2. Matthias

2

MATTHIAS

M y dad had a thing for beautiful women.

His problem? They were around him in droves. Buxom blonds. Beguiling brunettes. Ravishing redheads. Actresses. Producers. Wealthy investors, or the wives of wealthy investors. There'd been a royal princess in there, too.

When your dad's the twentieth richest person on the planet, he tends to get want he wants.

His other problem? He was tired of getting what he wanted, ergo, beautiful women throwing themselves at him.

So when he casually told me, "I'm going to propose to the most enchanting woman tonight, Matthias," I just blinked at him. We were sitting at the outdoor dining table located on the massive terrace that jutted out over the cliff.

While Stefon Vaulteneau was a huge fan of monogamy, most of his relationships were very short, and to put it bluntly, Dad was not the proposing kind. Plus, I wasn't even aware he was dating anyone at the moment.

"Is that so?" I said in a bored voice.

I'd just come up from finishing laps in our basement-level Olympic pool, a towel wrapped around my waist. I'd rather have gone to get dressed, as I needed to get ready for classes, but Dad had that look in his eye, the kind that dads got sometimes that said, Sit with me for a minute, son.

"I met her in Vegas," Dad said, "and fell hopelessly in love."

The cool Pacific breeze and squawking seagulls brought with it my desire to be out in the ocean, surfing in the chilly water, but no, I was sitting here listening to Dad brag about his latest conquest.

"That seems sudden," I said, rolling my eyes, not that he noticed. "Topless dancer or poker dealer?"

Honestly, I didn't care about his love life, though thankfully he stopped dating young starlets after I told him he was using his power and wealth over women who'd do just about anything to become a movie star.

"Neither, Matthias," he'd said as he sipped his Bloody Mary—his breakfast of choice for as long as I'd been alive—while skimming through script coverage reports the studio sent to gain his financial backing. He had three stacks before him, his no , maybe , and yes piles. The no pile was the tallest. "She owns and operates a deli."

"A Las Vegas deli owner? That's…" I failed to find the right description as I sipped the coffee my nutritionist-slash-assistant Franky had left for me.

For a fleeting second I let myself savor the flavor. Franky's dark roast could change the world. If Franky didn't start her own nutritionist business, she could easily open her own café. In addition to the coffee, she made me a spinach omelet.

"Different?" Dad added helpfully, his black and silver mustache twitching as he smiled.

"Well, yeah."

"You'll understand when you meet Theresa Galbraith. She reminds me of your mother, God rest her soul." Dad kissed his fingers and lifted them to the sky in a small prayer for my mother's soul. Then he cleared his throat to add, "I'm having Great-Grandmère's engagement ring resized as we speak."

I almost choked on the omelet. Great-Grandmère's five-carat Cartier diamond ring was a priceless heirloom that had been locked up in the family vault since her death fifty years ago. No one had worn it since, not even my own mother.

On top of that, Dad never compared anyone to Mom. Helena Silvestre descended from Catalonia royalty and her life-long passion was motorcycles. She died in a motorcycle collision when I was twelve and my older brother, Dante, was nineteen. Needless to say, as a result, neither my brother or I were allowed anywhere near a motorcycle.

Now that I was twenty-one, Mom was a distant memory, so it wasn't like I feared someone was coming in to replace her.

I studied my father's expression. Staring at me, he looked happy. Happier than I'd seen in a long time.

It hit me then that Dad was being serious. He was really going to propose to a woman tonight.

Who the hell was Theresa Galbraith? And was she so extraordinary that other women paled in comparison?

I wouldn't be surprised if this Theresa woman said yes without even knowing him.

"Well, I guess congratulations are in order, Dad." I lifted my coffee in salute.

Dad chuckled. "Don't congratulate me yet, Matthias. I'm not sure of my chances."

"I'm sorry, but what?"

"We only just met and frankly, she didn't seem all that impressed by my wealth." Dad smiled a less-than-confident smile, one I'd rarely seen on his face.

"You think she'll say no?" I'd never seen my dad, a large, swarthy confident man, unsure of his reward.

"She might." Dad finished his Bloody Mary and stood to leave the table. He was already dressed for business, his royal-blue suit effortlessly draped over his impressive figure. At sixty-one, he was still a handsome, robust man who could hold his own against men half his age. "If she turns me down, I'll work on becoming a better man who deserves her and try again later." Dad slapped me affectionately on the back. "I'm headed to Vegas now. I'll text you and Dante tonight with the news."

I sat there, stunned. That's how I learned it was love at first sight for Dad, but I couldn't put much stock in it. He'd been in and out of love with various women since Mom died.

I went about my day and I put the entire event from my mind. I was too busy with school, swim practice, and other activities.

I was in my third year at the University of Southern California's Marshall School of Business, and, to put it frankly, classes were kicking my ass. I'd never been studious—never needed to, not with Dad paying for all my scrapes and mistakes. All I cared about was shaving time from the scoreboard. When most kids were unwrapping video games for their birthday, Dad had an indoor Olympic pool built for me in the estate's vast basement when I turned nine.

While my grades were not stellar, I was a killer swimmer, and gotten into USC through the Trojan Swim Team. We'd finished NCAA dive finals at the end of March, but slacking off wasn't in the cards, not with the Olympic Swim Trials coming up in June. I had to be at the top of my game and Coach Anderson was not going easy on me.

My life consisted of swimming, eating four thousand calories a day, studying for finals, and crashing in the guesthouse at the back of the estate. Most people thought my life was glamorous, but once I'd entered college, I'd known I needed to buckle down.

That didn't mean I didn't let off some steam now and again. My friends and I knew how to get into trouble when we needed it, though I was making an effort to straighten my ways.

Plus, on the days I was required to get glammed up for the obligatory paparazzi shots, I'd get decked out in my finest, go pick up Zoey, and swing by notorious Los Angeles hot spots to mingle with other celebrities. Zoey and I would usually end up in the next edition of US Weekly or People Magazine .

It wasn't something I wanted to do, but it came with the territory. Being a Vaulteneau came with certain responsibilities.

The Vaulteneau Malibu estate boasted thirteen bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, a ballroom, spa, theater, and an outdoor venue for charity events. You'd think I'd live in the main house, but I'd moved into the detached guesthouse three years ago. I'd always been independent, and it allowed me to come and go without disturbing Dad, or his guests. He frequently entertained movie stars and business associates. I'd rather not be in the way, or worse , get caught up in the events and have to schmooze.

The guesthouse was a two-bedroom, two-bathroom mansion with its own living room, full kitchen, bar, and outdoor entertainment spaces. A family of five could easily fit within the walls of the guesthouse. So it didn't hurt that I had the place all to myself, especially when I brought someone back home for private one-on-one time.

The guesthouse's patio had an Endless swimming pool and hot tub. After a long day of swimming or surfing, I'd soak my stiff muscles in the hot tub and watch ESPN on the overhead television installed in the corner of the patio.

Both bedrooms were on the second floor and shared a large deck with the same vista views of the ocean.

Dante used to live in the second bedroom, but he moved to Singapore to run Dad's business enterprises there, so the other room was vacant unless my friends crashed on the premises, which happened with enough frequency that when Dante visited, he stayed in the main house.

There was an underground tunnel that led to the main house, but I rarely used it. It also led to a safe room as well as the underground garage. Dad had a fleet of twenty cars to match any occasion. I made do with three vehicles—a beat-up SUV that I used to haul my surfboards around, a nondescript sedan for in-town driving, and a custom cherry-red Ferrari Stradale for the days that called for attention.

Today, I hopped in my nondescript sedan and drove to school. Once there, I met up with my best friend, Filipe Hernandez, went to classes and then practice, where Coach Anderson seemed to enjoy torturing us.

After grueling laps and what felt like hours of one tirade after another, Filipe said to me at the end of our swim lane, "You'd think Coach believed none of us ever swam a lap in our lives."

"He's just nervous about our chances at Nationals." I lifted my goggles to my forehead and wiped water from my eyes. My right shoulder was screaming at me but I ignored it, like usual.

Filipe lifted a dark eyebrow as we climbed out of the pool and made our way to the locker rooms. "Keep telling yourself that, Matty. Coach is out to either kill you or kiss you. Still can't tell which."

This had been Filipe's argument since our freshman year.

"Coach is not my type," I said under my breath with a shudder. There were way too many ears here in the locker room, even with the open bay showers hissing to life, not that that stopped the team from chirping me.

A chorus of guys already soaping up laughed at us. It wasn't like my antics weren't well known with the team and they knew my proclivities. Thankfully, no one on the team gave a single shit when disrobing in front of me.

"Who's not Matty's type?" asked Jason Strickland, our team captain. Jason, with his dark hair and rugged good looks, was a senior and in his last year with the Trojan Swim Team. He was gunning to earn a spot on Team USA, like me. "Isn't anyone with a pulse your type, Matty?"

I flipped him off, and he offered me a sarcastic smile.

"You calling me a whore, captain?" I asked without heat.

"We're all whores to some degree," Jason replied before he turned into the spray of his shower.

Everyone in the shower hollered their concurrence. There was something humorous about a group of naked college guys wholeheartedly agreeing to being whores.

It was brave of Jason to chirp at me considering he and I had gotten a little handsy in the showers last year. But I wasn't one to kiss and tell, which he knew all too well.

Snickering in the stall next to me, Filipe said, "Okay, so maybe Coach isn't your type, but maybe you're Coach's type," he said, a mischievous gleam in his brown eyes. "Ever think of that?"

"Oh fuck off, all of you." I laughed as the conversation turned to other topics, namely the girls they were dating.

That night, Filipe came over to the house for beers. Filipe was working on a degree in the environmental science field, but he didn't have to be a sports medicine expert to shoot me a You've got to be kidding me look as I rubbed an absurd amount of Biofreeze gel into my shoulder. As soon as the cool, menthol-scented pain reliever absorbed into the skin, I let out a sigh of relief.

We parked our butts in lounge chairs on the patio and tuned to an NHL hockey game on ESPN. The Stanley Cup finals were well underway. I wasn't a huge hockey fan, but I had a second cousin who'd been playing in a minor league team for a few years, and every once in a while he'd get called up to the big team when there was an injury. I checked the Capitals roster, but didn't see his name listed.

Filipe glared at me as I put my sweatshirt back on.

"I don't want to hear it," I said in response.

"Oh, don't mind me, your best friend and swimming partner of a decade who cares about your health and well-being. Why would I say a word about your injured shoulder?"

I hopped up to grab two more beers from the mini-fridge. "Zip it, pal," I said as I popped the cap for both. "I know what I'm doing."

Darkness had begun to settle as the faded streaks of the setting sun dipped below the horizon. One of the teams scored and the loud horn sounded on the TV.

Filipe was too chill to ride my ass about anything, so I wasn't worried about him nagging me to have my shoulder looked at by a professional. Still, I wanted to change the subject because if I didn't, it would lead to other topics I didn't want to talk about.

"Dad's going to propose to a woman tonight."

I filled him in on the rest, to include where Theresa lived and what she did for a living.

I checked my phone but there were no updates from Dad, though Dante had texted me WTF? earlier alongside an image of a guy with an exploding head. Yeah, no kidding.

Filipe had been in our lives for years and was considered part of the family. So he knew my dad really well.

"Mierda!" Filipe had to put his beer down. " The Stefon Vaulteneau is going to marry a deli owner? That's wild."

"Dad isn't sure if Theresa will say yes."

Filipe considered that. "Well, this is a lot, my dude," he said, referring to the Vaulteneau way of life. "I'd probably turn him down, too."

"Don't be weird."

He waved a hand dismissively. "You know what I mean, Matty. It'd be like a regular person marrying a king or whatever. It'd be a huge undertaking for someone not used to West Coast royalty."

Filipe wasn't off the mark. Whoever the new Mrs. Vaulteneau might be, she'd become an instant pillar of society, with tons of influence and power. It wasn't something I'd ever had to think about before because, well, I never thought my dad would get married again.

"Yeah, maybe," I conceded. "Dad hasn't texted, so I don't know the outcome." Filipe's phone chimed and he sat up abruptly. I knew that look. "Your Customs inside contact?" I asked.

He nodded. "Just got an alert about two interesting shipments arriving at LAX this weekend." Some shipments were near-extinct reptiles or black-market antiquities. We just never knew what it might be until we showed up and handed the informant a bag of cash.

"Two shipments this time?" I asked. That was somewhat unusual, at least from the informant. "Ask for more details."

Filipe typed into his phone and waited for a reply. "Friday night's arrival is a live one, a reptile of some sort." Filipe paused as another text arrived. "Ah, the excitement appears to be for the Saturday arrival. They think it's a Brynjulf Falkenberg masterpiece painting from the eighteen-nineties."

"No shit," I breathed out. A genuine painting from the famed Scandinavian painter would be tough to offload.

"They want to know if we're in."

I mentally consulted my calendar. It was Thursday. We had two practice swim heats tomorrow morning and I had a lab test in the afternoon. I'd probably need to take Zoey out Saturday night.

"Friday is doable, but not Saturday. I have to take Zoey out." Filipe shook his head disapprovingly but stayed mute on that subject. None of my friends liked Zoey. "How much for each shipment?"

"Ten grand for the reptiles and a hundred grand for the painting."

I whistled. "Too hot for me, my friend."

"I'm guessing there is another bidder for the painting," Filipe added. It wasn't a good sign if the informant was shopping around. "Wouldn't be surprised if it was Andy or maybe even Dante. Has your brother said anything?"

Dante and his best friend, Andy, used to run this business years ago before we took over. Dante was partial to artwork, but when ancient artifacts showed up, Andy had a knack for suddenly appearing on the scene to outbid us.

"Dante's been out of the game for a few years now. Something about trying to go straight. Andy, though…" I groaned because on top of everything else going on, I did not want to deal with Andy. I took a long swig of my beer. "That son of a bitch has a way of reanimating like a corpse on Halloween night."

"We'll have to deal with him at some point, Matty."

"True." I thought about the amount of cash I had in my safe. I could afford it and I'd feel a thrill sticking it to Andy. I'd feel a greater thrill in pissing him off, though. "But I'm not interested in a bidding war. I'd rather focus on the reptile shipment. Decline the painting and ask when I should show up at LAX for the reptiles."

"You got it."

A second later, another ding came in, and I thought it was Filipe's phone, but was mine.

The text was from Dad. I held my breath as I opened it. I wasn't sure if I wanted his note to say he was engaged or if he wasn't. Dad's text was a photo message.

I clicked on the image to enlarge it. He was standing next to a beautiful blond whom I presumed was Theresa. It was obviously just taken, as Vegas's neon skyline provided the photo's backdrop.

What surprised me the most was Theresa's age. I envisioned a twenty-five-year-old nymph, but Theresa was somewhere in the neighborhood of forty, though I had to admit she looked younger.

Dad's smile had movie-star wattage as he held Theresa's hand, where, sure enough, there sat Great-Grandmère's five-carat Cartier diamond ring. I had to admit it looked fitting on Theresa's elegant finger.

"Well shit," I muttered, which got Filipe's attention. I showed him the photo.

"She's a stunner."

Dad's next text read, Theresa said yes. We eloped on the spot. The new Mrs. Vaulteneau and her son move to Malibu next week.

Static entered my brain. "No fucking way," I hissed. "They eloped."

Filipe blinked a few times as he let my message sink in. "My dude didn't wait to lock that down," he said, a touch of surprise in his tone. "Stefon rarely acts impulsively. Must be love."

"Love, my ass," was all I could come up with.

Was this a joke? Did my dad actually elope? With a stranger? While I wasn't there to witness it?

What was so urgent that they had to get married immediately ?

I didn't want to be offended, but fuck if I wasn't.

"Stefon looks happy, my dude."

My mind raced. Had my dad been conned into a hasty marriage with a con artist?

I reread his texts, my head spinning. This couldn't be happening. Dad mentioned Theresa had a son.

Another image popped into the text string. It was the school photo of a rather good-looking young man with blond hair, piercing blue eyes the color of the ocean, and a smile that did absolutely nothing to my chest. Nothing at all.

Your stepbrother's name is Ciaran, Dad wrote. He's seventeen, eighteen next week. Good kid, big into swimming, you'll get along great. We'll throw a large party when they get into town. Will tell you more tomorrow.

At this point, Filipe was reading the texts over my shoulder as they came in.

"Good looking kid," Filipe mused. "Jailbait for sure, but your stepbrother is definitely a looker."

"Shut up," I grumbled, which made Filipe chuckle. "And keep your hands off the kid, bucko. You and Joan both."

"You know I can't control Joan, nor would I want to," Filipe said, his lips curving into a wicked grin. "Makes it more fun, you know?" He nudged me. "You gonna write back or what? Can't leave your padre hanging like that."

"Are you my designated conscience tonight?"

"Yes."

"Fine." I started typing Congrats!! and mostly meant it. I wasn't a complete dick. I was happy for him, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I was also thinking about how this was going to affect me. Theresa's a beautiful bride. You're a lucky man, Dad. I look forward to welcoming them into the family.

The word stepbrother echoed in my mind. At least he wasn't a toddler or a good-for-nothing adult.

Still, I wasn't thrilled at the idea of babysitting anyone, not that Dad had asked me to do that.

Dante and I used to hate each other when we were younger, but as we grew up, we became more like business partners than siblings. Could I co-exist with this kid?

Ciaran.

I wasn't even sure how to pronounce it, not that it mattered. The Vaulteneau estate was big enough for the both of us so I doubted I'd even have to interact with him. That made me feel better, even as I stared at the kid's photo longer than was necessary.

My thoughts drifted to Filipe and Joan and our operation.

This Ciaran kid was probably some little snitching bitch. His wholesome appearance surely meant he was some sort of goody-two-shoes.

Fucking fuck . My peace and quiet was about to end. The Zoey situation wouldn't be impacted, but our moving shipments out of LAX might get disrupted.

"Time for me to head out, amigo." Filipe said after a few minutes. He smirked because I was still studying Ciaran's photo. "I'll catch your act tomorrow."

After he left, I tuned out the hockey game as I sat alone in a massive estate wondering just how different my life would be here shortly.

My life was about to change.

Like I said, my dad had a thing for beautiful women. That had never affected me until now.