The Tycoon’s Pregnant Lover (European Tycoon Book 1)

by Leslie North

  “Is that right?” Max asked ironically. “Tell me, where are you headed this time around?”

  Gavin cleared his throat. “Are we gathered here to talk about Tony’s inability to sit still, or are you going to tell us how the hearing went?”

  Max suppressed a sigh. “Unbelievably poorly,” he replied. “The judge has ruled that I’m to inhabit the castle until the matter of ownership is sorted out.”

  “That doesn’t sound unbelievably poor at all,” Gavin said.

  “Yeah. What’s the catch?” Tony wondered.

  Max paused on the steps outside the courthouse, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out again. The chilly, all-too-English wind whipped the collar of his coat about his stern face. “The catch is that I have to live there with a beautiful woman,” he said finally. “The same woman with whom I’m currently disputing ownership.”

  “You lucky dog!” Tony crowed.

  “Sounds like your situation isn’t without its perks,” Gavin agreed with a little more diplomacy. “Why don’t you take advantage of your… unique… circumstances and seduce her?”

  “Too late,” Max growled. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and massaged the arrival of the headache that had threatened earlier. Tony’s triumphant laugh cut through his attempts.

  “You can’t be serious,” Gavin said. “You… she…?”

  “Do I need to explain the birds and the bees, or do we understand each other?” Max inquired irritably.

  “So you have an in, then,” Gavin said.

  “How was it?” came Tony’s simultaneous question.

  Max wanted to lie. He really did. He wanted to say that Brandy was forgettable, that the only thing keeping him thinking about her was the fact that she now stood as an obstacle to what he wanted. The fact that he had wanted her—and he refused to even entertain the possibility that he still might—had no bearing on his ultimate goal. He was going to make Drakar suffer in every conceivable way, and damn the innocents who might be injured in that pursuit.

  “Believe me when I say that one mistake was more than enou—”

  Someone brushed by him rudely then, nearly jostling his phone out of his hand. Max caught it at the last moment and turned to glare at whoever it was that found themselves in such a hurry.

  Long legs, swaying hips, and a swishing mane of thick chocolate hair blew down the steps past him. He caught a whiff of something, a dark and mysterious aroma presenting itself as all too familiar, and realized belatedly that it was his cologne the woman was wearing. Had Brandy showered before running down to the solicitor’s office that morning, or was that why she was in such a rush now—to get away—to wash away the memory of that torrid night?

  She turned, then, and shot him a withering glare over her shoulder. Evidently, Brandy had overheard at least some of his conversation with his mates.

  Not that it mattered. Soon enough, they would have nothing to do with one another.

  As soon as this ordeal was over, Max promised himself, he was swearing off American women altogether.

  4

  Landon Castle loomed large before her, a vast gray construct unlike anything she had ever encountered in the States. It was stately. Ancient. Glorious. It had been passed down through the ages to a long line of elegant men and women, and now it belonged to her.

  Brandy was so awed, she could scarcely breathe. She had forgotten about the tourist pamphlet she clutched in her hands, or the luggage piled on the damp grass behind her. She had stopped by the Glen Ridge Visitor Centre on her way to her new home (and it was hers. She would not stop thinking of it as hers) to pick up every bit of reading material she could find on Landon. When she had introduced herself as the castle's new owner, the kindly woman behind the desk had provided her all of it for free.

  Brandy had felt only a little guilty on her way out of the center. She was the rightful owner, but she couldn't stop thinking about a pair of steely blue eyes, nor the infuriating man they belonged to. Maximillian Anthony Benton might reside with her now, but that didn't mean she had to encounter him at all if she didn't want to. Landon Castle was plenty big enough to swallow them both up with room to spare.

  But her certainty didn't stop her from looking for him.

  Cut it out, she chastised as she plucked up one suitcase and began the laborious task of moving herself in. You came here as a single woman with every intention of starting this new chapter on your own. So you’ve had a few setbacks. So your one-night stand turned out to be unforgettable even before you learned he was moving in with you... that doesn't mean you aren't in charge of your own destiny.

  Her suitcase was suddenly, impossibly lighter. For an encouraging moment, Brandy wondered if it was because her positive thoughts had unburdened her, but reality turned out to be far, far worse.

  Maximillian Anthony Benton, the bane of her new existence, was beside her, and he was taking the liberty of removing the suitcase from her hand.

  "If you throw that into the river, I swear to God..." she warned. Her pulse sped wildly as she looked up at him, taking in the severe, angular visage that seemed perfectly suited for castle living.

  Max frowned. "I didn't think about that," he admitted.

  Brandy glared. "Don't sound so disappointed. I'm trusting you," she added as she trekked back down the path for the remainder of her things.

  "You shouldn't trust your enemies!" Max called after her. She bristled but didn't turn back around to acknowledge his warning. She trusted Max Benton about as far as she could throw him. She wondered if he held the same opinion. Then again, she knew firsthand he could throw her at least the length of a hotel bed...

  She was still blushing by the time she scurried back to the entrance. The day's intermittent May rain had started up again, and she figured she could blame the chill for any noticeable change in her complexion. Max held the door for her, which only made her more furious. She had arrived three hours before they were supposed to show up just so she could avoid awkward interaction. Apparently, Max had entertained the same idea.

  And yet, here they were.

  "Thank y—" Brandy bit off her thanks abruptly as Max carelessly tossed her luggage onto a nearby couch. "Hey!" She dove after it. She had the stark feeling that, had there been no cushy furniture to catch her things, he would have tossed them with equal unconcern.

  "You'll be in the east wing," he dictated. "I'll be in the west. I've already moved in, so don't bother putting up a protest."

  So there it was: the real reason he had shown up so early. Had he squatted on the lawn all night just so he could call dibs? She wished the mental image cheered her more. She dropped the duffel bag she was carrying and crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, what?"

  "You heard me," Max replied. "And I know damn well you understood me. I speak English much more concisely than an American." Brandy gawked at him. Even in the face of their dispute, she hadn't expected him to be so... rude!

  "Are you sure that you're English?" she fired back. "Because I heard the English were known for their manners.”

  Max smiled at this, and she felt sickened. It wasn't the same smile he had favored her with at the bar, not even close.

  He didn't smile like a real person, she realized—or at least, not like anyone else she had ever met. His smile was completely counterfeit, as phony as he had accused her deed of being. It had no bearing at all on those cold, calculating eyes of his; in fact, the discrepancy made his handsome features positively archvillainous. He was no storybook hero, she realized. Far from it: he was the obstacle to the heroine's happiness, made all the more dangerous for the fact he’d come to her in disguise.

  "Allow me to subvert your expectations," Max said, properly ominous now that he had revealed his true colors.

  "Whatever," she replied brilliantly. At the very least, she felt as if she had just responded like a true ambivalent American. "I accept your proposal, and I'm done with this conversation. Which way to the east wing?"

  Someth
ing strange happened to Max's icy expression then: it faltered. Just a little. "Head due east," he replied at last. His smile tried to reform itself, tried to once more achieve that intimidating posture, but his expression was too close to a grin of amusement. At her expense.

  Brandy collected what she could of her luggage and stalked past him, unsurprised to find that he had checked his helpfulness at the door. Let the bastard laugh, she told herself. Just make sure you get the last one.

  Brandy was no billionaire, which meant that, although it took two trips back and forth from the castle's entry to deliver her things, she was unpacked and situated in record time. She sat on the edge of her bed and surveyed her new surroundings. Outside, rain rattled against the ramparts and streaked the windowpane, obscuring her view of the new world she now inhabited.

  She was determined to write the rules of this world.

  In fact, she contemplated sitting down to write for real. She had an idea for a character; moreover, she had an idea for just how such an unsavory character should meet his untimely end.

  Stop it. Stop thinking about him, she ordered herself. She flung herself back on the bed and buried her face in the pillow she had brought from home. Maybe it didn't match the quaint (if musty) decor of the east wing bedroom, but she didn't care. She breathed in the smell of the life she had left behind her in Charleston and felt that much braver. She was starting anew, but she knew who she was and where she came from.

  And no man, billionaire or otherwise, was going to dictate how she was going to live now.

  She could accept being assigned to the east wing. She would have preferred to be the one making the assignments, of course, but lesson learned. She would be much quicker to assert her ownership next time. She had to admit that his idea made sense. Now we won't have to see each other if we can help it.

  Just because she now lived in the east wing didn't mean she was never going to leave it, though. Brandy rose, resolute, and let herself out of her room. If she stayed here moping for the next however long it took for the judge to figure out their situation, then her chances of finding evidence in her favor were slim to none.

  Maybe her dad had left something for her here: a clue? Something to remember him by, other than a castle?

  Somehow, she doubted it. Brandy had given up on her father long ago, ever since discovering the letter he had written to her grandmother on the subject of her future. Her fatherless future. Maybe it was only her new surroundings making her sentimental, making her hope...

  Brandy made her way down the winding castle corridors. Despite the wind and rain buffeting the walls outside, the vast stone hallways were surprisingly warm; Arthur had mentioned he would send someone over to light the fireplaces for them. Despite the current confusion as to who was employing the servants so long as the castle's ownership remained disputed, thankfully, local volunteers from the historical society, the ones who had kept up the castle while it was unoccupied, had once more come to the rescue.

  I have a lot to learn about castle upkeep, Brandy mused as she spiraled down a small, tight staircase. I wonder how one upkeeps a dungeon...?

  A shadow loomed out of nowhere right before she reached the bottom step. Simultaneously, a crack of unexpected thunder boomed, and Brandy nearly fell on her ass in surprise. If it hadn't been for the massive hand that caught her elbow, she would have bruised her tailbone something fierce on the unforgiving stone.

  "What are you doing here?" a deep accented voice demanded. "I thought I told you to stay in your end of the castle."

  Max dragged her off the steps and into the light. Brandy didn’t pull away, too disoriented by this turn of events to protest outright. She had been so lost in thought as she wandered the castle, she had managed to get herself literally lost... and fallen right into the villain's clutches.

  "I didn't mean to be here. And you don't get to tell me anything!" she reminded them both as she shook his hand away. Max took a step back and crossed his burly arms as if he were some avenging gargoyle she had just happened to inherit alongside her castle. She hated the way his foreboding posture only served to accentuate his biceps, remembering all too well what they felt like beneath her clenched fingers, offering solidity as all the world fell away and she succumbed to...

  Brandy shook her head angrily. "What are you doing?" she demanded, trying to take some of her attention off herself. She leaned a little to look past him into the room she had almost accidentally stumbled into. Was it her imagination, or did he shift to obscure her view? "Why are you acting like you have a secret to hide?"

  "Stay out of my office," Max warned her. "I don't want anyone snooping around my work uninvited."

  "I didn't even know this was your office!" Brandy snapped. "And believe me, I have no interest in whatever boring thing it is you do!"

  He had told her, of course, back at the bar: he devised security programs. The fact had impressed her at the time, and impressed her still, but pretending otherwise was worth watching the annoyed look cross his face now.

  "I don't write smut for a living," he agreed. "Then again, I also don't rely on the charity of my family to keep a roof over my head."

  Brandy's blood boiled. If only that chiseled face was a little closer to earth, she would have no problem hauling back and punching it now. Insulting her was one thing, but to bring her grandmother into it crossed the line in an unforgivable way. "I also write suspense," she corrected. "And suspense is something I don't intend to keep you in any longer. Goodbye."

  "Moving out so soon?" he called after her as she stalked off. "Should I ring my lawyer?"

  "Ring this," Brandy advised as she thrust her middle finger into the air. Max's handsome, booming laugh followed her back into the depths of the castle.

  Let him laugh. He had no idea that this comedy routine was a prelude to war.

  5

  To Max’s perspective, Brandy made herself scarce for the next week and a half; at least, she made herself scarce physically. At night, when his defenses were down, the woman visited him in his thoughts, crawling atop him in the castle bed he was fast settling into, letting her dark, luxuriant hair hang down around him. His hands found the curve of her hips; the hard, aching jut of his need found sweet release between those heavenly legs. He lost himself in half-dreams of her, waking to more than a few ruined sheets in the process.

  Damn. This was the worst possible torture a judge might have devised, but Max was determined to see it through. He was determined to survive Brandy Jackson. So he threw himself into his work, writing code even though he had more than enough employees to do it for him. Teleconferencing with clients at all hours. Calling Gavin.

  "Don't you have more important things to be doing?" Gavin asked in his ear as Max pulled open the refrigerator. It was early morning in Glen Ridge; wan sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the updated kitchen. Dust motes danced and swirled in the shafts; outside the window, a lone bird trilled its restless song and quieted, awaiting a return call that never came.

  "Or should I say, more important people?" Gavin not-so-subtly added.

  Max grimaced. "Please desist. You sound like Tony. I didn't call to discuss the... mistake." He glanced over his shoulder to ensure he was alone. He thought about his night with Brandy so often that there was no thinking of it as a mistake, not anymore, but no one in his sphere needed to know that. He was determined to keep up appearances.

  "Ouch," Gavin said.

  "This is strictly a business call."

  "Are you saying you're billing me?"

  The corners of Max’s mouth lifted in a wintery smile. "Since you picked up the phone."

  Gavin snorted. "All right. How's the program looking? And when's the earliest you can get it over to me?"

  Max knew why Gavin was antsy. He wanted to set up protections for his family's tech company so he could focus on what interested him most: inventing. His time doing anything else was wasted, in Max's estimation, but blood was thicker than water. He knew that almos
t better than anybody.

  He settled into the kitchen bar, completely forgetting his designs on breakfast as he rattled off some specifics to Gavin. A soft tread of footfalls alerted him to another's presence, and Max turned. "I'll send the rest over in an encrypted email," he stated as his eyes locked with Brandy's. How long had she been standing there? How much had she overheard?

  "Paranoid as ever," Gavin noticed.

  "I have every right to be." Max hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of his unexpected intruder.

  Brandy blinked. "Uh, getting breakfast? The same as you?"

  "All of the food in the refrigerator belongs to me." He’d noticed that the shelf she’d claimed for her own was empty when he’d pulled out the cream for his coffee this morning. His eyes tracked her as she moved across the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door.

  "Argh!" Brandy slapped a hand to her forehead and grimaced. Max raised an eyebrow. "Damn it! I knew I needed to go into town yesterday! I got so wrapped up writing that I forgot completely."

  "So what do you intend to eat?" Max asked her in a silky tone. He pulled his mug of coffee to him and sipped it superiorly. "There's always that counterfeit deed of yours, but seeing as it has very little substance, I doubt it will satisfy you."

  "Ha ha. Very funny." Brandy's stomach growled, and she placed a hand over it with an unhappy sigh. She continued to study the contents of the fridge as if she could make food appear merely by willing it there. "Look, are you just going to drink coffee for breakfast, or are you actually going to eat something?"

  "What's your real question?" Max asked her.

  Brandy turned from the fridge to look at him. Max realized then that she wasn't wearing any makeup; she looked younger, if that was possible, her beautiful features softened into girlish prettiness without the kohl-rimmed eyes and reddened lips. Her thick hair tumbled down one shoulder, framing half of her face, exposing one slender shoulder that couldn't quite hold up the wide neckline of her t-shirt.