Yeah. Until.”

  “Cody’s offered—”

  Noah held up his hand. “I need to stand on my own two feet.” He grinned. “Besides, with my rugged good looks, I have a lot to offer a woman.”

  Paige snorted. “Your ego alone could fill her garage.”

  “Oh no. I intend to fill that with truck parts. The Ford’s been acting up, and I need to put in a new master cylinder.”

  “Lovely. You’re going to spend this woman’s money on your truck?”

  “My money. I’ll earn it with a smile.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Who are you, Mary Poppins?”

  “If you mean practically perfect in every way, then yes.” Paige flipped her copper-colored curls over her shoulder. “Here we are.” Her voice was just a little too bright and her smile forced.

  Noah appreciated her efforts, but he could tell she was worried about him. Some days he couldn’t blame her. Others, like today, when he was sincerely trying to put the past behind him, he wished he could erase the memories of that terrible night from his mind and wave his arms to dissipate the cloud he’d blanketed over his family.

  That’s what this daredevil move of becoming a BMB groom was all about. Leaving town. Starting anew. Being out there on his own again. Noah had burrowed into Camp Buckeye pretty deep. He needed to prove to himself that he could survive in the world. Even a groundhog popped his head out of the hole every now and again. If he couldn’t survive a business marriage, then he’d know without a doubt that he wouldn’t be able to contribute to a real one, and he’d have to let that dream go. He’d already lost so much …

  Lord, if I’ve earned any blessings in the last two years, please help me be a good husband.

  Chapter 3

  When the call came to join her parents in the gatehouse at seven-thirty, Harley went to wake Wyatt. She stopped under the arch that separated the kitchen and the living room, eyeing the coal-black barrel of her gun. She should leave the weapon behind, safely stowed in the wall safe next to her headboard. After all, she was inside the compound, and this was the safest place on earth for a Wilson. Except, she couldn’t bridle the sense of impending doom that swarmed around her like flies.

  She stuffed the pistol into the oversized pocket of her sweatshirt and nudged Wyatt, who grumbled something about obeying the General before shaking his head and following her out to the garage. He resembled a man who’d spent the night three sheets to the wind instead of sleeping on her luxury furniture. With bloodshot eyes and werewolf hair, Wyatt stopped in the kitchen to grab an orange juice.

  Harley flipped on the garage light, revealing her prize pickup truck, luxury convertible, and four ATVs. The far wall was lined with cabinets and countertops. Her security detail hadn’t swept the house last night—they’d been out checking the fifty-five acres of fence to ensure there were no gaps.

  Several cabinets were tall enough to hide a person. Squinting, Harley couldn’t be sure if the last cabinet, the one closest the back patio, was closed all the way. There appeared to be a thicker shadow between the door and the jam, making her believe it wasn’t latched and therefore could be opened from the inside.

  Eying the door warily and reaching her hand inside her jacket, she headed towards the two-seater Ranger. Keeping her footsteps soft, she strained, listening for the sound of someone shifting inside the metal cabinet or their breath echoing like Darth Vader in a metal can. She heard loud breathing, but it was hers. Chiding herself for lacking control, Harley paused to wipe her palm against her pants.

  “Mind if I drive?” asked Wyatt, his voice booming off the concrete floor and bare walls.

  Harley spun on him, her gun drawn.


  Wyatt’s hands flew in the air. “Easy there, trigger.”

  Pressing her palm to her chest, Harley made a monumental effort to quiet her stampeding heart. The organ continued to thump against her ribs.

  Wyatt lifted one eyebrow. “You been taking lessons from the General, quick draw?”

  Harley smirked.

  “What’s going on?” Wyatt prodded. He started the ignition and pressed the button to put the garage door up.

  Harley dropped her arm to her side as she climbed into the passenger seat, her mind on the cabinet. She’d have to send a security detail through to sweep the garage … and the house. “I have this feelin’.” She shuddered.

  They headed down Harley’s curved driveway and onto the street. Gripping the bench seat, Harley’s premonition deepened as they drew closer to the gate. The side-by-side’s thick rubber tires hardly made a sound against the blacktop, and the engine noise was swallowed up by the twitter of early birds in the trees and open space that Texas was known and loved for.

  “What kind of feeling?” asked Wyatt.

  Harley rubbed her arms. “Like my life is about to be torn apart.”

  Wyatt kept his gaze on the road, the searing morning sun turning the side of his face into a shadowy plateau. “That’s pretty much horrible.”

  “Thanks,” replied Harley, her tone as dry as the desert air.

  They arrived at the gatehouse and were ushered into the small room used for conferences and briefings. From the outside, the building appeared to be a normal house with a covered porch, stone façade, and large bay windows. On the inside, it was a command center. The ground floor was storage for gear—like Rover and the bomb detection device the men had used last night—a kitchen, a couple of offices, a rec room for off-duty entertainment, a video surveillance hub, a meeting room, and a safe room in case of tornados or lockdown. Stewart lived on the second floor, and Harley had never been up there.

  The conference room had a large, gray table and enough metal chairs for the family plus Stewart. Daddy took the center of the table, and Stewart, as the head of security, was on his left; Mama was on his right. A thirty-something guard named Ralf stood at attention near the door. The security detail was instructed to be as inconspicuous as possible, but Ralf was friendlier than most, and Harley appreciated his frank smile.

  No one smiled this morning, and the hovering worry that had followed Harley throughout the night plunked down on her shoulders and dug its claws into her bones like a buzzard out for its last meal.

  The wall opposite the table was covered with screens, each broadcasting last night’s events in full color from different angles. Harley’s eyes glued to the screen as she accepted her mama’s hug.

  “You haven’t slept,” accused Mama, brushing Harley’s swooping bangs off her forehead as though she were checking for a fever.

  Harley stepped back and her bangs fell into place. “Wyatt slept enough for both of us.”

  Wyatt stretched his arms wide and gave a yawn a crocodile would envy. Mama patted him on the shoulder.

  Mama could talk the hide off a cow and never get down to business. With her battered and friend nerves, Harley got right down to business. “What was in the box?”

  Daddy motioned for Stewart to answer.

  Stewart typed on the wireless keyboard in front of him, and the image of a music box appeared on the center screen. The first photo had been taken with the box closed. “There aren’t any identifiable marks on the exterior. We did find a stamp on the bottom.” The image switched. “I’ve talked to the manufacturer, and there’s no way to identify who purchased the item. There are over ten thousand shipped around the world. They aren’t collector’s items, nor are they expensive.”

  “All that fuss for a chintzy toy.” said Wyatt.

  “It’s not just a toy,” said Stewart. He hit another key and a song played over the speakers, the melody created by the ting-tang of music-box metal and gears. The shot switched to one of an open box. Harley’s blood ran cold.

  “What’s that tune?” asked Mama with a furrowed brow.

  “‘The Wonder of You,’” whispered Harley. She dropped her head into her hands to block out the embarrassing memories of college karaoke. “Please say the box wasn’t for me.”

  Something landed in front of Harley, and she lifted her head to find a cardboard gift tag with her name on it. She recoiled in her seat, staring at the printed letters. Never had her own name barked at her like a mad dog before.

  Daddy leaned forward. “Sugar, we need to know what’s going on here. Who would send this to you?”

  “I wish I knew.” Harley rubbed her temples, suddenly exhausted. “There was one night—during my junior year at Texas Christian U—when I—” she turned to Wyatt for help; he’d been there. It was back when her roommate, Molly, had a huge crush on him, and Harley had tried her hand at matchmaking. Which, she learned, she was as good at as she was at catching flies with a soup ladle.

  “It was the night she met Jeremiah,” offered Wyatt.

  “And this song played?” asked Stewart.

  Harley groaned. “I sang it.”

  Mama lifted one sculpted brow. “You sang it?”

  “Karaoke,” Harley whispered.

  The other brow went up. “Wilsons do not ... karaoke.”

  Wyatt scrolled through his phone. “Harley does.”

  Harley smacked him in the arm.

  “Did! Here.” He flicked his phone at the screen, and suddenly Harley was belting out “The Wonder of You” as Jeremiah mooned over her.

  “Is nothing sacred to you?” snapped Harley.

  Wyatt shrugged. “If I hadn’t posted this, then we wouldn’t have evidence.”

  “By posting that video, you took our list of suspects from twenty to twenty thousand,” growled Daddy.

  “Could it be from Jeremiah?” asked Mama.

  “He’s been around enough to know where the cameras are and how to avoid them,” added Stewart.

  “He has motivation—how long since the two of you broke up?” asked Daddy.

  “Just over two months ago,” sighed Harley. “But I don’t think he’d—”

  Stewart reached over and flipped the card. Harley stopped her defense and stared.

  We can be together again.

  “A dead bee—or an ex-boyfriend—can still sting,” said Mama.

  Harley read the phrase, twice. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”

  Daddy stood. “Have Jeremiah and ... what was the name of the boy before him?”

  “Christopher,” muttered Harley.

  “Right—have them both questioned.”

  Stewart jotted down the names. “I’ve called the local police department; they contacted the FBI. An agent should be here before ten.”

  Daddy tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Good. If you don’t mind, I need a moment of privacy with my family.”

  Stewart nodded and left the room.

  John exchanged a grimace full of turnips and castor oil with Julia. As bad as the meeting had been up until this point, Harley had a feeling what came next would be worse even if her parents were going to coat it with a hefty dose of this is for your own good. “I’m not hidin’ under the bed until they catch this freak.” She squared her shoulders.

  Mama shook her head. “Wilsons don’t hide from trouble.”

  “We don’t make trouble. We don’t hide from trouble. And we sure as heck don’t start trouble. So what exactly do we do with it, Mama?” asked Harley.

  Julia put her hand on her hip. “Leave your sass on the porch. This is serious.”

  Daddy tapped his chin—a signature move that meant he was about to checkmate his opponent … or throw them into the nearest cactus. “We want you to get married.”

  He’s throwing me into the cactus. “Yeah—okay. I’ll work on that.” She went to get up, but Mama placed a hand on her arm, keeping her in her seat.

  “This weekend,” added Daddy.

  �
�Sweet, wedding photos.” Wyatt snapped a picture of Harley, who blinked at the flash, incredulous.

  “Y’all are crazy as a bullbat.” Harley threw her hands in the air. “Exactly whom am I supposed to marry? Jeremiah and I aren’t on speaking terms since he … we broke up. Plus, Daddy thinks his bulb has burned out.”

  Mama patted her arm. “I have a friend who specializes in weddin’s.”

  Harley rolled her eyes. “It’s not a matter of picking out the cake, Mama. I kind of need a groom.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’, darlin’. Pamela runs a matchmaking company. I’ve already called. She assures me she’ll have a groom here in time for a weddin’ on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Wait.” Wyatt held up his palm. “You’re serious?”

  Daddy sighed. “This isn’t the first time this person has left a gift for Harley.”

  “Excuse me?” Harley jumped from her seat.

  “There have been several deliveries to the office. This is the first one at home. Your stalker is becoming more aggressive, and I’d like to nip it in the bud.”

  “By marrying me off like some ...” Harley waved her hands around as she searched for the right word.

  “Mail-order bride,” supplied Wyatt.

  “Thanks!” Harley dropped her chin in acknowledgement. At least someone in the room could see the situation for how ridiculous it really was.

  “Pop-tart, your daddy believes that gettin’ married will let the stalker know you aren’t interested in bein’ with him.” Mama’s eyes begged her to listen.

  Harley swung her gaze to her dad.

  “Psychotics often believe that they are already in a relationship with the person they stalk. They convince themselves that you love them too. If you get married, they will be forced to see you’re moving on in life and not waiting for them.”

  Makes as much sense as a roast on Sunday. “So we stage a weddin’?”