convinced that the investment would provide a decent, or any, return. But Lester rather fancied the idea of being the world’s next hotel mogul and, since he couldn’t take money from the swimming-in-cash Abbingdon Trust, he was determined to raise the money he needed by selling his personal stake in Abbingdon Airlines. Brooks had no intention of dealing with a new partner, of having to justify his decisions or, far worse, ask for permission to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with his company.
No, the only option was to buy his grandfather’s shares from him and in order to raise the cash needed—without having to get banks or other investors involved—that meant, yippee-doo-dah, getting married.
Brooks stared out the window into the inky blackness and remembered his first visit to the stuffy offices of the Abbingdon Trust’s lawyers. He’d been twenty-one and in their wood-paneled offices, they told him that, as the only Abbingdon heir, he was entitled to a sizeable monthly income from the trust but he was also set to inherit a crap-ton of cash on his twenty-fifth birthday. If he was married.
The offer would only be renewed every five years and at twenty-five, using Lester’s money to buy his first two cargo planes, he’d opted not to marry—he’d been having too much fun playing the field and had no intention, and no need, to sacrifice his freedom. Ditto at thirty but at thirty-five, Abbingdon Airlines was worth the inconvenience. He wanted control and for control he needed cash; to get the cash he needed to marry...
He’d established and grown Abbingdon Airlines; it was his hard work that had made the company one of the most trusted and respected companies in the country. His clients knew that they could rely on him to get them, or their goods, where they needed to go in the shortest time possible. But Lester wanted to go and play Monopoly with real-life assets and had placed him between a rock and a hard place. Shouldn’t ninety-year-old men be smoking cigars and playing bridge?
And of course, every time they spoke about this deal, Lester never failed to remind him that he was ecstatic that he was being forced to marry and that maybe, God willing, he’d get a much-desired great-grandchild, preferably a grandson, out of the deal. Lester then launched into his oft-repeated lecture on his lack of commitment to providing an heir to continue the Abbingdon line, that if he didn’t hop to it—his words—six hundred years of DNA-soaked history would cease to exist. The art and furniture collected over twenty-four generations would scatter to private collectors all over the world. Abbingdon Castle and its surrounding land would be sold to the highest bidder. The Abbingdons weren’t royalty but they were damn close.
And it all rested on Brooks’s shoulders...
Or in his loins.
He’d have a kid, one day. Not now. Right now all he wanted to do was save his company.
Brooks took a sip of his whiskey, staring past young Joshua St. Claire—sleeping now, thank God—to the inky night beyond the window of his Global 7000 jet. The kid was so out of it, he barely registered that he was on a private jet and hadn’t noticed the rich leather seats, the fine wood veneers and the stylish carpets and stonework. This jet had just hit the market but he owned one and, being aviation crazy, it annoyed him that neither of his two guests appreciated their luxurious mode of transport.
And his annoyance had nothing to do with the aircraft’s hefty price tag, which was upward of half a billion dollars. This plane was superbly designed, exquisitely manufactured and brilliantly engineered. It was, in its way, a masterpiece. And his guests, like his grandfather, didn’t share his passion for anything with an engine and two wings.
His business was damn good. And his life, up until two weeks ago, had been friggin’ amazing.
Yet, here he was, planning his wedding. And because the Abbingdon Trust paid for all Abbingdon weddings, he was going to take full advantage and turn his wedding into a massive networking event, inviting all his present clients and anybody he thought could be a potential client. If he was going to put his head in a hangman’s noose, then he was going to swing in style.
All he now needed was a bride.
Brooks looked at the cool beauty in the chair across from him and cocked his head. Teresa St. Claire was beautiful; there was no doubt about it. Tall and slim, she rocked an old-school Grace Kelly vibe, classy as hell. Despite the rumors and gossip swirling around her she’d held her head high and he’d yet to see her unhinged, to break into a sweat.
He liked calm women, women who could keep it together when their lives were falling apart. That showed a strength of character few women—hell, few men—possessed. Teresa St. Claire was beautiful, sexy and smart. What more could he want in a wife? The Fixer had also suggested her as a candidate to be his wife; said that she was a possibility and that he could, possibly, make that happen.
Marrying Teresa would’ve been an elegant, and quick, resolution to his current problem. Except for the little problem that she was crazy about Liam Christopher... He wasn’t the most perceptive guy in the world but even he noticed the way she looked at Christopher. Part exasperation, part denial, part annoyance but mostly like all she wanted to do was strip him naked and do several things to him that were X-rated. Brooks knew that he was marrying for convenience, as a means to an end, but he certainly didn’t need to watch his wife pine for someone else. Or wish he was someone else.
So he refused The Fixer’s offer and settled for his arranging for Teresa to organize his blowout wedding.
What could The Fixer have on her to (a) think that he could get her to agree to marriage and (b) to get her to undertake such a massive event on such short notice? It had to be something...
But Teresa’s past didn’t concern him and he had bigger worries. Like who might say yes to his crazy-ass proposal to marry him.
In two weeks’ time.
Happy bloody birthday to him.
* * *
Teresa leaned back in her chair and stared out the high-arched windows of her waterfront office in Seattle, just a few blocks from Pike Market. She loved her view, her open-plan office with its high ceilings, industrial lighting and its hardwood floors. But today all she could think about was the look of betrayal on Joshua’s face as she left him at the tightly controlled and monitored rehab facility two hours away. He understood that he had to lie low but, damn, his tightly crossed arms and the emotion washing in and out of his eyes nearly dropped her to her knees.
She wanted to believe his denials about his addictions, she really did. But she still didn’t know how to explain that small puncture mark on his arm. Had someone injected him and then, in his woozy and hazy state, manipulated him to take a flight across the country to Napa to gate-crash Matt’s party? Was that possible or was she overreacting, allowing her imagination to run wild because she so badly wanted to believe him?
All her anxiety about Joshua would simply evaporate if she could pay off Joshua’s debt. Then they’d both be free. She’d been such a naive fool to believe that when the drug-running charges against Joshua were dropped—thanks to The Fixer—he would get his life together. Silly her.
Most women in their late twenties were concerned about their careers, their young children or their new marriages—and, frequently, a combination of all three—but no, she spent her time stressing about unpaid debts to criminals, her inconvenient attraction to a man who blew hot and cold but whom she couldn’t avoid, and rocketing from crisis to crisis. It was times like these that Teresa wished she had a mother to turn to but her mom, like her brother, relied on her. Since her father’s death, she’d been the glue holding their family together, the strong one, the capable one, the one who could always make a plan.
It would be so nice to rely on someone else, to have someone in her corner loving and supporting her but she was terrified that that person would, just like her father had, fade on her. Sharing the load meant opening up, allowing herself to be vulnerable, exposing herself...
What if that person left, disappeared on her, leaving her to waft in the wind? No, it was better to hang tough...
Besides, there was only one person who’d scaled her walls to peek inside