by Nalini Singh
“How old is this fence?”
“How long have Mom and Dad been married? Take that and subtract two years.”
Sailor’s mind spun back to the day they’d moved into this villa. The paint had been peeling and chipped back then, the yard an overgrown mess. But it had been a place Alison and Joseph Esera could afford. They’d all done plenty of grunt work to whip it into shape—and its value now was enough to cause a heart attack in a healthy man.
This area was one of the hottest on the Auckland property market.
But to Sailor, this home was memory and warmth and love and safety. “We got lucky with Dad, didn’t we?” He only ever used that word to refer to Joseph Esera, never when he was speaking about the man who’d fathered two children, then abandoned them and his wife without a backward look.
His brother glanced up from where he’d crouched down to collect the bent nails they’d put on the ground while they finished up, his shoulders broad and his body built for the hard physicality of rugby. “Yeah,” he said simply, his eyes holding memories shared only by him and Sailor and their mother.
Their younger brothers, Jake and Danny, had never—and would never—experience the icy fear of being thrown out of their home, their clothes thrust into trash bags. Sailor was the youngest of their original family, remembered the least, but he didn’t have to remember all the details to remember the emotions.
The bone-numbing fear and raw confusion.
His five-year-old hand clenched tight around Gabe’s as their mother battled the repo men to make sure they wouldn’t take her boys’ things.
Sailor was so fucking glad that Jake and Danny would never be in the same position. Nor would their mother. Unlike the man who was biologically Sailor and Gabriel’s father, Joseph Esera would cut off his own arm before turning his back on his family.
“We also got lucky with Mom,” Gabe pointed out as he rose to his feet, the bent nails in hand. “She never once gave up. Even after that bastard stole all the money she’d worked so hard to save. Even after he forced her to go to welfare when that was her worst fucking nightmare.”
Gabriel’s anger was a brutal wall. It had always been that way. He’d been the older son, the one who understood the most, the one who’d grown up too fast in the wake of their father’s abandonment. The one who remembered each and every detail of the nightmare.
And the one who’d protected Sailor from the worst of the impact.
“I got lucky with both of you,” Sailor said quietly.
Gabriel’s gray eyes held open affection as he punched Sailor in the shoulder. “We did it together, shrimp.”
Sailor had often wished he had the same eyes as his brother. Because then he’d have their mother’s eyes. Instead, he’d been born with the eyes of the asshole who’d fathered him. But that asshole had no place in this yard full of memories of love.
Shoving Brian Bishop aside with long practice, Sailor packed up his tools. “You ever had a woman just decide you’re not for her and run away? Actually run away.”
Gabriel made a valiant effort of looking solemn. “You must’ve stunk real bad.”
“Fuck you,” Sailor said without heat, though he was wondering if it had been that after all. His redhead had seemed to like him, dirt and sweat and all, zero hesitation in her touch or her kiss, but maybe she’d changed her mind after he’d made the mistake of breaking skin contact.
Idiot.
“Who was she?” Gabriel asked after he’d gotten rid of the bent nails.
“Trouble.”
His brother chuckled. “You taking Ms. Trouble to that big party on Saturday?”
“Did you not hear that she ran away?” Sailor had intended to let down his hair at the party being thrown by a friend of a friend, but now he’d probably spend the whole night brooding over his redhead.
“Gabe! Sail! Dad asked if you want a beer.” Their youngest brother ran over with two cold bottles in hand.
At fourteen, the baby of their family was still more cheerful child than moody teenager—which was a good thing, because Danny hadn’t yet got his growth spurt and was one of the shortest in his class, boys and girls included. That he was also one of the most popular was courtesy of not only his speed on the rugby field but also that same sunny personality.
Ruffling his brother’s hair, the texture a little rougher than Sailor’s own but the color the same inky black, Sailor took one bottle while Gabe took the other. “Thanks, Danny.” He bumped fists with his brother.
Danny then exchanged an extremely complicated set of handshakes with Gabriel. At age twelve, he’d spent an entire weekend teaching Sailor, Gabriel, and Jake that handshake. As his youngest brother talked his eldest one into passing around a rugby ball, Sailor stood with his back to the repaired fence and got a start on his brooding. If he caught up with his cute redhead a third time around, no way was he letting her slip away again.
A rugby ball plowed into his stomach.
Catching it reflexively without dropping his beer, he narrowed his eyes at a grinning Gabriel. “Dude, you’re the captain of the national team.” The most decorated and internationally recognized player in the squad. “Show a little dignity.”
“Hey!” Jake’s dark-haired head popped out from the upstairs room he’d shared with Danny until Sailor moved out several years back. “Are you guys playing without me?” Scowling, he pulled his head back in, and Sailor knew he was running down the stairs to join them.
Putting his beer down by the fence, not far from where Gabe had left his, he spun the ball in a spiral to Danny. His little brother caught it, then did a run straight at Gabe as if intending to go through his muscled bulk. Instead, he found himself picked up and swung upside down.
Rather than giving up the ball, Danny reached out his arm and plonked it on the ground behind Gabe, then did a victory dance while still upside down. Sailor grinned. If everything went according to plan, he’d have even less free time in the coming months. He’d miss these nights just hanging out with his family, but he had dreams that haunted him and demons that howled.
He had to quiet those demons, had to become a man like the one who’d raised him. A man who provided for those who were his own instead of taking and taking and taking until there was nothing left. A man who built something. A man who was nothing like the one who’d sired Gabriel and Sailor.
A man with ambitions like that, he had no time for distractions.
Especially not distractions in the form of cute redheads who kissed and ran.
6
Stubble Burn Is Hard to Hide from the Dragon
ÍSA TURNED THE SHOWER TO ICE-COLD after racing home from Nayna’s office, yelped after getting in; that had done nothing to quiet her libido or her racing heart, though it had successfully frozen her blood. Turning up the heat, she washed off the scent of sin and temptation and blue, blue eyes and lips that devoured her own. Afterward, she rubbed herself down with clinical precision in an effort to hide all evidence of her shower.
If her mother commented on it regardless, Ísa would tell Jacqueline that she’d been exercising. The best thing was, it wasn’t even a lie—she and the gardener had surely burned a few red-hot calories. And Jacqueline would be happy to hear of Ísa’s sudden enthusiasm for after-work sessions. She’d never understood how she’d birthed a child who was so much more into curling up with a cup of tea and falling into poetry than in going for a “head-clearing” run.
The one thing Jacqueline had never done was disparage Ísa for her size. “Curves can be useful,” she’d said more than once. “But you need strength and endurance to back it up.”
Ísa had taken the advice, but in ways she found interesting. Running, Jacqueline’s choice of exercise, didn’t qualify. Team sports would’ve been good if she’d had the coordination. Since she didn’t, she focused on things like aerobics classes where she and Nayna could hide out at the back, far from the sleek gym bunnies who could twist themselves into pretzels without breaking a sweat.
Too bad this evening wouldn’t be filled with laughter and camaraderie.
After pulling on a simple gray dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt, the outfit topped off with a thin but businesslike black belt, she twisted her hair up into a bun, then reached for her makeup.
With skin as pale as hers, powder was a moot point unless she wanted to imitate a Kabuki dancer. Ísa tended to stick with mascara and a touch of eyeshadow, maybe a slick of gloss on her lips. Anything more and she felt as if she resembled a clown. Like that orange-haired one associated with burgers and nuggets and fries.
Suzanne had enjoyed pointing out the resemblance.
“Ronald. Hey Ronald, how’s it going, Ronald?”
And now the poster girl for mean girls of high school was getting married and having a baby.
Realizing she’d forgotten to tell Nayna that infuriating piece of news, she quickly messaged her friend as she ran down to the car. She was on the road when a ping told her Nayna had replied, but she didn’t look at the message until she’d pulled into the parking lot of her mother’s base of operations in the glossy downtown district.
Her parking spot was an assigned one.
And it boasted a shiny gold-on-black sign: Ísalind Rain, Vice President.
Argh! That hadn’t been there the last time.
Getting out, she checked Nayna’s message:
Life sucks. But don’t worry—I’m Hindu; I believe in reincarnation and karma. She’ll come back as a lice-infested cockroach in her next life, with Slimeball Schumer as a rat. A one-eyed rat. Finally their exteriors will match their interiors.
Meanwhile, you and I will return as supermodel brain surgeons and seduce every smoking-hot gardener in sight.
Ísa grinned as she made her way through the front doors of Crafty Corners HQ and into a color-filled lobby that was a cheerful assault on the senses. Waving at the sole receptionist currently on duty at the main welcome desk, she ran up the steps rather than using the elevator.
The upstairs reception area was another pop of color, the sofas a mix of fresh orange, lime green, and sunburst yellow, the walls warm and creamy. Her mother’s junior assistant sat not at a traditional desk but behind a seat-height counter on which crafting and work supplies were stacked in neat groupings.
The slender brunette was currently involved in putting together an intricate jewelry box.
“How many of those have you made now, Ginny?”
“Oh, thank God it’s you, Ísa.” Ginny stopped pretending to be an industrious crafter and slumped back in her wheelchair. “I swear to God, if I have to glue one more set of tiny windows onto one more set of tiny doors, I’m going to start gluing the stupid doors to people’s heads.”
Ísa nodded in heartfelt sympathy. She’d worked several summers in the business and never again wanted to craft anything. Ever. But Crafty Corners thrived partially because people wanted to buy into the Craft Is Family motto. Any employee at their desk who might come into contact with the public was to always be involved in a craft project or to have a half-completed project within easy view. As if they were so in love with the company’s creations that they couldn’t stop themselves.
Poor Ginny had drawn the short straw here—the senior assistant, Annalisa, got to sit behind another door and had a much more sane working environment. Though, to be fair, Annalisa had done her time in the crafting salt mines for three years before she was promoted out of the front line.
The whole concept sounded idiotic, but Ísa had seen it work over and over again. Investors, reporters, all types of normally sensible people laughed and fell for the illusion, many even stopping long enough to help glue or paint a piece. Which was why the company Jacqueline Rain had created as a broke student was now a multimillion-dollar operation that exported worldwide and had seventeen thriving stores in New Zealand.
New Zealand wasn’t that big a country. Still less than five million people at last count. And yet… seventeen Crafty Corners stores. All flourishing. All with waiting lists for their highly reviewed “Crafting and Cookies” nights at which the newest and hottest crafting secrets were revealed.
Then there were the twenty-eight stores in neighboring Australia.
Ísa didn’t know how her mother did it.
“Is Jacqueline in her office?” she asked Ginny.
The other woman pointed toward the boardroom down the hall. “Already in there.”
Taking a deep, calming breath, Ísa squared her shoulders and prepared to face the Dragon, but she still wasn’t prepared for the impact her mother had on her when she opened the door. With dark auburn hair that she wore in a chignon and pale skin that she’d passed on to Ísa—though where Ísa was ghost pale, Jacqueline had a rich cream tone to her skin that made you want to stroke it—Jacqueline Rain was one of the most beautiful people Ísa had ever met.
Add in willowy height and flawless bone structure, and Jacqueline would be stunning even at eighty.
“Ísa.” Jacqueline raised her cheek.
Dutifully giving her mother a peck, Ísa took the seat next to her around the glossy wood of the conference table. “What’s with the vice president tag on the parking spot?”
“I thought you’d like to taste the future you could have.” Jacqueline took off her Tiffany-blue cat’s-eye reading glasses. “I fail to see why you prefer dealing with snotty teenagers all day when you could be working in one of the top businesses in the country.”
“I don’t want to do crafts all day, Mother.”
“Ísa, you know that’s just window dressing with the frontline staff. Stop being deliberately obtuse.”
Unfortunately, her mother was right; the family-friendly, crafty atmosphere was just for public consumption. Behind the scenes, Crafty Corners was a cutthroat business. And Jacqueline was the head cutter of throats.
“Why am I here?” she said. “You know I always vote with you.” It wasn’t that Ísa didn’t have her own views, but Jacqueline was brilliant. She knew exactly what she was doing, and voting against her out of spite wasn’t an act of which Ísa was capable. “Also, you have the controlling share. So why do we have to go through the song and dance?”
“Because the other shareholders like to know what’s happening with their money,” Jacqueline said. “Since those shares make you a millionaire, I’d think you’d pay a little more attention.”
Ísa wanted to bang her head against the table; at this rate, she should just get a helmet and be done with it. The only reason she hadn’t tried to sell back her shares—because of course, contractually, she couldn’t sell them to anyone else without first giving Jacqueline the option—was that the instant Ísa defected from the company, Jacqueline would cut her off.
Ísa had zero fucks to give on that score. But if she couldn’t get to Jacqueline, or if Jacqueline stopped taking her arguments into account, then she couldn’t speak for Catie and Harlow. And neither her half sister nor her stepbrother would stand a chance without Ísa working on their behalf. Oh, Jacqueline wouldn’t cut off the money Catie, in particular, needed, but… the two would get forgotten.
Ísa knew how much that hurt.
She would not permit Jacqueline to do that to another child.
That didn’t mean she was ready to sit back and be rolled over by the Jacqueline Rain train. “You know I’m not suitable to be your heir,” she said. “I have no business experience except for the summers I worked for you.”
“You’re downplaying your abilities.” Leaning back in her chair, Jacqueline pinned Ísa to the spot with the striking green of her gaze. “You absorb everything and you understand all of it.”
Bad luck for Ísa, but Jacqueline was, once again, right.
It was like Ísa had absorbed the informa
tion in the womb while her mother was wheeling and dealing and cut-throating.
Leaning back in her chair while trying futilely not to grit her teeth, she picked up the agenda for this meeting. She was halfway through it when her mother said, “What have you done to yourself?” Her well-manicured fingernails brushed the side of Ísa’s neck. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was stubble burn.”
Ísa’s fingers jerked up to her throat without her conscious volition.
How could she have missed that?
Because you don’t make a habit of jumping hot, half-naked gardeners, that’s why, Devil Ísa answered. Pity.
Thank God eagle-eyed Jacqueline had already returned to her work, dismissing the possibility that Ísa would turn up to a board meeting with stubble burn on her neck. Not that Ísa could blame her mother on that point.
Hard as it was to admit, Cody had done a number on her self-confidence. He’d been the first boy she’d ever trusted not just with her heart but with her body, and he’d made her feel horrible about it. She’d risen from the humiliation on a wave of fury and fierce determination, but it had still taken her two years to step back into the dating pool.
She’d met a couple of nice men, but no one who’d shaken her world.
Still, as Manuel, Beau, Carl, et al. could testify, Ísa was no longer a dating shrinking violet. The online-dating maneuver might succeed in driving her mad, but no one would ever be able to accuse her of not trying hard enough. And it’d all be worth it if she found him, found the one man for whom she’d be more important than meetings or negotiations or “time-critical” emails.
The one man for whom she’d be a priority.
Ísa had never been that for anyone.
I’m married to my business. She’s also my very demanding mistress. Doesn’t tolerate other women for long periods.
She sighed inwardly. It looked like she couldn’t even jump the right hot gardener. No, she had to accost one who was devoted to his business—it was like she had radar tuned to the kind of people who’d ignore adult Ísa as her parents had ignored child Ísa. Just as well she’d never see him again. The way her body had ignited for him, she didn’t trust herself anywhere near his vicinity.