The Bachelors

by E. S. Carter

  “Collins is the biggest cocksucker on the planet. I wouldn’t call him a wanker because he likely has a man that does that for him,” Pemberley stated offhandedly, disdain evident in her features but unable to strip her of her beauty.

  Bing and Darcy gave each other a look, both unsure of an appropriate reply.

  Darcy settled on, “Why did you marry him then?”

  “Because I was young, lonely, and easily manipulated,” Pemberley offered with a raw honesty that could be a winning performance by a renowned actress but felt too authentic to be dismissed.

  “My stupidity made me perfect for Collins, and he capitalised on it. I craved his attention, and it was a very toxic relationship.”

  She allowed sadness to briefly flood her eyes but one blink and it disappeared, strength taking its place. “I soon toughened up, though, and I have Eliza to thank for that.”

  Darcy’s chest tightened at the mention of Eliza’s support for her friend during what was obviously a difficult time. He couldn’t compare the two very different versions of Miss Bennet given by this famous couple. Something wasn’t adding up and he had no idea which version of Eliza was real.

  The husband declared her a home wrecking whore who seduced him, and the wife proclaimed Eliza her rock. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Forgive me for asking, but why do you remain married to him?” Bing asked carefully, voicing Darcy’s very own thoughts.

  Pemberley smiled, but it was sad. The truth she was about to share evidently still a cause of her pain.

  “Because we live in Hollywood, darling. And nothing here is as it seems, or ever free.”

  Darcy was getting in the shower when everyone left. He heard the gaggle of voices as they passed by his door, but didn’t feel sorry for not going with them. He knew he wasn’t good company at present. What with the Wick situation, going home to face his parents tomorrow, the mess the company was in that was now left to him to sort out, and his conflicting thoughts on Eliza Bennet, Darcy felt overfull with concerns.

  He spent far too long under the multi-jet shower, his muscles relaxing and his thoughts dispersing in the steam. By the time he was dressed in some spare clothing of Collins’ that Pemberley generously offered, his stomach was making itself known.

  When was the last time he’d eaten? Yeah, a handful of peanuts in a bar, likely tainted with God knows what, didn’t really count as food.

  Wearing drawstring linen lounge pants that were a few inches too short for his long legs, and a tight plain black tee, Darcy left his bedroom to search the kitchen for food.

  With Pemberley’s housekeeper long gone, Darcy rummaged through her vast larder and fridge, and made a sandwich concoction filled with everything from meats and cheeses, to salad and sauces. Bing would often baulk at the things Darcy lumped together between two pieces of bread, but when Darcy was hungry, anything would do.

  With his plate stacked high, and half a sandwich hanging in his mouth, Darcy walked out to the terrace to watch as the sun set. Bing was right, with only one night left in Vegas, he may as well make the most of the sights… Sweet Baby Jesus.

  Darcy’s feet stopped working, his mouth opened, and the half a sandwich he carelessly held between his teeth fell to terrace floor.

  Eliza Bennet was swimming in the outdoor pool.

  Eliza Bennet was swimming in the outdoor pool in nothing but the white shirt she wore earlier.

  A now wet and see-through white shirt.

  She cut through the water effortlessly, coming to the far edge and gracefully turning underwater, emerging on her back.

  On her freaking back.

  If Darcy were capable of it, he would’ve swallowed his tongue, as it was, he settled for drooling at the sheer, wet fabric moulded to every delectable inch of her. Her curves emphasised in high-definition.

  By the time he realised how inappropriate it was to be gawking, Eliza was pushing herself up out of the pool.

  Then they were face to face.

  Him with barbeque sauce dribbling down his chin, a half-eaten sandwich on the floor at his feet, and wearing clothes two sizes too small. Her with water trailing deliciously down her long, smooth legs, a puddle at her feet, and wearing Darcy’s new favourite article of clothing, ever—a sinfully soaked, white shirt.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” he stated stupidly.

  Eliza looked anywhere but at the man before her, her hands torn between covering her red face or barely concealed assets.

  “I wasn’t eager to go out. I thought you’d left with the others,” she eventually replied. Her gaze stuck on something just over Darcy’s shoulder. “I should, uh…” she motioned to the doorway.

  Darcy took one last lingering look at Eliza, drinking her in from head to toe, the sight more mesmerising than all the Las Vegas lights twinkling at her back. He was a red-blooded man after all, and Eliza Bennet had all his red blood pooling in his groin.

  “Yes, sorry. I should’ve made my presence known. I can get you a towel?”

  “No, no,” she rushed out. “Don’t trouble yourself. I can see you were about to—” her eyes found the food mess at his feet “—eat.”

  Darcy dragged his eyes away and looked at the meat, cheese and bread that dirtied not only the floor but also his feet.

  “I should clean this up.”

  “I’ll… uh, get a towel and get dressed.”

  Darcy bent down to pick up his mess and heard Eliza call from the doorway, “If you have a spare sandwich, I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Okay,” he called back, flicking off the butter sticking to his fingers and picking up a stray onion that had wound around his little toe.

  “But not the one on the floor,” she added lightly before her voice disappeared into the penthouse.

  Huh, who knew Eliza Bennet could be a playful little minx.

  Dazed by the memory of a wet and practically naked Eliza, Darcy fumbled his way through making fresh sandwiches for them both. He doubted Eliza would be grateful for the unsophisticated creation on her plate, but Darcy wasn’t trying to impress, besides he couldn’t make a simple cheese sandwich if he tried—bland, boring, and an insult to anyone’s taste buds. No, the ice princess would have what she was given, and bloody well enjoy it.

  “Do you need a hand with anything?” Eliza’s voice asked from behind him just as he toed the door of the fridge closed.

  With a brief glance at her, one long enough to see she’d braided her wet hair and now wore a dry white tee and loose yoga pants, Darcy replied, “No, I’ve got it. You can grab us some drinks, though. I’ll have a bottled water, if that’s okay?”

  “No problem,” Eliza offered easily, grabbing the drinks as Darcy carried their food out towards the terrace.

  He set the plates laden with monstrous stuffed sandwiches on the table and chivalrously pulled out a chair for Eliza, waiting for her to sit before taking his.

  If Eliza was shocked by his impeccable manners, she didn’t show it.

  Instead, she picked up one half of the over-stuffed sandwich and took a massive bite, her accompanying groan of enjoyment rippling across Darcy’s skin and settling in his balls.

  “Dis-is-sooo-gooood,” she mumbled around a mouthful of food, her thumb coming to her lips to capture sauce that leaked from the side and dripped over her mouth.

  Darcy was mesmerised once more.

  “What?” Eliza asked after rushing to swallow. “Did I get some on my face?”

  Who is this woman and what has she done with Eliza Bennet?

  “No, uh… well, yeah,” Darcy muttered softly, leaning forward in his seat to wipe the sauce she missed from her chin. “There, got it.”

  Without thinking, he brought the finger that cleaned up the sauce to his mouth and sucked it clean.

  Eliza’s eyes widened at the action, and her breath audibly hitched, but she covered it quickly with a cough, and then grabbed her bottle of water and took a long drink.

  “So, is Vegas everything you thought
it would be?” she asked after settling her bottle back on the table. Her easy question an attempt at clearing the thickness in the air between them.

  Darcy picked up his sandwich with two hands, took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully before setting it back on his plate.

  “I’ve been here before,” he offered around his mouthful of food. “And although this trip has been… eventful, I’m ready to go home.”

  Eliza nodded in agreement and grabbed her food for another bite, this time restraining her groan of delight to a more appropriate level.

  Darcy didn’t know why, but seeing her not only tucking into a giant-sized sandwich with abandon and not complaining about its contents, did something to him. It was a side to the usually frigid Eliza Bennet that he never thought he’d see.

  They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each devouring their food. Eliza finished hers before Darcy, and proceeded to lean back in her chair and rub at her flat stomach.

  “Gosh, I needed that.” She looked over at Darcy and smiled. “You have immense sandwich making skills, Mr Austen. Not many people can throw a bunch of random stuff together and make it taste that bloody good.”

  Her praise filled Darcy up, which was ridiculous because it was just a sandwich.

  “What can I say? It’s a skill many find underrated.”

  “Well, you can make me another one anytime,” she said with a smile, before realising her words and shuttering her expression. Darcy hated seeing the walls rebuilding between them, but he still struggled with all the facets of Eliza he knew. From the bitchy ice princess at the bar, to the proud and snooty woman at the ball. From the feisty and argumentative woman on this trip to the home wrecking tart Collins Forster claimed her to be. Then there was this side—a woman who’d rather stay in than go out and party, and one who enjoyed a messy sandwich, and smiled easily. A woman who obviously loved her sisters and took pride in the company her father had passed down to her.

  Which was the real Eliza?

  Darcy didn’t know.

  “Well, I think I’m going to have an early night,” Eliza stated with a muffled yawn before standing and picking up both their plates. She looked at Darcy, her face open, her expression soft.

  “Our flight is arranged for tomorrow at noon. I took the liberty of arranging it for all of us, but if you wish to stay with Bing and want to see your other brother again, I can always—”

  “No,” Darcy stopped her. “No, tomorrow would be great, thank you for including us in your travel arrangements.”

  Eliza’s brow knitted. “Why wouldn’t I? You no more wanted an impromptu trip to Vegas than I did. It’s neither of our faults that we both bear the brunt of our sibling’s follies.”

  “Follies? Is that what we’re calling shotgun weddings now?” Darcy asked with a laugh, but it wasn’t malicious, more weary.

  “I’m trying to curtail my anger towards the situation,” Eliza sighed, sounding equally tired of it all. “Calling it a fuck-up of epic proportions would likely be more accurate, but I’m trying to rein it in.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Darcy questioned, eyebrows raised.

  Eliza replied with a raised eyebrow of her own and said, “Well, my sister is still alive, has all her own teeth and isn’t missing a limb. I’d say it’s as good as it’s going to get.”

  “What the…? Who the…? How can she…?”

  Lydia was pacing around the vast living room of the villa and making Wick dizzy. For almost half an hour she’d stomped around calling both her sisters every name under the sun and a few Wick had never heard before.

  “Why don’t you calm down and let me pour you a drink?” he asked for what felt like the thousandth time.

  “I don’t want a fucking drink. I want Eliza in front of me so I can demand she gives me back my dividends, and then I want to grab her by the hair and drag her around the room until she finally fucking sees me!”

  Okay, then.

  Wick stared at the woman before him—his wife—and wondered if she was possibly psychotic or losing her mind.

  The Lydia he knew was calculated, not over-emotional.

  The Lydia he knew? How ridiculous was it for him to think that? He didn’t know her, and it shouldn’t matter either way. She was a means to an end, the prize for his ingenuity, and the saviour of his precious business. She was no more his wife than he was her loving husband. He knew exactly what he signed up for, and it wasn’t this.

  “You’re still rich, I don’t see what the problem is, and once you get on board with Austen’s—”

  “Do you know how much money this sham has cost me?” Lydia screeched. “Those dividends aren’t peanuts. We’re talking millions. Millions upon millions.”

  Wick’s eye twitched at her fury, but he remained lounged on the sofa feigning indifference. Lydia was wealthy beyond belief, that she was so pissed off about losing that which she didn’t need, seemed futile to him.

  “So what? I’ve already told you a way to get back at your sister. You have more than enough funds to build Austen’s into something bigger, better and infinitely more unstoppable than TBG. Why let your sister get to you? Use your wiles and get one up on her.”

  Wick fingered the fabric of the couch, purposely dropping his gaze from Lydia before continuing tiredly, “I thought you were smarter than that, wife. I thought you were the fearless woman who got a stranger to marry her within minutes of their meeting.”

  Lydia stopped pacing and straightened. Her fiery stare locked on her new husband as she processed his words.

  “Fine,” she conceded, the grit of her teeth turning the word into a hiss. “Take me back to the U.K., give me all that you have, and I will bleed money into your dying business until its power and influence is unrivalled.”

  Wick stood and took a slow, measured step towards Lydia, his hand reaching out to her waist as soon as he was near enough. His arms roughly tugged her towards him until she collided with his chest and he stared down into her wide blue eyes and far too beautiful face—she had the face of an angel even though Wick knew first hand this woman was made for sin.

  “There’s my girl,” he announced proudly through his wide grin. “I knew she was in there somewhere.”

  Then he took her mouth in a scorching kiss, leaving her weak-kneed and breathless.

  “All that I have is yours,” he whispered across her lips. “If I make you my queen, you will make me a king.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jane felt restless.

  Vegas had been a trip filled with contrasting emotions.

  The stress of chasing Lydia was only dulled by the thrill of meeting Bing, and now that they were home and many days had passed, Jane felt the loss of him as if they’d been lovers for years, and not acquaintances for days.

  “What ails you, dearest Jane?” Eliza asked from her spot behind the desk in TBG’s conference room. “I wasn’t expecting you in today.”

  Jane hovered in the doorway, her gaze assessing Eliza from the angle of her hand holding her pen, to the straightness of her back against the chair. Her eldest sister was back where she belonged as head of TBG, while Jane had never felt farther away from the life she’d previously been living.

  Before she’d met Bing.

  Lydia’s marriage not only changed her life, but Jane’s too.

  She’d hoped that Bing would have got in touch by now, that he would’ve found a way to see her, to see if this spark that burned brightly between them could become a flame, but she hadn’t heard from the middle Austen brother since the day he left her in the arrivals lounge. Jane touched her lips in memory of their last kiss. It was soft, sweet and filled with promise—or so she’d thought.

  “I..” she hesitated, her eyes flicking over the large room before landing back on her sister. “I’m not sure. I guess I feel a little adrift.”

  Eliza stood, placed her pen on the papers she’d been working on before Jane arrived, and walked towards her sister. The closer she got to Ja
ne the more evident her smile became.

  “Do you have a contact number?”

  Jane’s brow furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

  “For Bing. I assume he’s the reason for your feelings of aimlessness.”

  Jane couldn’t help her blush if she tried. Her damned cheeks always betrayed her emotions.

  “I didn’t ask him for his number. He kissed me and I—”

  “Floated away on a cloud of bliss?”

  Jane’s blush deepened. “No, well… I guess a little, but I assumed he’d find me.”

  Eliza looked at her sister and forced herself to remember that despite Jane being in her late twenties, she’d had very few relationships, and not for lack of suitors. Jane was classically beautiful, and men admired her for her looks and equally her sweet nature, but Jane wasn’t a woman who partook in random dalliances. She needed her heart to want a man more than her libido, and men often saw that as a challenge, only revealing their true selves when they’d taken advantage of Jane’s pure heart. This had made Jane guarded, and she hadn’t let anyone close for quite some time—until Bing Austen.

  “So, you made it obvious that you wanted to see him again?” Eliza questioned.

  “I didn’t think I needed to,” Jane sighed. “The things he said, how he was with me… the way I was with him, I hoped he could tell this was more for me without needing those words.”

  “Men aren’t very good at hints,” Eliza said ruefully and watched as Jane’s face fell further. “They’re simple creatures who do better with statements. They say we are complicated when what they really mean is we are far too sophisticated for their lesser minds to comprehend.”

  Eliza smirked, hoping her words would entice a smile from her sister or at the very least an admonishment, but Jane remained silent.

  “Call him,” Eliza stated boldly. “Call him up and tell him he’s about to throw away the best thing that ever happened to him.”