LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

a fabulous shoe sale at the later—just ask for Damon.)

      Whatever your weekend plans … never fear, dear readers, I’ll make either your shopping or your weekend shift at the tourist trap turn-and-burn palatable.

      Speaking of tasty, I hear Max Banfield had an ooh, la, la soireé at his new hotel, The Crown Jewel, last night. Crab, so fresh from the sea the claws were still twitching, and chicken lettuce wraps were among the food offerings, with the night ending in raspberry creme-filled chocolate truffles.

      Need I say yum?

      No, I’m sure you have your own version of lusciousness to reflect upon.

      Didn’t I tell you about Damon?

       —Peeps

       Hotel magnate?

      Was that a promotion over financial guru?

      Trevor tossed aside the newspaper Florence had set on his desk.

      Instead of worrying about his brother, he stared out his window, where the streets below teemed with the usual afternoon Manhattan chaos. He’d planned to spend the weekend at his house in the Hamptons, but instead of anticipating the escape and relaxation, his thoughts turned to the sensational kiss he and Shelby had enjoyed the night before.

      He’d crossed a line with her and didn’t regret it in the least.

      He should have been concentrating on Max and tempering his latest mistake—or at least diminishing its press-worthy moments—but instead Trevor’d found his attention straying to the stunning caterer all night. The usual responsibility to his family paled in comparison to her vibrancy and glowing smile. As practicality seemed to be her mantra, he sensed even she wouldn’t approve of him being so distracted.

      He was reminded of the genetic, and sometimes irrational, impulses he’d inherited. Impulses that ruled his mother’s life and ones even his stodgy father had indulged in long enough to produce him and Max.

      Perhaps Trevor’s rebel past wasn’t so easily left behind.

      And yet he’d been self-possessed enough to recognize the determination in Shelby’s eyes. Just as his mother had resolved to possess jewels, clothes and husbands, Shelby had her own goal in mind.

      What, he wasn’t entirely sure. But it somehow involved Max.

      He’d confirmed only two things the night before—Max’s financial windfall had indeed come in the form of their latest, wealthy, clearly gullible stepfather. And their father was monumentally annoyed about his name appearing in the American gossip rags.

      Surely you can control this situation, Trevor, his father had said on a cell-phone call from his office in London. I have important issues before Parliament to address in the coming weeks. I don’t have time to explain this nonsense.

       I’ll handle it, sir.

      He’s a grown man, his father had continued. Reason with him. You’re the only one he listens to.

      But Max didn’t listen to him. He didn’t take his advice or take responsibility. He wasn’t even a grown man. Not really.

      He went to Vegas and blew money. He ran up debts at the London card clubs and pubs.

      In some respects, Trevor knew he’d failed his family. At the same time, he had the sense to not remind his father that he was the one who’d married and divorced the flighty, but beautiful woman who’d created Max, who was, in turn, creating the present problems.

      You could be the first son, his conscience reminded him firmly. Then you’d be required to follow in the earl’s footsteps as well as adhere to every edict that fell from his lips.

      Not that Max was following this ancient rule.

      Still, there were significant blessings in Trevor’s life. Starting and ending without the burden of an earldom. He had his future well in hand, and it didn’t include addressing Parliament, clamoring around a moldy country castle or lording over a London flat, no matter how tony the address.

      He had a business to run.

      With that bracing reminder reverberating in his mind, he turned back to his desk and the pile of contracts awaiting his signature.

      Before he’d read more than a few paragraphs, the intercom on his desk beeped. “Shelby Dixon is here, sir,” Florence said. “She doesn’t have an appointment but assures me you’ll see her.”

      Not only would he see her, he craved her presence.

      He took a second to lift his eyes heavenward and repent any resentful thoughts of the last week. Since they were certainly numerous, Florence buzzed through again before he’d managed to respond.

      “I’ll see Ms. Dixon,” he said into the intercom with what he hoped was a calm, professional tone.

      In the intervening moments, his heart kicked against his ribs; his body hummed. He remained standing out of pride. She’d somehow found him, and he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or concerned.

      Attitude first, Shelby stalked into the room. She performed a mock curtsy in front of his desk. “Your Lordship.”

      “Ah … no.” Suppressing a wince, he paused to drink in the amazing, furious sight of her before extending his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. He waited until she sat before he lowered himself into his own seat. “I don’t have a title, though the doorman at my apartment building does persist in calling me Mr. Banfield. I prefer Trevor.”

      “Your father is the Earl of Westmore,” she accused, her eyes more vividly green than the night before.

      Perhaps rage brought out the distinctive color?

      “He is,” Trevor said calmly. “I’m the second son, however, so I’m only significant if my older brother dies.” As his blunt words registered, shock flittered across her face. “No worries, he’s in excellent health.”

      “Your older brother is Maxwell Banfield.”

      Since the connection had been made, he saw no reason to deny it. Though, like many times in the past, he wanted to. “He is.”

      “And you were at the party last night because …?”

      “I was toasting my brother’s success.”

      “You didn’t tell me he was your brother.”

      He smiled. “Didn’t I?”

      “No.”

      “It hardly matters.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think it does.”

      Trevor shrugged. He loved her suspicious nature. He liked that she wasn’t buying his story completely, and she certainly didn’t appear impressed by his lineage. She should be sucking up to him, hoping for an introduction to his influential family or at least pushing for a booking.

      Instead, she seemed genuinely, personally annoyed.

      Wasn’t that great?

      “Did Max pay his catering bill?” he asked, wondering who exactly she was mad at and why.

      “Yes.”

      “Did he come on to you?”

      “No.”

      “I’m sorry. He’s always had questionable taste in women.”

      “I didn’t want him—” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretending not to understand why I’m here and pissed off.”

      He reached deep for an innocent expression. “Why would I do that?”

      “I have no idea.”

      As much as he was attracted to her, and had planned to call her with both a dinner invitation and a quote on catering

Скачать книгу