The Everest Brothers: Ethan - Hutton - Bennett

by Scott, S. L.

  I kiss her under an arch of love, gratitude, and appreciation. Something I intend to do every day for as long as I shall live.

  * * *

  “What the fuck? I’m coming.” Searching every room I pass, I keep walking until I reach the door. With Ally, Singer, Margie, and Marielle in a bread-baking lesson with Birgit, I’ve been exploring the place. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to answer a knock at the palace, but no one else seems to be around.

  We’ve been here for over a week, and I’m ready to jet home with my lovely bride, but she wanted to spend a few extra days, telling me she doesn’t need a fancy honeymoon because every day with me is a dream come true.

  She’s got some good lines.

  I turn the large brass knob in the center of the blue ten-foot door and pull open the right door. Standing there as if he has a fucking right to is Duke Dick himself. I fucking level him. I’m bad with all the royal terms, so I assume his footmen or whatever they’re called running up the steps are here to help him.

  Maybe Ally’s father was right. There’s some bad still inside me. That’s what makes me so right for her, though, so I make no apologies for my behavior or for punching him.

  While he rubs his chin, he’s propped back on his feet by his dudes. I’m about to take him down again when he waves a white hanky. “Is that supposed to be a surrender flag?”

  “Yes. Don’t hit me again. I’m surrendering.”

  I stare at him in disgust. “You’re weak and pathetic, you know that?”

  “Yes, I do, but I don’t know why you hit me.”

  My mind tracks back to a few days prior when Ally found the footage from the night she and the duke were on the terrace. Although I’d heard the gist a long time ago, seeing him grab her and touch her in ways that make me want to kill him doesn’t keep me from throttling him against the palace doors now.

  I am a Texas gentleman, though, so I let go of him and watch as he slides to the tiled platform. This time, his guys don’t rush to help. In fact, they give a slight grin. They can’t say it, but I can. “Yeah, he’s an asshole.”

  Ally rushes out the door and skids to a stop. “Oh my God!” As her eyes narrow on him, and she can see he’s going to be fine, she hugs me. “My hero.”

  “You bet your fine ass I am.”

  When Marielle arrives with her hands fisting at her sides, she says, “I summoned you six hours ago.”

  On his hands and knees still gasping for air, he says, “I was busy.”

  “Too busy for your queen?”

  “My apologies.”

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” Marielle corrects.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

  She shakes her head and looks at her sister. “This should have been done a long time ago.” With her guards flanking her side, she walks until her feet are under his panting head. “Look at me.” When he does, she strips the epaulet from one shoulder and then the other. “You, sir, are no longer a duke of anything. You should vacate the premises of your home, the duke’s home, immediately. If you don’t, you’ll be removed by force and will be considered an enemy of our country. Do you understand, Mr. Vaughn?”

  “I do,” he spits at her feet.

  “Good. Go about your day and leave my grounds.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I nod. For the quiet mouse Marielle used to be, she’s grown into her stripes and fights like a tiger. He pushes up and heads for the vehicle. The two men remain on the platform. “That’s the duke’s SUV. You’ll need to find another way to wherever you’re going.”

  I say, “That royal thing puts the fear of hell in people.”

  “So does beheading,” Marielle says as she turns and walks inside.

  Singer says, “I thought Brudenbourg never beheaded anyone?”

  Casual and jovial, Marielle heads back toward the kitchen, the conversation flowing back to us. “We don’t talk about it. It’s rare, but it’s happened.” She stops and turns back. “Hey, sis?” she adds. “How’d I do?”

  Ally grins. “Spoken like a true queen.”

  Epilogue

  Hutton

  “Mustard.”

  Ally giggles.

  “Mustard,” she calls again. “Mustard. Mustard. Mustard.”

  When that doesn’t work, she weasels out of my hold and dives under the covers. Peeking out, she looks incredibly adorable. “What’s the point of having a safe word if it never works?”

  High in the sky of Manhattan, as newlyweds, we’ve settled into the life we’ve chosen to live—together. My brilliant and tenderhearted wife started The Everest Foundation six months ago. She remains an advisor to the queen of Brudenbourg, but through the foundation she provides women in need with educational support, training, counseling, and job placement. She’s also passionate about helping children. From meals to emotional support, she has a team of social workers who are helping to make a difference in their young lives.

  I’m still just a numbers guy.

  We also bought two thousand acres in the hill country of Texas. I can’t have a queen with no land to rule. She says it’s a perfect place to raise our Everest clan one day.

  One day can’t come soon enough.

  I climb over her and lie down, putting my weight on her like she makes me do all the time. Well, I don’t put it all on her. I’m six foot four to her five foot four. I’m not trying to crush her. I bring the covers down far enough for me to see her face and then rest on my elbows. “Because a safe word is used during sexual acts. I’m just tickling you.”

  “Oh, is that when I’m supposed to yell spider?”

  “What? No. Not spider. Aunt.” Now she has my mind muddled.

  “What’s the difference? They’re both insects.”

  I start laughing. “Not aunt. Ant. Ant is an insect.” I can’t even continue to torture her with tickles right now. Stitches from laughter are forming in my sides.

  “They sound the same.”

  I fall to the side of her, and say, “You’re actually supposed to call out uncle. Not aunt or ant.”

  “Why?”

  Grabbing my side, I sit up. “I have no idea, but that makes me wonder what else you missed out on living in the palace. Did you ever play Marco Polo as a kid?”

  “There’s a children’s game named after the Italian explorer?”

  I shake my head. “We have a lot to catch you up on.”

  She stretches to reach the remote and clicks on the TV. “Another time. It’s Monday. You know what that means?”

  “Do I need to worry about your football addiction?”

  “No. Shhh. We missed the first quarter.”

  Standing totally naked next to the bed, I ask, “What is it that you love about football so much?”

  “What’s not to love? Tight pants. Big men.”

  “How do you feel about no pants? I’m working that angle hard right now.”

  She glances and then does a double take. Clicking the TV off, she says, “No pants on you should totally be a thing, a regular thing. Like always. We can make it a bylaw.” She comes crawling right across the top of the bed, and when she reaches me, she looks up. “What do you want to do?”

  “You. Are you up for a little role play?”

  “Let me get the tiara.” When she scrambles to the end of the bed, she lifts her grandmother’s crown from the post and sets it on her head. My wife is stunning with her bare breasts, full hips, and the confidence to wear a tiara valued over one million dollars to bed.

  It’s crooked. As it should be.

  When she lies back down, she asks, “Want to make a baby?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now about that mustard . . .”

  “I love you, my queen.”

  She pulls me to her and kisses me hard. “I love you, too, my king.”

  * * *

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  BENNETT

  Copyright © 2019 by S.L. SCOTT

  All rights reserved.

  The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940071-79-4

  Design: RBA Designs

  Photography by Rafa G. Catala

  Cover Model: Chema Malavia

  Editing:

  Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts

  Jenny Sims, Editing 4 Indies

  Marla Esposito, Proofing Style

  Kristen Johnson, Proofreader

  Amy Halter, Proofreader

  Team Readers: Lynsey Johnson and Andrea Johnston

  French Phrases: Merci to Veronique Chayer

  FORCE of NATURE

  On paper, he's perfect. In real life, he's even better.

  ~~~

  It was supposed to be easy.

  Get in. Get the girl. Close the deal.

  But nothing about Winter Nobleman is simple.

  Her stormy blue eyes captivate me, her quick wit entertains me, and the secrets she hides behind her pouty pink Mona Lisa smile intrigue me.

  Winter is determined to save herself without my help.

  Yet, somewhere along the way, she saves me.

  Even though our introduction is cloaked in deception, secrets don't stay buried forever.

  If the lies don't kill us ... the truth may set us free.

  Prologue

  STRIKE

  Our lips part the moment the shot rings out. A silent scream replaces the stars in her eyes, and she looks at me as if I’m the last person she’ll ever see.

  FALL

  The snap of another bullet punctures the air, and my body curls around, shielding her as we hit the ground. Debris cuts into my hands as I cradle her head to break the fall.

  PROTECT

  A car door swings open, and a familiar voice commands us to get in. With no time to think, I act. Hopefully . . . outwitting death.

  DEFEND

  Our eyes stay focused on each other while we speed away even as a gunshot ricochets off the bulletproof vehicle. Hovering over her, I stay steady. Her body trembles under my hands. “Breathe, Winter.”

  Her sweet scent covers me in a succession of quick exhales and then slows when the words tumble off her tongue. “Are we safe?”

  “Yes.”

  For now.

  1

  Bennett Everest

  Paris is gray. Everywhere I look—gray skies, gray sidewalks, gray buildings. I don’t know what I expected before I arrived, but it wasn’t gray.

  When I volunteered for the job, I didn’t realize I would be in the right city in the wrong season. I hear it’s nice in springtime. Maybe I’ll come back in six months and get something other than gray with the bonus from the deal I’m about seal.

  To block the cool wind from hitting my neck, I pop up the lapels of my suit jacket and round the corner of the avenue. My feet stop when I see her.

  Bourbon-colored hair that shines even under the light of the red bistro sign at dusk, a swan-like slope where her neck meets the top of her shoulders, a bright pink sweater clinging to her slender frame. Winter Nobleman is a burst of color on a cloudy day.

  I pull the photo from my pocket and compare it to the woman sitting at the small table drinking coffee. It’s her, and although she’s attractive in the picture, it doesn’t do her beauty justice.

  Her father worries about her safety but seeing her sitting contentedly at a sidewalk café makes me wonder why. I look around as if to find something other than peaceful in this scene. I’ve yet to detect any threat of danger.

  There’s more to this story than I’ve been told. Typical. This seems too easy, which means it’s more complicated than I was told.

  This deal won’t close unless I can get her home. How will I do that if she’s staying away on purpose? I’m a good-looking guy and the right one for the job, or so her father said. So why does this suddenly feel like a fool’s mission?

  Get in.

  Get the girl.

  Get out.

  Easy.

  So what is keeping this gorgeous brunette here? Maybe she’s purposely avoiding her family. But is that my concern? Not really.

  Why she’s here isn’t my business, but closing the deal is. I’m confident enough to deliver this deal sealed with a kiss. So I’ll just be honest with her. My job here is done if I can give Mr. Nobleman the assurance that his daughter is fine (and damn is she fine . . .), so he can continue with business and sign this deal. Then if she wants to fly back to Paris the next day, she can. An eight-million-dollar contract is worth a quick trip to Paris, but now it’s time to close it.

  I start walking, my pace slowing as I approach. The early evening still allows the last of the daylight to sneak in before night covers us in darkness. I watch her with rapt attention. Her lips understated and nude, long lashes painted black, drawing my eyes to hers and wondering if they’re violet or blue. It was hard to decipher from the photos, and even though the file says blue, I can’t help but want to see for myself.

  What the—?

  My feet stop, and I turn to face a bakery, pretending to window shop. Whoa! What is the obsession with macarons? It’s a cookie, for fuck’s sake. Out of the corners of my eyes, I watch as a man with a half-eaten baguette in one hand and bottle of wine in the other makes himself at home across from Winter. Although the cadence of his French is not harsh, her tone is.

  Since I took Spanish in high school, my basic foreign language skills are useless. So I spy on them instead, keeping a sharp eye on his body language. The waiter returns and attempts to shoo him away, but when he wobbles on his feet to get up, his body lags back into the seat.

  I don’t have to speak the language to know the drunk is hitting on her. Fucker. The waiter returns, shouting a barrage of what sounds like threats, causing the asshole to stand. He leans over the table, making his motives more obvious despite her clear and definitive, “Non!”

  When he doesn’t get the hint, she leans back, appearing uneasy. Fuck this guy. I start walking, pounding the pavement with purpose. Weaving through the tables, I’m focused on them. She looks up when I arrive, her eyes going wide and lips parting just enough for me to see the tip of her tongue dip out and I catch a little pleasure in our shared second before it disappears.

  Edging past, and with an elbow to the asshole’s arm, I give her my best grin. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, mon chéri.” I have no idea where that came from. Is mon chéri a candy or a real French phrase? I’m hoping for the latter, or now I’m going to look like the asshole.

  As her sweet features are colored surprised, she replies, “It’s okay. You’re here now, mon chéri. Remember how I taught you that you call me ma chérie because I’m a female.”

  I lean down, kiss her cheek, and whisper in her ear, “It’s lovely to meet you, ma chérie.”

  The Frenchman tugs me back. Reeking of red wine, he slurs, “Who are you, Américain?”

  “I’m her boyfriend, that’s the fuck who.” I square my shoulders and crack my neck, glancing down at his hand that he has the nerve to continue touching me with, and add, “I suggest you back up and keep walking. The lady’s not interested, and I’m not a patient man.”

  I don’t know why a little John Wayne slips into my tone, but it seems to do the trick. His hands go up in surrender still holding his prized bread
and wine as he backs up. Too bad his mouth is still flapping. Dumb bastard. On the positive, I have no idea what he’s going on about. I remain standing until he’s down the street and still mumbling out loud.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know?” There’s a kick to her voice, a gentle tone with an edge to it.

  I turn around to find Winter looking up at me. “Gray,” I say.

  “Gray?”

  “Your eyes.”

  Looking everywhere but at me, she replies casually, “Overcast.”

  “Your eyes?”

  “No, the day. My eyes are blue in the sunlight.”

  “I look forward to seeing for myself.” I’m just about to get down to the reason I’m there when she laughs.

  The tone is lighter than the church bells ringing in the distance, and she asks, “Do those quippy flirtations work for you?”

  “Often. May I join you?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You got rid of one guy trying to talk to me so you could replace him?”

  “He wasn’t interested in talking to you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Amused, she props her chin on her palm and watches me with a small smile. “Then what was he interested in?”

  “Fucking you.” Taking a seat at the table next to hers, I hold my hand up to get the waiter’s attention.