by Leslie North
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and let go of his hand to go around and get into his convertible. He lifted an eyebrow at that—maybe this kind of gutsiness had gotten her in trouble to start with. She didn’t seem to mind jumping into a stranger’s car, but then he wouldn’t want to hang around either to see how Toad liked being kicked in the nuts.
He started up his car and headed for the highway. “Where do you live?” He asked, leaning over so she could hear him over the wind, which was a soft roar in his ears and a pressure on his cheeks.
She shook her head, captured her flying hair with a hand, and slanted him a look. “No one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever helped me out.”
Brock grinned. “It’s kind of what I do.” He pulled out a card and slipped it to her. It had his name on it and the words, Slade Security. She ran her fingers over the card, and Brock’s throat tightened. She had great hands—long fingers, tapering, slim, and strong wrists. He liked the way she moved them, too, slow and certain. They reminded him, somehow, of white butterflies.
She looked at him again. “What kind of security?”
He shrugged. “Whatever anyone needs. Systems. Bodyguards. Surveillance. You name it. Slade, he’s my boss, runs a full service operation.”
She nodded, shifted so she faced him. “You military?”
“Used to be. Navy. I’m out now.” She nodded again and grabbed her flying hair, yanking it back into a pony tail. He put his eyes on the road. He was not going to think about taking her back to his hotel room. Well, okay, he was going to think about it; but he was also going to remember her kicking a guy in the balls. “What about you?” he asked. “Figure out an address where you want me to take you?”
She shook her head. “My cousins set me up to work for Toad. They didn’t tell me he wanted to have me selling drugs—and myself.”
“Ah,” Brock said, and gave a nod. “That accounts for the parking lot disagreement. No folks?”
“Not that I want to see.” She faced the road, too. He could tell that from the way the car seat squeaked. “Don’t have anything else going for me, either.”
He glanced at her again. The light from the dash played over her face. She had brown eyes to match her hair; big eyes in a narrow, heart-shaped face. She’d also held up well in that parking lot, better than most would, and she’d known how to fight. That was a point in her favor. She also wasn’t shaking or crying now. He liked that. “Where’d you learn to punch like that?” he asked.
She grinned. “Streets. Where else?”
“The streets. Meaning you fight dirty. That’s cool. You want a job?” The words popped out, and Brock wanted to kick himself. That’s what happened after four beers—impulse took over and his mouth went on auto-pilot.
He hadn’t meant to get into this with her. He’d been taught to protect those around them. The weak. The misfortunate. The ones you loved. Those were the rare ones. He’d always had to watch out for the folks who needed someone. He’d always hated the idea of meeting his maker on foreign soil and having that tear someone up back home—and it had ended up costing him.
But Slade was looking to expand the teams with support staff. Slade had said he also wanted to get some females on board. There were some jobs that needed a woman to do things that a guy couldn’t, like follow a female suspect or a client into a bathroom. Slade wasn’t the kind of guy to put women in danger, but the truth was that females could be a great distraction. He glanced at the girl—yeah, he’d bet she’d clean up to be totally distracting.
She hadn’t said anything, and he wasn’t sure if that was because she hadn’t heard him or was thinking things over. He was about ready to write her off—and that was a relief—when she asked, “What’s the pay?”
He glanced at her. It was her call to dive into this, and Slade would make sure she stayed safe. She’d get training. She’d never go out without back up. That actually might be something this girl could use. If he left her on the streets, there’d be no telling what might become of her. He gave a nod. “Good. Really good.”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Keira Mantz. I don’t use drugs and I don’t sell them. I’m not up for anything illegal and I have no intention of ever being anyone’s property!”
She had enough aggression in her tone that Brock shook his head. But he also grabbed her hand and shook it. She had a firm grip. “Well, don’t go all Amazon man-hater on me.”
“Why not?”
He glanced at her. Her mouth had twisted into a grimace, and he figured something had put her off men in general. Maybe Toad—or maybe just guys like him. Pity about that, but it’d be better for the job if she wasn’t there to snag a guy. “Okay, go ahead with that. I can’t guarantee anything, but I can take you to meet Slade. He’s got to make the final call on you working for him. You want to stop and pick up anything before we head out to meet up with him?”
She shook her head. “I’m more than ready to leave my old life behind. All of it.”
Brock put his eyes on the road. He knew about that. Sometimes life just got shitty enough that all you could do was leave the wreckage behind. He pulled out his cell phone to call Slade and set up a meet. The corner of his mouth twitched. Slade was going to love this girl—he just knew it. Brock snuck one more glance at her.
If she was coming on board with Slade’s team, that put her off limits. Totally. Pity about that, because Brock wouldn’t have minded seeing what she looked like under that big shirt of hers. But work came first. Always. That was one rule Brock was never breaking.
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Greek Billionaire’s Blackmailed Bride (The Rosso Family Series Book One)
It was almost too bad Petrakis hadn’t died instead.
Antonio Rosso listened to the man drone on…and on. He knew Petrakis had never approved of him, but the lawyer seemed to be taking pleasure in detailing every bequest in the will—every small donation, every tiny remembrance, every charity that would get part of his father’s vast estate.
Or had this been his father’s idea? Matthias Rosso had been a despot in life—and in death he still wanted everyone to dance to the tune he set. Antonio shifted on his feet, and got a glare from his sister, Alexandra.
Both his sisters had straight, black hair—like his mother had. They also had the same dark eyes. An old familiar pain twisted inside Antonio—regret his mother had not loved, the ache of memory, the wish just to see her once more. But he did see her—he could see her any time he looked at his sisters. He wished that was comfort enough, but he would have to make do with no more arguments with his father.
Alexandra gave him one more glare that told him to behave. Even though Antonio was the eldest, Alexandra had become their mother after Livia Rosso had died. She sat next to Eva now, holding Eva’s hand, while Antonio stood, leaning on a bookcase filled with musty, leather-clad legal volumes. At least Antonio assumed they were legal books. His mouth twitched at the thought of opening one and finding a Playboy centerfold.
Petrakis raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. Antonio tried to pay more attention. Did Petrakis think he was telling them anything new? Matthias had already told them most of this time and time again, usually with the stipulation that if they did not behave they would get nothing.
Antonio listened to the list of residences scattered around Europe and even in North America—his father’s hobby, he thought, collecting places as well as people, and money that could have been better spent.
Finally Petrakis got to the family.
“To my daughters Alexandra and Eva, I leave each a trust fund of fifty-million US dollars to be administered by their older brother Antonio until each of my daughters reaches the age of twenty-five. If either of my daughters should marry before the age of twenty-five, I leave it up to my son to release the trust or to continue to manage it.” Antonio straightened, anger tightening his jaw and stomach. Petrakis glanced at h
im. “Your father included that condition because he didn’t want his daughters to be targets for men who would marry for money only. It is your decision as to whether any man is to be entrusted with such a large sum of money.”
Antonio snorted. “As if they aren’t smart enough to know that. My father thought we lived in the eighteen hundreds, when women couldn’t be trusted with anything. He glanced at his sisters. Alexandra sat still, her dark eyes flat, but color burned in her cheeks. Eva kept her head down. Antonio would have to talk to them later. They could break this trust—or he would simply put them in charge of their own money.
Petrakis shook his head and began to read again. “To my son, Antonio, I leave this world with a heavy heart for the wrongs I have done. There was a time when Antonio found it easy to trust others. But that changed, and I blame myself for that. To make up for this, I leave the rest of my estate to my son, with the exception of the Villa Livia on Kato Antikeri, which goes to Claire Bennett.”
Antonio straightened. His sisters did as well and Eva asked, “Claire who?” She looked at Antonio, but he did not remove his stare from Petrakis. The lawyer put down the will and folded his hands on top of it.
Crossing his arms, Antonio asked, “Tell me what it’s going to take to break this will. I am not allowing my mother’s house—the place where she is buried, the villa named after her, to go to…to an American.”
“You know this Claire?” Alexandra asked.
Antonio ignored her question as well.
Petrakis lifted an eyebrow. “There is one more condition.” He cleared his throat and read, “Everything will be held in trust for my son until he is married. At that time he may do as he pleases, and if he marries by his twenty-fifth birthday, the rest of my inheritance, including the Villa Livia, will go to him.”
Alexandra gave a gasp. “That’s next month! That’s crazy!”
Petrakis put a hand on the document. “Your father was of sound mind. The bequests are all reasonable, if a touch…unusual.”
Antonio gave a snort. “Anything can be broken—overturned. How do we end this farce?”
“If you contest the will, you will forfeit your inheritance—and that of your sisters. Weren’t you listening earlier? That clause is in the first paragraph.”
Jaw clenched tight, Antonio shook his head. But it was Eva who spoke up. “Our mother loved the Villa Livia. How could father leave this to a stranger?”
“Oh, Claire Bennett is not a stranger,” Antonio said. He could still see her face—that perfect face framed by honey-blonde hair, and the sparkling, wicked green eyes. He remembered a tall, skinny girl, with long legs and a too-American pushy attitude. He’d almost fallen for her—but he’d been smart enough to know that a penniless American girl on a scholarship to study art was the type to flirt with, but never to marry. His father was right about one thing—the old man had taught him to be wary.
But it was also just like his father to try and manipulate him this way. His father had always been one to play games with the lives of others. But this was too much, even for the mighty Matthias Rosso.
He knew what his father wanted—but he wasn’t going to play that game. He would find a way out of this. And he would find a way that kept his sisters’ inheritance intact.
Antonio glanced at his sisters. He owed them something of an explanation, so he said, the words clipped, “Claire Bennett is the one person in the world I had hoped to never meet again. Ever.”
Greek Billionaire’s Blackmailed Bride
