by Helena Ray
Male Order, Texas 4
A Bride for Two Playboys
Just when she thought her life was stalled out, Robin Lawrence receives a request to travel to Male Order, Texas to study the Abrams family mansion. She didn’t bargain on her assignment including the current Abrams heir, the arrogant and debonair Alexander. Fresh from his five-year-long stint partying in Europe, Alexander has no room for a woman in his life and no patience for Robin’s fiery personality. Luckily, Alexander’s best friend, the hunky cowboy Bryant, is there to keep Robin very entertained during her stay in Male Order.
But her life isn’t all fun and games. She discovers a series of crimes committed against the Abrams family, and her rocky relationship with Alexander prevents her from performing her professional duties. When Bryant demands Robin make amends with Alexander, it seems all is lost. Can Robin manage a cowboy, a billionaire, and a professional disaster? In Male Order, anything is possible.
Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys
Length: 55,198 words
A BRIDE FOR TWO PLAYBOYS
Male Order, Texas 4
Helena Ray
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
A BRIDE FOR TWO PLAYBOYS
Copyright © 2011 by Helena Ray
E-book ISBN: 1-61034-539-8
First E-book Publication: May 2011
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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DEDICATION
To Justin, for being just crazy enough to love me.
A BRIDE FOR TWO PLAYBOYS
Male Order, Texas 4
HELENA RAY
Copyright © 2011
Chapter 1
This isn’t real.
Robin Lawrence steered her Honda Civic down the long drive leading to the Abrams estate. When it came into view, it took her breath away.
There it stood, a century-old stone mansion with sloping roofs, turrets, and balconies projecting over the grand entrance. The Abrams mansion was the closest thing to the fairy-tale castles every little girl dreams about that Robin thought she would ever see. As she drew nearer, more details came into view, and her heart pounded with her excitement at just being there.
When she pulled in front of the main entrance, a man attired in a tuxedo ran to her door. A tuxedo! In Texas’s sweltering July heat! He opened her car door, and Robin stepped out, confused as to what exactly she was supposed to do in this situation. She grabbed her hefty messenger bag off the passenger’s seat, and a second attendant nearly toppled her over. This one was dressed in a more sensible uniform of a polo shirt and khakis. He handed her a small slip of paper as he hopped into her car, closed the door, and sped off.
“Ah, Ms. Lawrence, I presume,” the man in the penguin suit offered. The disappearance of Robin’s car around the corner distracted her, and she hoped that wouldn’t be her last glimpse of it. Her confusion must have painted itself across her expression, as Mr. Tuxedo-in-July laughed and said, “Don’t worry, it’s just the valet service. Complimentary for all of our most esteemed guests.” He gave her a small bow, revealing the ample bald spot atop his head.
Robin gathered herself and remembered her professional manners, extending a hand. “Yes, I’m Robin Lawrence. So nice to meet you.”
He took her hand in his and patted it once. “Rupert. I’m sure we’ll meet several times, Ms. Lawrence.” He then turned and marched toward the house. Robin stood in front of the house awaiting his instructions and clutching the strap of her messenger bag. It was times like this she cursed her social awkwardness. Although she warmed up to people relatively quickly, her initial shyness often got in the way of her professional obligations.
“Ms. Lawrence, are you coming?” Rupert’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and Robin scurried after him, worrying she had already made a bad impression.
Any worries she had, though, immediately dissipated at the sight of the Abrams mansion’s entry hall. It was large, bright, and clean, with neoclassical details adorning the walls. The focal point of the entryway was the grand staircase. It led up the double-height space, splitting into two smaller staircases halfway through its ascent. Robin’s breath caught in her throat as she stood in the space she had dreamed of for months.
Robin’s arrival at the mansion on the outskirts of the peculiarly named Male Order, Texas had come in a very roundabout way. Since Robin had graduated summa cum laude from Southern Methodist University in Dallas with a degree in art history, she had labored tirelessly to attempt to get ahead in her profession. She worked menial jobs in almost all of the major art museums in Texas, including her most recent assignment in the archives of the Meadows Museum at her alma mater SMU. She had assumed that job, like all the others, would lead to nothing, but about six months ago, she received a strange offer from her supervisor. Apparently, the will of the most recently
deceased Abrams descendants stipulated that the mansion be fully documented for archiving in the Meadows collection. And the family had specifically requested Robin.
She was flabbergasted. Of course, she knew and loved the work of the art deco architect Max Abrams, who had also built a modernist masterpiece on the grounds. However, Robin had no idea that Max Abrams’s family also owned this idyllic, romantic castle of a house. No, the word house was nowhere near sufficient to describe its grandeur. It was a mansion, a chateau, a villa, anything but a mere “house.” The short-term rental the museum had secured for her in downtown Male Order that Robin had deemed luxurious earlier that day now paled in comparison.
These thoughts raced through her mind as she ascended the staircase, struggling to soak up every decadent detail of the space. Was that an original Monet she spied through an open doorway? Rupert, who she now assumed to be the butler, turned to ascend the smaller staircase that led to the left. She walked behind him, so engrossed in every facet of her surroundings that she fell several paces back.
They turned down a smaller hallway with several intricately carved, tall wooden doors lining both sides. Neo-Gothic wall sconces hung on the stone walls of the corridor, illuminating the way as the long tunnel of a hallway darkened the farther they walked. After what seemed to be about half an hour of trudging through narrow passageways, they stopped at a particularly tall set of wooden doors with elaborate sconces holding gas lamps. Quite a nice touch for the atmosphere. Whoever lives here certainly has a flair for the dramatic.
She didn’t know the exact purpose of their expedition since Rupert’s quick pace left Robin constantly hurrying to keep up in the maze of corridors.
Turning with a dramatic flourish, Rupert addressed Robin. “Ms. Lawrence, if you would be so kind as to grant us one moment before you meet with our archivist, Dr. Blackmon.” Robin nodded, uncertain what would come next. “I understand that you need the living heir’s consent to access certain materials. He’s often, ah...” Rupert paused, appearing to decide on the correct words. “He is frequently occupied,” he said finally.
“Oh, that’s fine.” Robin hadn’t expected to start off so quickly and had to dig through her bag to find the consent forms. After a brief search, she located the papers and handed them to Rupert. He looked down at the papers as if they were poison ivy and left her holding them.
“Ms. Lawrence, I believe you should ask Mr. Abrams for permission yourself,” Rupert said uneasily. “Alexander generally responds better to anyone but me.”
Alexander? Alexander Abrams was here? She knew he was Max Abrams’s descendant but had assumed he would be anywhere but Male Order. Gossip magazines frequently featured his exploits on their covers, and Allegedly.com, the infamous Dallas-area gossip blog, followed his adventures closely. Although he had been raised in Male Order, he had departed as soon as possible for Europe, where, according to the media, he caused a sensation among the upper crust. All reports of Alexander included booze, gambling, and the most glamorous models in the world. What had always caught Robin’s attention, though, was Alexander himself. He was far more handsome than most matinee idols, and his quotes were always articulate with a dry, cynical humor that Robin appreciated. Yes, Alexander Abrams looked on track to surpass James Bond as the archetypal handsome European playboy.
“Okay,” Robin squeaked, unable to believe her luck. She had figured she might meet Alexander at some point during her stay in Male Order, but her first day! She had not expected that. After his fathers’ deaths, Alexander had assumed the position of the head of the Abrams estate, but Robin assumed he would have sent a representative while he stayed on his notoriously over-the-top estate in France. Apparently, she thought wrong.
“Allow me to announce your arrival,” Rupert said as he placed a gloved hand on the polished gold doorknob. “One moment, Ms. Lawrence.”
The butler disappeared through the door, and the sudden silence unnerved Robin. Despite the Texas heat and the gas lamps burning above her head, the air conditioning against the stone walls of the sequestered hallway in which she stood sent a chill through her. She hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm and numb her nervousness about meeting the Alexander Abrams.
The door creaked open, and Rupert emerged, exasperated. He sighed and held the door open to Robin. “Mr. Abrams will see you now, Ms. Lawrence.”
Robin walked through the door, a strange mixture of dread and excitement gnawing at her stomach.
* * * *
Alexander breathed a sigh of exhaustion as he spun around in his high-backed leather chair, propping his feet up on the edge of his large mahogany desk. He sank further into his chair and framed Rupert’s face with the tips of his bespoke Oxfords. “What fresh hell do you have for me today?”
Every day since his return to Male Order from his estate in France, his house manager conjured up some new situation that required Alexander’s attention. Alexander was not suited to such duties. No, his talents were far better suited to long nights at the tables in Monte Carlo, to polo matches with the rulers of small European principalities, to afternoon trysts with their wives...
“Sir, it’s the historian from the Meadows Museum. I told you of this engagement last night, sir, between your various Scotch tastings.” Rupert shot him a chagrined look. Alexander did feel for the poor man. His fathers had been devoted to maintaining the dignity of the Abrams family name. Alexander, on the other hand, worked to escape that dignity, instead preferring to indulge in the fruits of his ancestors’ labor differently, for instance, across the ocean in a casino. Poor Rupert was cursed with the task of acclimating Alexander to the new duties thrust upon him after his fathers’ deaths in a car crash.
“Right, right. That.” Alexander hoped his tone conveyed his reluctance to cope with the situation. “Do I really need to meet this old bat?”
“Yes, sir, you do.” Rupert’s eyes narrowed as his patience for Alexander’s petulant behavior ostensibly came to an end. Alexander sighed and lowered his feet from the desk. Yet another loose end left by his fathers. Doubtless he would have a new stack of papers and would demand Alexander scribble his signature across countless times. Day after day of this, he thought. What a shell of a life.
Rupert left the room, and Alexander adjusted his Dolce and Gabbana smoking jacket emblazoned with the Abrams family coat of arms as he sat up in preparation for his unwelcome guest.
The door opened, and in walked a waif of a woman, probably a foot shorter than Alexander. Her face conveyed an unmistakable innocence with large, brown doe eyes that widened as she took in Alexander’s office with its dark wood paneling, gold fixtures, and original old master paintings and drawings scattered across the walls. Despite that naive look on her face, Alexander saw something delectably naughty in her. Her flimsy V-necked grey T-shirt revealed a set of pert breasts, and Alexander inwardly thanked the unbearable summer heat in Texas for necessitating her to wear very short shorts that hugged her ass perfectly. Quite unprofessional, he thought. As he watched her mouth drop into an “O” at the sight of the Rubens drawing framed on his wall, he felt his cock stirring, wanting to feel that mouth tighten around it.
Maybe this wouldn’t be too miserable after all.
The woman collected herself and extended her hand across the desk. “Mr. Abrams? I’m Robin Lawrence, from the Meadows Museum.”
Alexander stood, took her hand, and rubbed the inside of her palm with his thumb. “Call me Alexander, Robin.” He used his most sensual voice, the one that had women running to him in Monaco.
Robin quickly withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. “Um, Alexander. I will need you to sign some authorization papers so the museum can access the unarchived material housed here.”
Alexander stared at her, perplexed, as she rifled through the papers sticking out of the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. The thumb maneuver was usually his way in. Women could never resist a sensual touch. But there was something different about her. While she was beautiful,
she didn’t look like the models who followed his every move in Paris, and she certainly didn’t look like the usual old fogey academics that begged him for permission to rifle through his great-grandfather’s things.
“But of course. First, tell me about yourself. How come a beautiful girl like you wants to spend time with a bunch of dusty old plans?” Alexander crossed to the front of his desk and sat lightly on the edge. From this angle, he could inhale the light perfume she was wearing. It had been, what? A few weeks since he got laid? This girl would be a suitable conquest.
His sudden proximity caused her to take a few steps backward.
“Mr. Abrams, I—”
“Alexander.”
“Mr. Abrams.” Her look told him she meant business. “I’m here because I was sent on assignment from the Meadows Museum and because I admire your great-grandfather greatly. Now if you’d please...” She indicated the papers she was still holding.
Alexander ignored the documents and circled behind Robin, getting a better view of her round, tight ass. “I’ll get to those, but really. A woman like you shouldn’t be wasting her time on dead architects. Wouldn’t your boyfriend rather you be at home with him?” Killing two birds with one stone. Not that the answer would make any difference in his advances.
“Excuse me? At home?” Robin’s smooth, milky skin turned a deep shade of red. “This is what I love, and as a woman of the twenty-first century, I can do whatever I please.” She paused, looking a bit flustered. “Also, I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t need one.” She jutted her chin upward as if proud of her perceived independence.
