The Darcy Brothers: The Complete Series (Humorous Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Alix Nichols

  “I don’t like the sound of this.” Darcy frowns. “Where exactly did you go to take these pictures?”

  “All kinds of places.” I hesitate before admitting. “Rooftops, mostly.”

  His frown deepens. “Do you actually walk on roofs?”

  “I don’t when it can be helped. But, you see, my camera… it’s a solid Nikon, perfect for portraits, but it doesn’t have a full-frame sensor, so it’s not ideal for landscape photography.”

  “Why don’t you buy another one?”

  I raise my eyes skyward and sigh. Rich people. “Anyway, the way around it is to take multiple shots and combine them in Photoshop. It just requires that I move around the roof a bit.”

  He stares at me for a moment and nods. “OK, your Latin Quarter’s in.”

  “Merci, monsieur.” I put my hand to my heart. “You’re very kind.”

  Thirty seconds later, he’s done.

  I look at the two piles and then at him. “May I know what criteria you used in your super-efficient selection process?”

  “None.” He screws up his face in a way that’s so sexy I nearly drool. “When pros and cons are in a tie, the only way forward is to shuffle them together, push them aside, and let your gut guide your hand.”

  “Is that what you just did?”

  He nods. “But I can see why you were having such a hard time. They’re all amazing.”

  “They better be.” I smirk. ‘Considering that the photo lab’s bill has put me in the red.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I shrug. “The irony of it is that I could make better prints if I had the right equipment. And they’d be cheaper to produce.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Wouldn’t it be smarter to invest in the equipment instead of paying a lab to print your photos?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It would be much smarter.”

  “Then why—” He stops himself. “The cost. Listen, why don’t I advance some of your fee so you can buy yourself a nice printer and a camera that’s good for landscapes?”

  I shake my head. “Your money goes to Dad. He’ll need all of it to start over.”

  “In that case, I’d like to lend you some—”

  “Thanks,” I cut him off, “but no, thanks. I’ve managed fine so far with what I have, and I intend to go on until I save enough to afford what I want. There’s no emergency.”

  He sucks his teeth, probably trying to come up with a counterargument.

  “Hey, here’s something you could do for me,” I say to change the topic. “If you have any more tips on fast decision-making, I’ll take them. I’m hopeless in that area.”

  His expression brightens. “It’s certainly something you can improve with practice.”

  I set the photo piles on the coffee table and motion him to the couch.

  “The first thing you can do,” he says, “is narrow your field. In other words, discard all the options that aren’t the best.”

  “OK. And then?”

  “Remind yourself there’s no perfect option, and that what you need is a decision that is fast and roughly right. That usually unblocks your gut instinct.”

  “Makes sense.” I eye him up and down. “Have you always been so… decisive?”

  He smirks. “No.”

  I wait for him to continue.

  Instead he pours us two more vodka shots and raises his glass. “Na zdrowie.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means ‘to your health’ in Polish.”

  “To the bottom?” I ask.

  He nods and empties his glass.

  I do the same.

  “Papa overdosed when I was twenty-three,” he says. “I was so not prepared to fill his shoes. They seemed huge at the time…”

  “Wasn’t there someone else to run things for a while? A deputy or some experienced CEO?”

  “We’re a family business, and Papa had made sure it would be me who’d take charge if something happened to him.”

  “Did you want to take charge?”

  He lets out a long breath. “In theory, yes. In practice, I wasn’t ready. It’s one thing to tell yourself that your future is in your hands. But realizing that the future of my younger brothers was in my hands, too—that came as a bit of a shock.”

  “How old were they?”

  “Raph was nineteen and Noah only fifteen.” He loosens his tie. “Do you mind if I remove this overpriced item?”

  “Please.”

  He hangs it over the armrest and shrugs off his suit jacket. “My brothers had their trust funds, of course, and Maman was well taken care of, but most of the d’Arcy fortune was invested in the company.”

  “I see.”

  “Then I realized something else and it was even harder to stomach.”

  I give him a quizzical look.

  “The livelihoods of hundreds of people employed by Parfums d’Arcy depended on me… When that realization hit me, it felt as if someone had loaded me up with a supersize backpack filled with rocks.”

  “How did you deal with it?”

  “I created a persona.” His lips curl. “I started acting as if I was the man Papa wanted me to be. Decisive. Unwavering. Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  “A real homme d’affaires.”

  He nods. “A man no one would dare call a greenhorn. A man his subordinates looked up to. I couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness or nonchalance.” He smiles. “Not that I ever had any nonchalance to start with—that’s Raphael’s specialty.”

  “When my dad’s business was going well,” I say, “he hired someone to help him. It broke his heart when he had to let that person go a few years back. I can’t imagine how it feels to know that hundreds of jobs hinge on your knowing what you’re doing. That kind of responsibility would probably paralyze me into total inaction.”

  He leans toward me. “Let me tell you a secret. That’s exactly how I felt, too, in the beginning. But I had no choice, so I began to… fake it. And I’ve been at it ever since.”

  “No way.”

  He nods and smiles. “I make my best guess and act on it with enough aplomb to convince everyone I know what I’m doing.”

  My head begins to turn as his charisma—yes, dammit, charisma—envelopes me in a soft, yummy-smelling cocoon and lifts me up. The sentinels I’ve stationed throughout my brain sway on their feet and fall one after the other, clutching their mortal wounds.

  It’s a bloodbath.

  With my first line of defense decimated, I can’t help inhaling the heady scent coming off Darcy. I have no clue what part of it is him and what part is cologne, but the mixture does nasty things to me on some primal, subatomic level. He’s a fragrance man, I remind myself. He must’ve had his labs concoct a highly potent love potion for his personal use.

  Hang in there, Diane!

  The question is, onto what? The impenetrable Anti-Darcy Defense Shield around my heart is melting away faster than I can regenerate it.

  That is, if I could be bothered to regenerate it right now.

  In a last-ditch attempt to avoid inglorious defeat and capitulation, I peel my gaze away from his darkened eyes. Only instead of focusing on the wall or the ceiling, my traitorous peepers zoom in on the bulge in his pants.

  And what a nice, voluminous bulge it is!

  On a rugged breath, I dig my fingers into my thighs and force myself to look away.

  Is it time to wave the white flag?

  Darcy takes my hand and covers it with his large palm.

  I stare at his hands holding mine and then plunge into his bottomless gaze.

  Resistance is futile.

  I’m done for.

  Chapter 18

  Diane

  “You never told me what you did with the portraits of me you took at the castle,” Darcy says, stroking my hand.

  “I sold them to Voilà Paris for five hundred euros.” I give him a saucy smile. “Would you like a share?”
/>
  “What will Voilà Paris do with them?”

  “They’ll use them at their discretion to illustrate various articles in future issues.”

  “Including the nude ones?”

  I nod. “But don’t worry, no one will know it’s you in any of the pics. I made sure of it.”

  “I’m relieved.” He looks at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You asked if I wanted a share.”

  “I give Elorie fifty percent for her nudes, so it’s only fair I offer you the same rate.”

  “How about you pay me in kind instead?”

  My heart skips a beat. “What do you have in mind, Sebastian?”

  “I want to take a photo of you naked.” His gaze burns into mine.

  Wow.

  What happened to his aristocratic stuffiness? Has all that Zubrowka gone to his unaccustomed Scotch-lover’s head?

  Good thing it hasn’t gone to mine yet. What I’m going to do is laugh in his face and say he can shove his brilliant idea where the sun never shines.

  I really should do that.

  Now.

  “Why?” I ask instead. “Are you planning to sell it to a men’s magazine?”

  “Of course not.” He hesitates. “I’ll keep it for personal use.”

  Mmm. My subservient mind generates an image of him reclining on his pillow in the privacy of his town house bedroom. He’s holding a sexy nude photo of me in one hand while his other hand slides under the blanket. His gaze is dark and deep—just as it is now.

  “OK,” I say. “But only one shot, facing away.”

  He nods, looking as if he just up and made another billion.

  I fetch my camera, moving fast, determined to get it into his hands before I change my mind. Sitting next to him, I screw on the lens, adjust the settings, and show him the basic functions.

  “Take your clothes off, please,” he says.

  I lift my T-shirt over my head.

  “Now the bra.”

  I undo the front clasp, spread the cups apart and flash my tits.

  He leers like a starving wolf.

  I grin, satisfied with the effect, and remove the bra completely.

  “Now take off the bottoms.”

  My stomach flips as I stand. Just as my hands slide to the waistband of my leggings, a bulb goes on in my head. This is not how it’s done. I signed up to pose for him—not to strip for him. The deal was that he takes a nude photo. He was supposed to turn away while I undressed.

  That’s how it’s done.

  Fuck that.

  I hook my thumbs under the elastic band and peel my leggings down. There’s no denying how much I’m enjoying doing this shoot the wrong way.

  “The panties,” Darcy rasps. He isn’t even trying to pretend this is about the photo anymore.

  I shake my head.

  He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Not until you lift the camera.”

  For a moment, he looks as if he has no idea what I’m talking about before his gaze lands on the device in his hands. “Oh.”

  He raises the camera in front of his face, and I let out a little sigh of relief.

  “Will you take your panties off now?” he asks, still seated.

  I turn around, push the lacy thing down my hips and wiggle until it hits the floor.

  “Step out of it,” Darcy says.

  I do.

  “Go to the wall.”

  I obey.

  “Place your hands on it and spread your legs apart.”

  Done.

  “Now lift your hands… higher… lean forward.”

  As I do what he’s asking… er, ordering me to do, I realize he’s repeating my instructions from the castle shoot almost word for word. The difference is that I’m sent to the wall, while he was directed to the window. And that he’s forgotten about the camera again.

  I can’t help smiling.

  “Bend down,” Darcy says.

  Oh. Monsieur is improvising now.

  “Is that really necessary?” I ask.

  “Yes, it is,” he says. “It’s very necessary.”

  I turn my head to look into his eyes, and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. The desire in his eyes hits me like a shockwave, so hard I nearly stagger.

  “Bend down,” he repeats, his eyes drilling into mine. “Please.”

  I turn back to the wall and lower my upper body until my breasts touch the cold wall and my backside sticks out in the most shameless way imaginable. Arousal and discomfort wrestle inside me. My ears are open for the click of the camera—the single shot I promised Darcy—after which I’ll straighten up and march out of the room.

  But that click never comes.

  Instead, I hear Darcy put the camera down and lurch toward me. He grabs my wrists, shackling them to the wall, pushing me up, and leaning both of us into its hard surface. His large body presses against mine. He trails his mouth along the side of my face, chest squeezing against my back, groin nestled against my backside.

  It’s as if he’s trying to get as close to me as humanly possible.

  His free hand fondles my breasts, slides down, and lingers on my tummy. Heat pools in my pelvis in anticipation of its next stop. But instead of going further down, he glides it over my hips to my derriere. Darcy caresses it with the flat of his hand, softly at first and then in a more demanding manner, digging his fingers into my flesh.

  I arch my back with the pleasure of it.

  When his hand travels over my hips again, back to the front and down, I’m so ready it’s ridiculous. The second his fingers ascertain that fact, a guttural growl rises from his throat.

  He bends his head to my ear. “I want you, Diane. I want you so much.”

  These are trivial, overused words that millions of men have said to millions of women in the past. A few men have said them to me in the past. They’re nothing to write home about. They shouldn’t impress me. My knees shouldn’t wobble in response. I shouldn’t have to press my lips together so that my mouth doesn’t plead, Yes, please, take me, any way you want, just do it now!

  Instead, I reach behind my back to palm him through his pants.

  He moans and drops hot, toothy kisses to my neck and shoulders as I rub. Then he steps back. I hear the click of a belt being unbuckled, the crisp sound of a zipper, and a foil tearing. Had he planned for this to happen, or does he always have a condom on him? He steps closer, slides his knee between my legs and nudges them wider apart.

  I stand on tiptoes to make his entry easier.

  He wraps an arm around me and plunges in.

  The sweetness of it almost unbearable.

  My head falls back into the crook of his neck. I inhale him—that unique, masculine scent that’s so quintessentially Sebastian I can’t imagine him smelling any other way.

  He stirs inside me.

  I roll my hips to encourage him.

  “Diane,” he groans and begins to thrust, alternating sharp lunges with gentler strokes.

  When his cadence picks up and we find a rhythm that’s just perfect, I lean back into his torso and let go of the last shreds of restraint. My legs start to shake, and I find myself moaning and saying his name.

  “Diane… come for me,” he grates between his thrusts.

  My inner muscles contract around him a few seconds later.

  And as they do, long and hard, muddled words erupt from me that are half plea, half order. “Yes, Sebastian, don’t stop. Oh God, please, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop!”

  Chapter 19

  Sebastian

  A question has been eating at me since I woke up ten minutes ago and found my bearings—Diane’s bed, her apartment, late Saturday morning. Following a short night. Short because we spent most of it fucking in the living room, in the hallway, and here in this bed.

  I barely noticed that question when it arose as I was thinking of something else. But, for some reason, it stuck in my mind. It blitzed out all my morning routines and is now invading the areas of my brain
normally reserved for strategic thinking and processing of financial data.

  Diane stands by the window, gazing outside, completely oblivious to my turmoil. She’s wearing my shirt in lieu of a dressing gown. I was still asleep when she got up and put in on.

  This burning question is killing me. All my neurons are currently working on it, desperate to figure out the answer before it’s too late. I wouldn’t go so far as to say my life depends on it, but my emotional and physical well-being certainly do. Perhaps even my sanity.

  What I’m so desperate to know is whether Diane is commando under my shirt.

  I can discern her nipples, so I know she didn’t put on her bra. But the cotton of my shirt is too opaque to see through. What’s worse, its weave is too tight to permit an educated guess regarding the presence of panty lines across her butt cheeks. If only she would bend down to pick something up, it would give me a fighting chance. But as things stand, my guesswork is perfectly ineffectual, and I’m scorching my neurons for nothing.

  Would it be too rude to dig into the heap of our clothes on the floor and hunt for evidence? Last night, we undressed in the living room, so she must’ve fetched our clothes when she woke up. I could always pretend I’m looking for my own underwear. Except my boxers are in full view on top of that heap.

  Damn.

  Will she tell me if I ask her politely? Will she be sympathetic if I beg her to put me out of my misery? Or I should try a different tack and I announce that I need my shirt back? Will she take it off?

  One thing is certain: If I do nothing, she’s going to pick up her clothes and head to the bathroom. That will mean I’ll never know. And I’ll have to live with that glaring gap in my knowledge for the rest of my life.

  “Last night was a mistake,” Diane says without looking at me just as I’m about to stand up and do something radical such as slip my hands under the hem of that stupid shirt and get my answer.

  It takes me a few moments to process her meaning. “I had the impression you enjoyed yourself.”

  She still won’t turn toward me, but I can see her ears and cheeks color.

  Good.

  “I did,” she finally says. “And that’s the problem.”