Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Brandon

I’m straightening the collar of my polo shirt in front of the full-length free-standing mirror in my room, watching Jennifer prowl across the bed towards me like a cat. She’s sexy as fuck. Probably the sexiest woman I know, because it’s effortless with her.

It’s her aura, she once told me.

On her knees, wearing one of my cotton shirts with nothing underneath, she wraps her arms around my chest from behind and nibbles my earlobe. “Do we have to go downstairs now?” she murmurs, her breath warm on the back of my neck.

“Uh-huh. Cocktails at six. My mom will be watching the clock and making a mental note of anyone who’s late.” I untangle her arms and turn around to face her.

It isn’t the reaction she wanted, and in different circumstances, I’d incur my mom’s wrath for being thirty minutes late because of Jennifer, but my mind is elsewhere, and my body isn’t cooperating.

Jennifer’s smile is wistful, but she hides her disappointment well. “You weren’t joking about the punishment.”

“I never joke about such things. My mom has spent years perfecting these rituals—she has them timed to the second, and heaven help anyone who interferes with the schedule.”

Her expression turns serious, her eyes narrowing. “You want to talk about it?”

I smile and shake my head. “Nothing to talk about.”

Jennifer places the palms of her hands on my chest. “Hmm, I know you better than that. How many takeover bids have we screwed through in the past, huh? How many economy near-crashes? How many presidents for that matter? This isn’t about work, is it?”

Did I let Jennifer get too close? It’s the reason why I don’t allow myself to get involved—one of the reasons anyway. You let a woman in, and before long, you begin sharing parts of yourself that you’d rather keep private. You wake up one day and find yourself accounting for your time, your affection, your thoughts.

My mom knows my dad’s diary better than he knows it himself, and he might act like he’s in control, but she has always been the one pulling the strings. When I joined the business, I promised myself that I would never become the puppet, always the puppeteer.

I remove her hands from my chest and step away, just out of reach. “Leave it,” I say coldly.

Jennifer taps her top lip with one perfectly manicured scarlet fingernail, a grin tugging the corners of her mouth upwards. “Okay, not business. This is about a woman.”

I arch one eyebrow, allow it to do the talking for me. She’s good. She probably knows me better than anyone else does, including my own mother, which means she also understands that I’m not about to divulge a name.

“Someone has got to you,” she says. “I don’t think you even realize it yet, but they’re breaking through the barriers.”

Her eyes bore into mine like she can see what’s going on inside my head.

“This is going to go one of two ways. Either you’ll add reinforced steel to the barriers and become someone I won’t enjoy spending time or doing business with, or you’ll soften like butter left out in the sun and become a little more human.”

I laugh out loud. “You read that in a book, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Brandon, when are you going to learn that not everything in life is black and white?”

Despite myself, my thoughts immediately return to seeing Rose and Kelly on the boardwalk together. Spending the week in Kelly’s company is going to be harder than I thought it would be, and of all the people in New York my mom could’ve found to replace Ines, she had to go and choose Rose.

The janitor’s daughter—I’m still finding it difficult to think of her as anything else.

The name Rose conjures up an image of someone fresh-faced, a smattering of freckles across their nose when they step out of the English countryside and into the sun. Not someone who wields their raw, sultry beauty like a sword to get what they want.

She’s already taking over with the kids, and Kelly is going to stand back and allow it to happen. My mom will convince herself that she’s one of her precious gems that she simply cannot part with, and by the end of the week, Rose— the janitor’s daughter —will have become a permanent member of the Weiss staff, with a raise and the promise of a supervisory position for overseeing the upbringing of the Weiss granddaughters.

Perhaps it wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t believe that she’d engineered the whole situation. It’s a conversation that I’m not looking forward to having with my mother.

I hear voices outside and check the time on my wristwatch. 17:57. I recognize Ron Valentine and his wife Sumaira. Of course, my mother invited them—Ron and my father have been friends since Harvard.

Only, unless Ron enlightened them to our recent business transaction, they don’t know that I’m about to close on a deal that will buy Ron out of his company for an obscenely low figure and increase Weiss Petroleum’s turnover by at least twenty percent over the next five years.

Ron initially came to me for a loan to help his company stay afloat, riding on the back of their lifelong friendship, but there was nothing in it for me. I’m not in the business of money lending because I have a soft spot for someone who’s gotten caught out in the economic swing. To stay on top, you have to think on top. No allowances.

I’ll simply have to enforce my mother’s ‘no business talk’ rule for the next seven days, especially where it concerns Ron Valentine.

Jennifer, taking my silence as a nod that the conversation is over, shrugs off my shirt and crosses the room, naked, to the walk-in dressing room. I follow her with my eyes and then turn back to the window where my mom has made an appearance in a canary-yellow shift dress, presenting her cheek to Sumaira to be kissed.

“How do I look?”

Jennifer is stunning in an off-the-shoulder, floaty black dress with a scarlet-poppy design and black heels. She turns three-sixty like she’s on a catwalk, and I can’t help smiling because she’s still wearing nothing underneath.

“You know you look incredible as always.”

“Incredible enough to impress your mom?” The tone is light-hearted—Jennifer isn’t here to impress my mom.

“Mention your dear friend George Clooney and you’ll have her eating out of the palm of your hand.”

My father holds court in his favorite lawn chair on the porch.

He’s aging well—no one would ever guess that he was seventy if the invitations didn’t state the reason behind the week-long celebrations. His forehead is unlined, his eyes are still bright-blue, and his smile is wide, the crinkles fanning from the corners of his eyes, telling the story of a lifetime of laughter and joy rather than stress and hard work. I’m lucky that I’ve inherited his genes while Damon takes after our mother’s side of the family.

Rose waits discreetly at one end of the porch, monitoring the liquid levels in the glasses and stepping in to provide refills and lemon slices when required. Ines never looked so good in the uniform of black capri pants and sky-blue shirt.

Her gaze drifts back and forth between the guests’ drinks and my father, and I wonder if she really has set her sights at the top of the tower. He’s still a good-looking man, classically handsome, with thick silver hair. But, as far as I’m aware, he has never cheated on my mom despite the opportunities that must’ve come his way when he was younger.

Rose brings us dry martinis with green olives on cocktail sticks. She keeps her eyes on the silver tray as if afraid to spill a drop, and only raises them to smile at Jennifer when she thanks her for the drinks.

“I never noticed it before,” Jennifer leans close and whispers in my ear so that no one else can hear, “but your manners seem to evaporate outside the boardroom.”

Before I can think of a suitable response, she makes a beeline for Sumaira.

The vacated spot beside me is instantly filled by my brother. “Mom will see right through the expensive clothes, you know,” he says, tipping his head back and swallowing the last of his martini.

I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. “Well, then, she’ll like what she sees.”

“I do.” He tugs an olive from the cocktail stick with his teeth and studies the bottom of his glass as if he doesn’t know how it got emptied.

“She isn’t for sale.” I keep my voice low, and my jaw clenched ready to produce the desired smile on demand should someone want to join the two Weiss brothers in conversation.

“That’s not what I heard,” Damon says. “I’d say I could afford to pay for her time.”

“Jennifer is with me.”

I catch Ron’s eye and give him a brief nod. It’s what’s expected, even at a private party on our parents’ private island. The fa?ade never drops. When you’re in a position of power, you learn never to get caught with your pants down and your wallet open.

“For Dad’s sake, I’m trusting you not to say anything to Mom about how I know Jennifer, or why she’s here.”

“Or what, big brother?”

“Or nothing.” I sip my martini, trace the liquid as it burns its way down. It’s going to be a long week—I only hope my mother has stocked up the liquor cabinet.

“Sounded like there was an unveiled threat in there somewhere.”

Rose approaches us then with a filled glass for Damon. He takes it, his fingers lingering a beat too long on hers around the stem of the glass. I’ve seen it before. Damon chooses a target and switches on the charm, seemingly oblivious to his wife and kids, and doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants.

The last time I bought a woman’s silence when he’d finished with her, I vowed I wouldn’t do it again.

I swallow my martini in one mouthful.

“Can I get you another drink?” Rose asks.

Godammit, her eyes are huge, and I never noticed the freckle at the corner of her mouth before. “Feel free to make it a little stronger.” I hand over my glass and remember Jennifer’s jibe. “Thanks.”

She nods briefly and flashes a dazzling smile at my father when he calls out, “Rose, more drinks over here when you get a moment.”

Damon waits until she’s out of earshot. “I’ll keep quiet about your friend if you allow me first dibs at the new housekeeper.”

I inhale deeply, fists instinctively clenched.

Damon can’t leave anything untouched, untainted; he has to pick it apart, find out what’s inside, and then discard it when he gets bored. He’s always been the same. Even when we were kids, he would steal my favorite toy cars, ram them into walls and bury them in mud, and then walk away when they no longer provided any entertainment.

“You’re confusing me with someone who cares about the new housekeeper,” I say.

He glugs a mouthful of martini like it’s a soda and sighs as it goes down. “Don’t you?”

I watch Rose pouring drinks, and part of me wants to warn her to beware of the wolf in expensive pants. I want to march her straight out of here, put her on a boat, and point her in the direction of the mainland, with a check in her pocket that will more than cover whatever my mother promised her.

But then I remind myself that if she’s the gold-digger I think she is, she’ll probably welcome my brother’s attention with open arms and her eyes on the prize. She isn’t my responsibility. She’s an adult, and I won’t be there to pick up the pieces when he moves onto his next victim.

Rose returns with another drink for me and not even a glance in Damon’s direction.

Playing hard to get?

I’m struggling to read her—one moment she’s feisty, accusing me of being stuffy, and the next she’s playing caregiver to my nieces … which, inexplicably, was more of a turn-on than dragging her into the restroom on the aircraft and trying to rip her clothes off.

“I made it a double,” she says, and I raise my glass in a mock toast.

When she moves on to refill Ron and my father’s glasses, I murmur under my breath to Damon, “Be my guest. A thousand dollars says you won’t crack her.”

I don’t know where it came from, and I hope I won’t live to regret it.

Perhaps it’s sheer vanity that I want her to want me rather than my brother. Or perhaps, after the incident on the aircraft, I believe that Damon coming on too strong will simply make her hold out for more. Either way, the mental image of Rose and my brother getting hot and sweaty in her guestroom isn’t something that I care to watch on repeat.

A sly smile appears on his face. “Make it ten grand, and you’re on.”

I follow his gaze. Jennifer is chatting animatedly with our mother and Sumaira, and both women are watching her, enraptured—Jennifer’s appeal isn’t solely confined to the male species.

“Deal.”

“This week is suddenly proving to be a whole lot more fun than Mom intended.”

Kelly comes out of the house then with her three daughters who are all dressed in matching cotton dungarees and snowy-white T-shirts, all managing to display a little of their own personalities, nonetheless. Georgie, the baby, is sporting a bandaid on her knee with an image of a Disney character. Charlie, the middle one, frowns at the people on the porch like they’ve spoiled all her plans for having the swing seats to herself. While Frankie runs straight to her grandma and throws her arms around her in a warm hug.

Damon plays the dutiful father and greets his wife with a kiss on her cheek. No eye contact. It’s been a while since I last saw them together, and things haven’t improved; no doubt, my brother’s cheating isn’t helping the situation, although he would probably argue that he only does it because he gets no affection at home.

I’m still watching Kelly when my mom touches my arm gently and asks me to follow her inside. The chatter of voices fades when we enter the living room, and she closes the door gently behind us.

“What were you thinking, Brandon?” Her spine is straight as always, her chin slightly tilted towards the ceiling. “Bringing that woman with you.”

“Jennifer is an extremely intelligent and ambitious businesswoman, Mom. If you take the time to get to know her, you might find that you like her.”

“You know what I’m talking about, Brandon. This would’ve been the perfect opportunity for you to introduce us to the real woman in your life.”

I smile. It isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. I don’t even need to ask her how she figured out Jennifer’s background. “How do you know that Jennifer isn’t the woman in my life?”

She ignores the question. “How do you think your father would feel knowing that his oldest friends and business associates have been swapping anecdotes with an escort?”

At least she didn’t use the word prostitute. “Ex-escort,” I say, for what it’s worth. “I think he’d be grateful for Jennifer’s sparkling charm and quick wit. You don’t have to worry, Mom. If anyone is going to cause a scene this week, it won’t be Jennifer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, how much do you know about Rose? You flew her here on a whim to make sure the drinks keep flowing, but you don’t know anything about her background.”

“I ran the usual checks, Brandon.” Her eyes narrow. She often reminds me of a viper poised for the kill. “Why are you deflecting the subject?”

I hear footsteps in the wide hallway, but no one enters the room. I’m certain that if anyone, including my father, peeked inside and found us mid-conversation, they would have the good sense to walk straight past and pretend they never saw us.

“Because you have nothing to worry about from Jennifer, Mom. You have my word.”

She pauses, her lips twitching with words that remain unspoken. I open the door for her, and she halts in the doorway as if remembering the real reason she pulled me aside. “I’m assuming you have a gift for your father.”

And there it is: the sting in the tail.

“I… I’ve been busy, Mom.”

“Too busy to remember your own father’s birthday?”

“No.”

She knows I’m lying. She always has. As a child, I truly believed that my mom had eyes in the back of her head as she could call me out on a chipped ornament or ripped pants without even catching me in the act.

“I—”

“Why don’t you tell Mrs. Weiss about the castle?” The voice catches me unawares—I hadn’t even heard Rose coming back along the hallway from the kitchen.

“The castle?” My mother’s gaze flits back and forth between the two of us.

Rose widens her eyes at me and nods. “The Scottish castle that you’ve rented as a surprise trip for your dad’s birthday. Brandon mentioned it on the airplane,” she says to my mother and then clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, have I ruined the surprise? I’m so sorry.”

“Is this true, Brandon?” Mom says.

I don’t waste a beat. “Yes. I was going to wait until Dad’s birthday to tell you.”

The smile is genuine. Jennifer is forgotten, at least temporarily. “I can’t wait to tell Sumaira. A Scottish castle! We’ll have to buy some warm clothes before we travel.”