Breaking the Playboy's Rules

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  ‘Yes, I was finally ready. I gave it to Lena. She might end up using it herself, as she’s seeing a nice man who has a young family.’

  Hunter smiled and leaned down to kiss her. ‘I can’t wait to tell Beth and Dan about us. They saw the potential for us before we even met. That’s kind of spooky in a way.’

  ‘Spooky but lovely,’ Millie said, kissing him back.

  ‘Now, about a ring.’ His tone was mock-business-like.

  ‘Well, I could design one for you, if you think you can afford me.’

  He grinned. ‘I was hoping you would say that. I want no expense spared. I only want the best for my beautiful bride. I love you, my darling.’

  Millie linked her arms around his neck and smiled against his mouth. ‘And I love you right back.’

  * * *

  Blown away by Breaking the Playboy’s Rules? Check out the first instalment in the Wanted: A Billionaire trilogy, One Night on the Virgin’s Terms

  Also, why not try these other Melanie Milburne stories?

  One Night on the Virgin’s Terms

  His Innocent’s Passionate Awakening

  The Return of Her Billionaire Husband

  Billionaire’s Wife on Paper

  Available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from How to Undo the Proud Billionaire by Joss Wood.

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  How to Undo the Proud Billionaire

  by Joss Wood

  CHAPTER ONE

  “YOUR PHONE IS RINGING.”

  In his expansive corner office on the top floor of their company headquarters, Radd Tempest-Vane pulled his attention off the report in his hand, his eyes bouncing from his brother’s face to his smartphone, just released to the market, half-buried by a pile of reports. He pulled it free, cursed when papers fell to the expensive carpeting and turned the phone to show Digby the screen.

  “Naledi Radebe.” Frustration jumped into Digby’s navy blue eyes, so like Radd’s own. They had been born eleven months apart and had on occasion been mistaken for twins. All three Tempest-Vane brothers shared the same dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and six-foot-plus height. Radd ignored the suddenly tight grip on his heart. So much time had passed, but sometimes he still thought of Jack in the present tense.

  He probably always would.

  “Are you going to answer her call?” Digby asked from the sleek leather couch next to Radd’s desk, his eyes already back on the screen of the laptop resting on his knees. Every few weeks, depending on their schedules, he and Digby met—either here or at Digby’s equally luxurious office at The Vane—to strategize, plan and discuss supersensitive, for-their-eyes-only company information.

  “No, I’m busy. All the arrangements for her wedding to Johnathan Wolfe have been finalized and he’s happy.”

  Radd returned his attention to his laptop. He didn’t have time to deal with the attention-seeking socialite today. The last time he checked, he and his brother had a massive international empire to run, deals to make, new markets to conquer.

  An empire to restore to its former glory, a family name to rehabilitate and a multi-billion-dollar deal to protect.

  Beyond the floor-to-ceiling bank of electrochromic glass was an extraordinary view of Table Mountain and the endlessly fascinating Atlantic Ocean seaboard. If he was in the habit of looking out of the window, Radd might’ve noticed that it was a perfect day to spend on the beach or, at the very least, outside.

  But Radd’s attention never strayed far from business so, instead of looking at his stunning view, his eyes flicked over to the massive electronic screen on the wall opposite him to look at the changes he’d made on the complicated spreadsheet they were working on. Something looked off with the figures; he’d made a mistake somewhere. Radd gritted his teeth and scraped his hand over his face, trying to wipe away his frustration. He wasn’t in the habit of making unforced errors, and wasting time upped his annoyance levels.

  His phone jangled and, once again, he let the call go to voice mail.

  “It’s your fault for agreeing to play wedding planner,” Digby commented.

  “Naledi thinks that because her father tied the purchase of the mine to her wedding, she can boss me about. Dammit, I’m far too busy to play wedding planner,” Radd growled.

  “And too rich and too important...” Digby mocked him.

  Dig was the only one allowed to tease him, and nobody could cut him down to size quicker than his silver-tongued sibling.

  Radd was more acerbic, impatient and abrupt than his brother. A previous lover once called him robotic and, had he cared enough to respond—he hadn’t—he might’ve agreed with her assessment. Feelings were messy, prickly and uncomfortable, and thanks to his narcissistic parents and his brother Jack’s death, he’d cultivated an attitude of stoicism, training himself not to react, to get perturbed, upset or excited.

  Though, knowing he was a week away from acquiring the mine almost tempted his habitually unemotional heart to flutter.

  Initially, it had been Jack’s burning ambition to rebuild the Tempest-Vane group of companies; he’d been almost evangelical in his quest to restore respect to the family name. For generations, their ancestors had been on the right side of history and people from all walks of life had known that, despite their immense wealth, the Tempest-Vanes stood for equality, freedom and tolerance.

  Then the businesses and assets fell into their father’s hands and the Tempest-Vane name became synonymous with excess, dissipation, laziness and entitlement. And all those excesses had been splashed on the front pages of tabloids, locally and internationally.

  It was hard enough to be the child of celebrity parents, but it had been hell being the sons of Gil and Zia Tempest-Vane.

  Radd leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, remembering the humiliation he had felt every time a scandal hit the papers. Jack, as the eldest, frequently took them to task, but Gil and Zia ignored his pleas to calm down, to stay out of the news. And then they stopped taking his calls or replying to his emails.

  None of the brothers were particularly surprised when their parents’ lackadaisical efforts to stay in touch dwindled to infrequent text messages and once-a-year, if they were lucky, visits.

  Then Jack died and their parents’ behavior—before, during and after the funeral—was the final straw.

  Although their escapades still hit the gossip columns with alarming and irritating frequency, years passed with no contact between them. Then, a year and some months ago, Radd received an email from his father, demanding a meeting with his sons. They were coming home, and there was someone they wanted them to meet...

  The next news they had of their parents was of their deaths; Gil and Zia’s car had left the road in Southern California and crashed into the sea below. Radd still wondered who was so important to his parents that they were prepared to reach out and break the almost twenty-year silence.

  He had a vague theory, but no proof to back it up.

  Radd sighed, glanced at the spreadsheet and was reminded of what they were doing and why. He’d been sixteen when he realized all the family businesses were gone, along with most of the once-impressive Tempest-Vane fortune. Somehow, his parents had not only managed to strip the company of its most valuable assets, but also spend a good portion of the proceeds of the sales. The rest they had squirreled into untouchable trusts.

  And they’d managed to do it on the q.t. To this day, Radd abhorred secrets and surprises.

  Now, thanks to a little luck and lots of sweat—he didn’t do tears—the ranch and The Vane, the beloved C
ape Town icon and the hotel Digby so loved, were back under their ownership.

  But the final contract had yet to be signed, and Vincent Radebe, the current owner of the diamond mine they were trying to reacquire, and his demanding daughter stood between them and their end goal. The Sowetan-based businessman hadn’t been shy about tacking on some nonbusiness-related demands. His youngest child, and only daughter, was recently engaged and he was determined to give her the wedding of her dreams.

  Because the Tempest-Vane brothers owned the most exclusive and sophisticated hotel and wedding venue in Cape Town, Vincent wanted the reception to be held at The Vane. Vincent also demanded Radd accommodate the wedding party at Kagiso Ranch, their six-star, phenomenally exclusive game reserve, for the week leading up to the wedding. All at cost.

  Frustratingly, Radd could only find an opening for both venues eight months after his and Vincent’s initial discussion, thus delaying the sale. They couldn’t launch the extensive PR campaign, and the rebranding of the Tempest-Vane group of companies—reassociating their surname with corporate social responsibility and social justice instead of their parent’s wild life, dissoluteness and licentiousness—until they owned the mine.

  Radd’s low store of patience had run out seven and a half months ago.

  His phone rang again, and Radd snatched it up, thoroughly annoyed. “Naledi, what’s the problem?”

  “Radd, my life is ruined!” Naledi wailed. Radd rolled his eyes as he put his phone on speaker. “Everything is falling apart!”

  “Of course her life is tough, she only received twenty-one million on her twenty-first birthday,” Digby murmured, loud enough for Radd, but not Naledi, to hear.

  Radd knew what Digby was thinking: when they were twenty-one and twenty-two, they’d ceased all contact with their dysfunctional and narcissistic parents and the only cash they had had access to was in a trust fund set up by their grandfather to pay for their education. Luckily, Gray Tempest-Vane vastly overestimated the amount needed to pay for their education and they’d taken every extra cent they had had and invested in a tech company developing a new type of payment system for internet transactions.

  One small online retailer had picked up their system, then another and then they had landed Yours!, one of the three biggest online retailers in the world. The offers to buy them out had started rolling in and, five years ago, they had sold the company to a tech giant, and Radd and Digby had become two of the youngest billionaires in the world. Still, certain financial doors remained closed, thanks to their father’s legacy of defaulting on loans and being economical with the truth. Vincent Radebe was a case in point, but they’d persisted.

  Radd intended to change the collective mindset of the old school captains of commerce and industry.

  “What’s the problem, Naledi?” Radd demanded, gripping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  “The flowers have arrived at Kagiso Lodge...”

  “And?” Radd asked, eyeing the mountain of work he needed to plough through before the end of the weekend. Because life was currently finding it fun to screw with him, Vincent wanted him to host the pre-wedding party so, the first thing on Monday morning, he was flying to Kagiso Lodge.

  Just shoot him now.

  “The flowers are there, but my florist isn’t! She’s had the gall to schedule an operation for appendicitis.”

  “What do you want me to do about it, Naledi?”

  “Find me another florist, Radd,” Naledi demanded in her breathy, baby-doll voice. Radd wasn’t fooled; Naledi was her father’s daughter and below her gorgeous surface resided a band of tungsten, a hard layer of give-me-what-I-want-now.

  Jesus wept. Radd was worth over a billion dollars and he’d been reduced to asking “How high?” when the Radebes said “Jump.” Normally, he was the one who issued orders, who expected to be obeyed, who made demands and expected others to work their asses off to give him what he wanted before he wanted it.

  The ill-fitting, uncomfortable shoe was on the other foot, and Radd didn’t care for the sensation.

  “The staff at the lodge have all taken flower arranging courses, Naledi,” Digby interjected in a reasonable tone. He mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

  “I will not settle for less than the best!”

  “Then we’ll most definitely find you a florist and we’ll make sure they are at the ranch tonight,” Digby told her, sounding ridiculously reasonable. Radd sent him a heated What the hell? look, and Digby mimed the word Mine. Then, in case Radd didn’t catch his meaning the first time, he mimed the word again.

  Right. Gotcha.

  After agreeing to find Naledi a florist, Radd disconnected his call, immediately pulled up another number and impatiently waited for his assistant to answer his call.

  As briefly as possible, he told Andrew what he wanted. “Find me a florist, get them to meet me at the office at two-thirty. I’ll fly them to Kagiso tonight and return them to Cape Town when they’re done. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”

  “Rate?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t care, just get me someone good.”

  Radd disconnected and looked longingly at the state-of-the-art coffee machine on the far side of the room. Normally Andrew provided him with a steady supply of caffeine but, since the offices were empty, as he and Digby were discussing sensitive corporate and financial matters, it was self-serve. And, somehow, despite both of them having above-average IQs and post-graduate degrees in business, neither he nor Digby could make a decent cup of coffee.

  Radd tried to ignore the headache building behind his eyes. “Andrew will work on the florist problem.”

  “I doubt he’s going to find a celebrity florist who’ll drop everything to fly to Kagiso at a moment’s notice.”

  Radd wasn’t so sure. Despite being a relentless pain in his ass, the Radebes were an influential African family, and working for them would add cachet to anyone’s resume. Kagiso Ranch was also one of most exclusive safari destinations in the world and, while they tried to fly under the radar, he and Digby were two of the country’s richest, and therefore most eligible, bachelors. Between them and the Radebes, there was serious name recognition.

  Digby nodded, rolled his shoulders and pulled his laptop toward him. “Well, there’s nothing we can do until then.”

  Radd looked at his watch, a vintage Rolex Daytona, one of only a few in the world. It had been his grandfather’s, then Jack’s, and it was his most prized possession. He set a mental alarm. Three hours had to be more than enough time for Andrew to find someone because, really...

  How difficult could it be to toss some flowers into a vase?

  * * *

  Brinley Riddell noticed a Porsche Cayenne reversing out of a parking space right in front of the path leading to the beach and swung her nineteen-sixties Beetle Betsy into the spot, ignoring the angry hoots of the driver she’d cut off.

  You snooze, you lose.

  As she yanked up her handbrake and pulled the key from the ignition, her cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. Seeing her best friend’s profile picture on her screen, she swiped her screen to read the message.

  What are you doing tonight and tomorrow?

  Was that a trick question?

  I’m dining with Bradley Cooper tonight and brunching with Oprah at The Vane at nine.

  Brinley grinned at her facetious reply. She and Abby, friends since school, shared a small cottage in Bo Kaap, and Abby knew reading was Brin’s favorite way to spend a Saturday night.

  Abby, the queen of Cape Town’s clubbing scene, replied with a short, pithy sentence and a couple of rolling eye emojis.

  You’ve got to get a life, Brin. Good thing I’m here to make that happen.

  Brin didn’t reply because a) she wanted to get to the beach, and b) they’d had this argument a hundred times bef
ore. Brin was very happy to spend the evening alone, while Abby needed people and attention like she needed air to breathe. In that way she was very much like Brin’s influencer, socialite sister Kerry, but, thankfully, in every other way that was important, she wasn’t.

  She wasn’t rude or mean or self-absorbed or selfish. Abby liked men but, unlike Brin’s half sister, she didn’t use or play games with them. Abby wasn’t high maintenance.

  In a smooth, much-practiced movement, Brin shoved her hand through the open window and grabbed the outside handle to open her door. None of her car doors locked but, by some miracle, her car had yet to land in a chop shop. Maybe it was the bright pink-and-rust color or maybe car thieves had standards, but so far, so good.

  Slamming her car door shut, Brinley stepped onto the pavement and pushed her soft, loose curls off her face. It was one of those perfect African days. The summer sun was high in the sky but a soft wind kept the temperature from being unbearable. Standing at the top of the steep set of stairs leading to the beach, she smiled, struck as she always was by the beauty of the white sand and turquoise water. This was one of her favorite beaches and, since moving to Cape Town six months ago, she’d spent many of her free days down here, swimming, reading and, because she could, ogling the hot surfers and the volleyball players.

  Looking was always fun, but Brin had a strict “Look, don’t engage” policy. When she’d left Johannesburg, she’d promised herself that she’d give herself all the time she needed to find herself, to discover who she was and what she stood for...

  She was a very messy work in progress and dating added complications she didn’t need. And men weren’t, let’s be honest here, anywhere as satisfying as coffee, chocolate or bacon.

  Brin leaned her butt against the door of her car and tipped her face to the sun, loving the gentle heat on her skin. She pulled in a series of deep breaths, telling herself that there was no need to rush, that she was allowed to stand still, to take a breath and to take the moment.