Chapter 3

3

A day later

Lena

"This is your home?" I stare up at the three-story building that looms above me. It's a Victorian-era building with turrets and spires and even a small tower at one corner. It's set against sprawling grounds with a tree line that runs around the border of the estate. There are more trees that surround the driveway we drove up. I also noticed wildflowers on one side of the driveway, and a duck pond on the other, including a fountain. An honest-to-God fountain with a mermaid set in the center. To think, we're in Hyde Park, in the center of London. I didn't think people were allowed to own property in the park, but clearly, I was mistaken. In fact, the noises of the city don't even reach the premises. A bird trills somewhere nearby. That, combined with the pitter-patter of the fountain is the only sound in the space.

"It's my father's home," Isaac snaps.

I shoot him a sideways glance to find his features twisted. He has a glower on his face, his bottom lip thrust out in a pout. There was a time I used to find his little temper tantrums cute, but the novelty wore off very quickly after his fifth or sixth outburst, all directed at me. Apparently, triggered by something very inconsequential I did.

"I didn't realize you were so well off," I admit.

"My father's well off, not me," he shoots back.

O-k-a-y, then.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here," I glance at what must surely be a heritage building in front of us.

"You're my girlfriend. Of course, you should be with me. Besides, where would you go, considering you didn't get the job after completing your internship?"

I swivel to face him. "Are you blaming me for it?" I demand.

He raises a shoulder. "You're too sensitive, babe. All I meant was, if you'd gotten that job, we wouldn't have to move in here."

"You could have pulled your weight, too, you know? While you waited for inspiration to strike, you could have gone to work and banked the pay." I tighten my lips.

"Oh, so you think it's my fault we couldn't pay the rent on our place?" he snaps.

"It wouldn't have hurt for you to turn up more often at your job. No wonder you got laid off."

"It was a construction job. It didn't count." He rolls his shoulders.

"Didn't count? For what? Every job counts. Every bit of money you brought in would have helped. But you never did take paying the bills seriously. You just let me pay the bills and were happy to coast along. And now, I know why." I jerk my chin in the direction of the house.

"What do you mean?" He frowns.

"Clearly, you were brought up in the lap of luxury. I'm guessing you were spoiled, and that's why you don't know the value of money."

His features twist. "That's not fair, Lena. You know how much I have sacrificed to stay on the artist's path. I have to be true to myself. I need to experience true despair, true angst to be able to paint."

"So why not take yourself off to a third-world country and live like a backpacker? Living in a studio in Hackney with your girlfriend paying your rent is not exactly slumming it."

He stares at me for a second, then chuckles. "This is why I keep you around. You always manage to put me in my place."

I stare at him, catching a glimpse of his sense of humor, which I had once found so attractive. That, and the fact that he doesn't give a damn about rules of any kind. He has a fearlessness about him that appeals to me. He wasn't worried about paying bills, or having a career, or any of the myriad of things I worried about all the time. I also resented him for it because it meant I had to shoulder the responsibilities for both of us.

I'm partially to blame, though. I might have encouraged him to spend more time on his art. I love the fact he's creative; I often wish I could be more creative. Which is probably why I ended up working for an advertising agency after my expensive university education. The fact that I had even managed to become a part of the internship program with them had been an achievement. Too bad I didn't make the cut to be offered a job. So, it's back to the drawing board—or rather, the computer—to send my resumes off to potential employers.

Isaac takes my hand in his and tugs.

"Hey." I lose my balance and fall against him. He wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me to my toes. Which still means I only reach somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At six- foot, three-inches, he's much taller than my five-foot, four-inch height. I'd never thought of myself as petite until I ran into Isaac.

He lowers his head and brushes his lips over mine. "I'm sorry I've been such an asshole. I know I've been self-indulgent in staying focused on my art. You know us artists; we're essentially selfish people." He smiles that charming-as-hell smile of his, and my heart melts a little. I'm such a pushover. I dig my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug.

"Ow." His grin widens. "What was that for?"

"Don't think you can bedazzle me into forgiving you for your assholeness."

He laughs. "So, I bedazzle you?"

I scowl, "I mean it, Isaac. I refuse to become one of those women who's continually making excuses for her boyfriend."

"Aww, babe, but I love it when you take care of me." He tickles my side and I can't stop the giggle that bubbles up my throat. "There she is." He lowers his head and brushes his lips over mine again. Soft, pleasant, so familiar. I flutter my eyes shut and sink into the ease of the kiss. Undemanding, so normal, just how I like it. Of course, I still have to find a job, I can't stay here for too long. That's assuming his father allows us to stay at all. Lord knows, there's space here for all of us, and if he doesn't, well… I'm not sure what I'm going to do, to be honest. I?—

The sound of the door opening reaches me. I try to pull away, but of course, Isaac doesn't let go. He tightens his grasp on me, holds me in place, and deepens the kiss. I dig my fingers into his shoulders and push, and he finally releases me.

"So, you decided to show up?" a man's deep voice states from the doorway.

I pull away, wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, then turn toward the new arrival. I have to tilt my head back, and farther back, to meet his gaze. Dark eyes, coal black; there's not a shred of emotion in them. Thick hair cut at the sides and slightly long on top, all combed back from that cruel face. With streaks of gray at the temples that only add to the sense of authority he carries about him. Is this Isaac's father? If so, there isn't much resemblance with his son, except for the height, and maybe around his eyes. This man is way more confident, more self-possessed, more dominant. His shoulders are broad, broader than Isaac's, and thickly corded. He crosses his arms across his chest and his biceps stretch the material of his suit. The jacket is as black as his eyes and definitely stitched by a master tailor on Savile Row. A blue silk tie is knotted around his collar. Who wears a tie at home? Apparently, this man does. It suits him, though. It completes his Lord of the Manor look, along with the snowy white shirt that is a stark contrast to his tanned features. He looks me up and down and a sneer twists his lips. Then he turns his attention on Isaac. It feels like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on me. What the hell? Did he just judge me and discard me like I'm of no consequence? How dare he? I open my mouth, but Isaac grabs my wrist and pulls me close. The man's gaze drops to where Isaac's fingers curl around my wrist. His frown deepens. Once more, he glances at his son. Then pushes away from the door. Without another word, he pivots and walks away, leaving it to us to follow.

What the—? I stare after him, trying to shut my mouth.

"Don't mind him. He always has a giant stick up his arse," Isaac whispers.

It's more like he has the entire Big Ben stuck up his backside.

I step over the threshold, and Isaac follows with my suitcase. "What do you have in there, bricks?" He pants.

"Books," I reply, taking in my surroundings. Hold on. "Is that an original?" I point to the painting by the doorway.

"It's a Monet."

My jaw drops, "Your father has a Monet worth millions?"

"Billions," he corrects me.

"Billions." I wince. "In the hallway."

"So?" He raises a shoulder.

"So?" I shoot him a sideways glance. How did I not know my boyfriend is loaded? Is that why he refused to hold down a nine-to-five of any kind to pay the bills? Is he that spoiled? Do I even know this man that was my friend before he became my boyfriend?

"I don't know why you have to carry books around. Why not throw them away and?—"

I march toward him and grab the handle of my suitcase. "Give that to me."

"Lena, I only meant, why do you have physical books? Why don't you get a Kindle?"

"Because it's not the same thing."

"Eh?" He blinks. "They would carry the same books in electronic form."

"You wouldn't understand." I annotate my favorite spicy scenes in the paperbacks. Technically, you could do that also in a Kindle, but they're not visible until you open them. Not like a physical page where you can see both the printed part and the handwritten note on the side. When I tried to explain this to Isaac, his eyes glazed over.

"The amount you've spent on these books... We could've paid another month's rent with the same money," he mutters.

I scowl, maybe he's right but I refuse to feel guilty. These books are my best friends. When I get upset with the world, when I'm pissed about anything, I can retreat between the pages and everything seems so much better.

I begin to roll my suitcase forward, but Isaac stops me.

"I shouldn't have made that comment about the rent. I'm sorry." He cups my cheek. "I really am."

I blow out a breath. That's the thing with Isaac. He can be a bitch, but then he also knows how to make up for it.

"Here, let me help you." He takes the suitcase from me, and this time, I don't stop him.

"I know how much you love to read. In fact, my father has a library full of books stacked floor to ceiling. I'm sure you'll love it."

"Assuming he lets me enter the room." I glance around the space again. "Are you sure he wants us here?"

Isaac scrunches up his features, looking younger than his twenty-four years. "Only one way to find out."

JJ

"So, you want to move in here?" I narrow my gaze on my son. I'd led them into my study and taken the chair behind my large antique desk. And I hadn't invited them to sit, either. Not that it had prevented Isaac from dropping into the chair opposite me.

His dirty blond hair flops over his forehead and he brushes it away. The gesture is so familiar. I've seen him do this when he gets excited, when he's anxious, when he is nervous... And right now, he's all three. Maybe unsure, more than anything else. He should be. He left home at twenty-one, vowing never to return. Three years later, he's back and with a girlfriend in tow. The girl has the decency to remain standing, at least.

I rake my gaze over her features. Skin the color of honey, auburn hair pulled back from her temples, and big brown eyes that flash with irritation. Her waist is narrow enough I imagine I can span its length with my palms, and her hips… They flare out and are currently encased in jeans that she seems to have painted on. On her feet are faded Chucks with butterflies drawn on them. Butterflies? She's young enough to believe in butterflies, and probably rainbows and first loves, as well. I suddenly feel old and jaded.

"Does your family know you're here with him?" I snap.

She stiffens. "My family doesn't have a say in how I live my life."

"Figures." I flick my gaze in my son's direction. "You're with him, after all."

My son arches an eyebrow, but before he can say anything, she bursts out, "He's your son. How can you speak this way about him?"

"He's my son. Which is why, if I were your father, I'd order you to stay away from him."

"You're not my father," he spits out.

Thank fuck for that. I raise a shoulder. She's right. It's her life, and if she wants to waste it by being with him, who am I to say otherwise? I turn to Isaac. "You can stay for as long as you want, on one condition."

"If you mean you want me to come into your office and work with you?—"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Fuck this." Isaac jumps up with such speed, his chair crashes to the ground.

The girl shoots him a worried glance. "Isaac, please—" She walks over to touch his arm, but he shakes it off.

"You can keep your charity. I don't want any of your money or any inheritance." He scowls.

His American accent is even more pronounced—a dead giveaway that he's pissed off. That's what I intended, isn't it? To prod him until he loses his temper? Why is it that when I'm with my son, I can't seem to stop myself from falling to his level? Why is it that I have such a difficult time remembering that I'm supposed to be the adult in this relationship? It's not only the fact that hearing his accent reminds me of how my wife insisted on sending them to the American school in London. Insisted that my kids speak in an American accent. I worked myself to the bone to pay the fees for their school, to give them a lifestyle I could have only dreamed of growing up in myself… And yet, somehow, they both resent me for it. And now, my son is back under my roof.

I draw in a breath. "And yet, you're here," I murmur.

"And now, I'm leaving." He spins around and begins to walk away, but she runs over to him.

"Isaac, stop." She grips his arm, and this time, he allows her to stop him. "We can't afford to piss him off," she says in a low voice, but I can still hear the conversation. "We need this, Isaac."

"I don't need him for anything," my son growls.

I wince.

She stiffens. "So, what are you going to do? Spend the night on the street, or in a homeless shelter?"

"There has to be another way." He drags his fingers through his hair.

"You know there isn't. You're struggling to sell your paintings, and I don't have a job. We need him, Isaac."

"Fuck," my son growls. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Glad to see your vocabulary is as varied as I remember it to be," I drawl.

"Can you stop already?" She pivots to face me. "We're trying to figure this out, okay? You don't have to plant your big foot in the middle and make it worse."

I blink. When was the last time anyone spoke to me in that tone of voice?

"Can you give us a few minutes?" she says through gritted teeth.

I tilt my head, waiting.

"Please?" She finally forces out the word.

"You have five." I lean back in my chair.

She stares at me.

If she thinks I'm going to leave this vastly entertaining spectacle and have the decency to give them some privacy, she is sadly mistaken.

"Four minutes thirty-eight seconds now," I announce.

"Asshole," she says under her breath.

"What was that?"

She covers her mouth with her hand. "I said thank you."

"Four minutes and ten seconds." I tap my watch, "Tick-tock, girl."

She looks like she is about to protest, then grabs Isaac by his wrist and hauls him to the other end of the room. A whispered conversation ensues. I watch with interest as she speaks animatedly, and Isaac listens. He shakes his head, then turns to leave, but she blocks his way. She throws up her hands. He scowls. She stabs a finger in his chest. He hunches his shoulders. Interesting.

My son has always been willful and adamant. When he was a child, I didn't spend much time with him, too busy building my empire. I wanted to give him everything I never had. Turns out, the one thing I should have given him was my time. When he was little, I spent too much time working, spent too much time away from him. The result? I never managed to bond properly with him. I threw enough money at my kids to make sure they'd never want for anything. By the time I realized I didn't really know him, he was already a teenager, and the distance between us kept increasing. I had failed as a father, but perhaps it's not too late to try to build some kind of relationship with him? Maybe this is the opportunity to do so. But I can't allow him to just waltz in here and think he can simply get access to his fortune. He needs to work for it. It's the only way he'll realize the value of what's being handed to him.

Isaac finally nods. She straightens, then turns and marches over to me, with him in tow.

"I'll do it," she declares.

"Do what?"

"You wanted Isaac to come to work with you?"

I nod.

"He can't, but I will."

I blink. "Let me get this straight, you are going to come to work for me?"

"He's an artist. You can't expect him to sit behind a desk from nine to five. It would kill his creative spirit."

"Would it now?" I place my fingertips together.

"It would. I, on the other hand, have experience working in an office. My last job was an internship with SGA."

"The advertising agency?"

She nods. "I completed the program, but they didn't have any open positions for me. I'm looking for a job, anyway, so this works out."

"And what would you do for me?"

"I assume you must have a marketing and promotions department. Perhaps, I could get a role in that?"

"The role I was going to offer Isaac was that of my executive assistant."

"You mean, your secretary?" she asks.

"More like my chief of staff. You'd be sitting in for me in meetings, you'd vet all my emails, accompany me to my various engagements. In short, you'd get to shadow me. You'd learn on the job, and yes, part of the role includes doing what an assistant would do when it comes to managing my workload."

"Oh." She blinks rapidly. "That's quite a big role."

"I've never had anyone in that role before. It's been reserved for Isaac, to help him understand the complexities of the business enterprises I look after."

"You mean, learn about the shady dealings that your company is involved in?" Isaac snorts.

I glare at him. "I mean, become conversant with what it takes to run my varied operations."

"Is that what you're calling it these days? Don't think I don't know about the illegal arm of your conglomerate."

"Are you accusing me of something, Isaac?" I say slowly. "If so, I'd rather you come out and say it outright."

He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it. He firms his lips, then juts out his chin.

I blow out a breath. "This isn't getting us anywhere." I rise to my feet. "It's probably best the two of you?—"

"Wait, I'll do it. I'll take the job. I'll be the best chief of staff you'll ever have. Also, I want the role. Even if I went job hunting, I'd never get a position like this. I'll learn on the job. It's the best damn experience I'll ever get. And you'll have someone to fill the position."

"Hmm," I drum my fingers on the table. "And what about you, Isaac. What do you intend to do while we're at work?"

"I—" He opens his mouth, but she cuts him short.

"He'll do you a series of paintings exclusively to be placed within your offices."

"What would I do with his paintings?" I snort.

"I'm sure you've heard of art investment? One day, his paintings will be worth a lot, and you'll be getting in at the ground floor, so to speak."

I turn toward my son. "Is that right? Is that something you want to do?"

He hesitates.

"If you don't?—"

"He does." She nudges him. "Tell him, Isaac."

He draws in a breath. "It's true. I'll do the installations for the offices of Kane Enterprises."

"Is that right?" I narrow my gaze on him.

Isaac's features redden. "I told you already I would, didn't I?"

"We know what we are, but know not what we may be, " I murmur.

"Shakespeare?" The girl blinks.

I arch an eyebrow. "Very good. Perhaps you'll do better than I think in the EA role."

"Was that a test?" She frowns.

"Maybe, maybe not." I can't stop the smirk that curls my lips. Why do I feel the need to get a rise out of my son? It's not that I don't empathize with him; I do. Hell, if anyone knows what it is to be misunderstood by his parents, it's me. And here I am, repeating the same cycle with my son. Why is it that I can't do a better job of being a good parent? I tip up my chin at the girl. "So, in return for allowing you both to stay under my roof, you'll come to work for me as my executive assistant." I turn to my son. "And you'll furnish all of my offices around the world with paintings?"

"Yes," the girl nods.

My son hesitates, then jerks his chin, "Yes, that's right."

I glance between them. "I accept your proposal, on one condition."