Kiss and Tell (Scions of Sin Book 2)

by Taylor Holloway

  “Farther south than Texas?” I asked incredulously, “Are you in South America?”

  “Ding ding ding!” David sang at me, “I’m in Argentina. Land of beef.”

  “Ok. Whatever. I’ll go to the damn board meeting so you can chase cows in Argentina. Try not to marry any heifers while you’re down there.”

  “Dude, have you seen Argentinian women? They are definitely not heifers.”

  “No, I meant literal heifers. I have seen Argentinian chicks. They wouldn’t have you.”

  “Oh, you’re so clever. Just for that, I’m not gonna bring you back any steak.”

  “I’m still a Pescatarian, dumbass.”

  “Yeah, well you’d change your mind if you tried this meat.”

  “I’m sure that’s what you tell all the girls,” I replied snidely, “look, I’ve got actual work to do. What time is the stupid board meeting?”

  “Ha! I knew you forgot. Seven. Also, it’s at Angelica Hunt’s house. The Senator’s having his house fumigated or something. Anyway, we can’t meet there. So, you might get to see Angelica. Have a blast,” My brother replied. Then he hung up before I could get another rude comment in.

  I groaned and checked my watch. I had about two hours before I had to see my uncles. Sometimes I thought my cousins Alexander and Nicholas were smart to cut ties with our family business. I was dreading the familial interaction.

  A bad mood was threatening to descend, and distraction was needed immediately to avert it.

  “Run me through the launch data again,” I told the computer.

  2

  Zoey

  “Zoey Atkinson,” I said to the guy in the booth, “here to see Angelica Hunt. I’m a correspondent from JuicyNews.”

  He typed my name into a computer and shook his head.

  “Just a moment, ma’am,” he said, “I don’t have you on the appointment schedule, so I have to call up to the house.”

  I waited impatiently in my dirty, beat-up car. The gate ahead of me had probably seen a lot of cars, but I bet they were all nicer than mine. My great-uncle Martin bought this drab brown Honda Civic for me when I was in high school. It was hideous, ancient, and the color of shit, but it still ran despite two back-end collisions. Marty was in a nursing home now, but the Civic was still on the road and firmly in my possession. I’d probably pass the damn thing onto my own heirs one day.

  “Ok ma’am,” the security guy said to me a second later, “Tara said they’re expecting you. Sorry for the mix-up. Just drive up the main road. You, uh, can’t miss the house.”

  The big, elaborately embellished iron gate opened in front of me, and I crawled up the cobblestone drive. I was followed by a sleek, uber-modern sedan that had pulled through the gate right after me. Whoever was driving the thing was clearly frustrated with my slow approach, but I didn’t get to visit the super-rich very often.

  The grounds surrounding the house were lush and park-like, with actual shrubbery animals. I saw a hedge-unicorn, a hedge-bunny, and a hedge-dragon. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had gone to town out there. Awesome, I thought to myself, that is definitely going in the article. The car behind me honked, and I moved along reluctantly.

  The house itself was worthy of its own dang article. It was styled to look like a French chateau, all tall and symmetrical with white stone and a highly pitched grey roof. It looked like somewhere Cinderella and her prince would call home.

  I parked my ugly-ass car next to several much nicer ones in front of the house and climbed the steps to the elaborate front entrance. Behind me, the owner of the nice car was following, and I resisted the temptation to turn and invite him or her to yell at me for driving so slowly. I rang the doorbell as whoever it was tapped me politely on the shoulder.

  I swallowed hard, put on my game face, and turned.

  I recognized him instantly. It was Nathan Breyer: disgraced astronaut, innovative entrepreneur, scion of Durant Industries, and all-around scoundrel. He had also been the previous target of my reporting when I’d been a real journalist.

  The Durant dynasty was a feature of the American consciousness, possessing a combination of massive wealth and influence along with five ridiculously sexy male heirs. Nathan Breyer, one of the two scions who did not share the Durant surname, was standing in front of me. I tried not to gape like an idiot.

  He was perfect. Physically, at least. Taller than me (an achievement), with a body that said he was still in the amazing shape from his military days and that infamous sex tape. He was broad-shouldered and deep-chested. His facial features were square and masculine, and his eyes were a dreamy, sparkly blue-green color that contrasted starkly with his short, dark hair.

  “Are you having car trouble?” He questioned me, not exactly rude, but sharp. He was clearly irritated that I’d detained him.

  I couldn’t help my giggle. There was nothing I could do. This situation was so ridiculous. He frowned at my laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head, “I wasn’t having car trouble. I’d just never seen a hedge sculpted into a unicorn before. I definitely didn’t expect to get honked at by a famous astronaut for gawking at it.”

  His frown deepened at my answer, but then gave up and smirked. He must be used to being recognized.

  “You know,” he said, “I’d never actually noticed them before, and I’ve been here a million times.”

  “Maybe that’s because you drive past them too fast,” I quipped, and caught him crack a smile. “I’m Zoey,” I said, extending my hand. Who knew when I’d meet another sexy astronaut?

  “Nathan,” he replied, shaking my hand, “but you knew that. Are you here for the board meeting? Do you work for Clark and Jeffries?”

  “Hmm?” I answered, shaking my head, “No, I’m here to interview Angelica Hunt.”

  Before I could figure out about the board meeting, or what Clark and Jeffries was, the door opened. Both Nathan and I turned to face a drab young woman wearing an unflattering pink sweatshirt and leggings. Her ginger hair was tied up into a weird topknot, and she was wearing the wrong shade of foundation. This sad fashion victim was definitely not Angelica Hunt.

  “Miss Atkinson?” She asked, and I nodded, “I’m Tara, Angelica’s assistant. Please come with me,” Tara saw Nathan over my shoulder and smiled broadly, adding, “Good evening, Mr. Breyer. The other members of the board are out on the patio.”

  I started following Tara forward into the palatial, marble entryway. Before I could make it over the threshold, Nathan put a large hand on my shoulder, stopping me from moving. The jolt of connection zinged through me, and I looked up into his wide, clear eyes. I stared back at him for a long moment, breathless and transfixed.

  “Zoey Atkinson? From the Philadelphia Monitor?” He asked me after a long second, staring at me like I’d just ripped off a mask and revealed myself to be Hannibal Lector. His voice was back to being sharp and inquisitive, almost disbelieving.

  Yikes. He knew me? I’d written some not so nice things about him a few years back. They were all true things and I’d only been doing my job, but they were not so nice.

  I nodded, suddenly wary. I didn’t want to be yelled at.

  “No longer from the Philadelphia Monitor,” I admitted when all he did was continue to stare intensely, and his hand stayed on my shoulder to pin me firmly in place, “but I used to write for them.”

  “I read your piece about me,” he said suddenly, and I stared back up at him silently. What was I supposed to say to that? Finally, I nodded.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” I said eventually, a defensive feeling growing in me to defend my work, “I covered the stories that I was told to cover by the Editor. Your antics were national news.”

  Nathan’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t reply.

  The moment continued to stretch. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I couldn’t seem to rip my gaze away from his. I suddenly didn’t want him to shift his focus from me, or to stop touching me.
I wanted more. A lot more. I wanted him.

  “Miss Atkinson?” Tara asked, watching my conversation with Nathan interestedly. Seeming to wake up and come to his senses, Nathan removed his hand from my shoulder and looked me up and down as if seeing me properly for the first time. He shook himself like he was trying to shake off confusion.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Nathan, smiling politely and following Tara. I wanted to stick around to see why Nathan was there, but Angelica was my meal ticket today. Girl’s gotta’ eat.

  3

  Nathan

  Zoey Atkinson was hot. I’d not expected that. Actually, I never expected to meet her at all.

  She was tall, maybe five-ten or five-eleven without the heels she was wearing. With them, she was easily my height, six-two. Legs for miles. She cut an elegant figure in her conservative blue dress, with a nicely rounded ass, narrow waist, and perky tits. Her face was classically beautiful with creamy white skin, coffee-brown eyes and full, crimson lips. Her light brown hair was cut in a polished, shoulder-grazing bob.

  Although I had never imagined what the author of my framed article looked like, if pressed, I would not have guessed correctly. In my mind’s eye, all journalists looked like Truman Capote. The female ones just looked like Truman Capote in a wig.

  Zoey was much better looking than Truman Capote in a wig. She was, in fact, everything that I liked in a woman. I’d already begun formulating a vivid, lurid fantasy that involved bending her over the hood of that hideous piece of junk she drove and messing up her sleek, glossy hairdo.

  My attraction to Zoey wasn’t even purely physical. She also represented another, deeper desire. She was the author of my talisman, a clipped piece of newspaper that represented my life’s low point. Somehow my psyche tied her to that moment in my life, although it was probably just another story to a busy reporter. But to me, her piece of straight-forward reporting was at first a painful blight, later a taunting challenge, and now a motivational reminder. I’d been determined to overcome that moment, to conquer it through hard work in perseverance. Now that I’d seen Zoey, I wanted to conquer her, albeit in an entirely different and much less wholesome way.

  Irritatingly, she was here for Angelica Hunt, and not for me. Meanwhile I was here for a Durant Industries board meeting—the world’s worst way to spend an evening. I’d rather get a root canal.

  I made my reluctant way through Angelica’s dead husband’s house, noting the presence of a man who must be Angelica’s current boyfriend in the living room. The man was tall and long-limbed and good looking in a bland sort of way. His slicked back dark hair and clothes indicated that he’d just come from a tennis court somewhere. He was drinking alone, probably taking a break from his girlfriend’s endless bitching.

  “Hey,” I ventured, aiming for an expression of friendliness.

  The man shot me a murderous glare as I walked by. Fuck you too, I thought at him, it’s not my fault you’re banging the antichrist. I glared right back at him and decided to introduce myself just to be extra-obnoxious.

  “Nathan Breyer,” I said, thrusting a hand out to him and shifting my expression from grumpy to irritatingly pleasant. He stared at it for a moment before shaking it reluctantly.

  “Marcus Sousa,” he replied with a tight-lipped smile. “Your little friends are outside,” he continued with a slight, unplace-able accent. I nodded and continued on my way. Sousa must have noticed the other board members. He didn’t seem at all impressed. His eyes followed me all the way to the door.

  In addition to the asshole with the brandy snifter, there were other recent acquisitions to Angelica’s collection of ridiculous furniture and decor. She’d had the pool table recovered in hot pink felt, replaced the tasteful expressionist landscapes her late husband had favored with garish Pop Art, and swapped out the classy, antique Persian rugs with trendy overdyed ones in shades of teal and purple (I could only pray she hadn’t actually dyed them). Overall, it looked like Angelica was going for an aggressive vapor-wave look. It might have been attractive on its own, but it was fighting mightily with what remained of the French Regency furnishings.

  Very nouveau riche, my mother’s voice echoed in my mind, all sparkle with no class. You can always look to design to identify those who have taste and money from those who merely have money.

  My mother, Deborah Durant Breyer, was a well-bred, old-moneyed snob, but she was right about most things. An awful lot of her had rubbed off on me. There was no point in my pretending otherwise. Sometime in my twenties I’d just given in to being a well-bred, old-moneyed snob. Being unapologetic about how damn lucky I was had turned out to be much easier than attempting humility over it. I had won the lottery of fate by being born fabulously wealthy. If it was gauche to enthusiastically admit that I enjoyed pretty much everything about being rich (as I’d been repeatedly told that it was) then so be it.

  On the wide, well-lit covered patio, the snobbery continued. My uncles Alexander Durant Jr. and Richard Durant—two manipulative businessmen in their mid-sixties—were discussing… me.

  “How long do you think we should wait for our erstwhile punctual nephew?” Alexander asked his brother, swirling his drink around in his glass and looking typically grumpy. I’d never actually seen Alexander in a genuinely good mood, except for a few fleeting moments in my childhood and at his son’s wedding last year. His perpetually foul disposition was actually rather charming if you didn’t take it personally. I likened my uncle Alexander to my mom’s aging Chihuahua, Wobbles. Wobbles hated everyone and everything, but he took such bizarre joy in his growling, petulant misanthropy it was hard to hate him. I paused in a shadow to eavesdrop.

  “Oh, give him five more minutes, Alex. He’s not even late yet,” Richard replied soothingly. The more pragmatic of the two, Richard was maybe the only member of our family for whom compromise came halfway naturally. He was my favorite of my aunts and uncles on the Durant side, although that wasn’t saying all that much since he still possessed the potential to be tremendously obnoxious (his own son had disowned him several years back).

  “Like our father always says, ‘punctuality is the soul of business’.”

  Senator Tom Ellis, the other member of the Durant Industries board, nodded sagely.

  Richard rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “Our father has never said that. Not once. Frenchmen are never punctual. Besides, the last three times I’ve seen him all he’s done is complain about his nurses and get me confused with you. He also still thinks it’s 1999 so I’m not sure timeliness is really a concern for him anymore.”

  “He’s definitely said it,” Alexander maintained, “maybe it was before you were born.”

  “What, when you were seven? And you remembered it for sixty years, I’m impressed.” Richard didn’t sound at all impressed.

  “You’re as bad as my damn son,” Alexander said, referring to Alexander III, my cousin, “I swear he lives just to argue with me.”

  “At least your son speaks to you again now,” Richard retorted, “Alex married a nice girl and settled down. Nick’s been giving me the silent treatment for the last five years. I don’t even know where he is.”

  “I’m not sure what’s wrong with this generation,” Alexander said grumpily, “we were never like them, were we? We had to respect our father or else.”

  Richard and the Senator grunted in agreement.

  “That,” Richard answered, “Is the truth. We learned respect at the end of a belt. Hence why we’re here on time, and our nephew is two minutes from being late.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I interjected snidely on my approach, “am I late? It’s five ‘til seven according to my watch.”

  My uncles rose to greet me, along with Senator Ellis and a young attorney from Clark and Jeffries who was acting as secretary. The bylaws demanded at least four of the five members attend board meetings in person. We jealously traded off the one absentee slot between ourselves. This was supposed to be my turn.

  “We were a
ctually expecting David,” Richard, who was the CEO of Durant Industries said as we settled down around the round table, “how did you get roped into this?”

  “David’s off chasing some cow in Argentina,” I replied, shaking my head irritably.

  “That sounds about right,” Alexander scoffed. The older, louder, and more bombastic of the two, Alexander was the President and Chairman of the Board.

  “Apologies for having the meeting here everyone,” the Senator said with a shake of his head, “we’re having the floors refinished at my house. I figured this was easier than asking everyone to drive into the city.”

  I shrugged. Since I lived in the city, this was actually more of an imposition, but whatever. It’s not like this meeting would be less obnoxious if it were closer to home.

  “Shall we get started, gentlemen?” The attorney, a slim, weasel-faced fellow with a narrow mustache and deep set dark eyes, asked. The men around the table all nodded their general agreement.

  “Very well,” continued the weasel-lawyer, “then I call to order this third quarter Meeting of the Board of Directors of Durant Industries at seven p.m…”

  4

  Zoey

  Angelica Hunt was waiting for me in the living room of her closet. Yes, her closet was large enough to contain its own living room. In fact, her closet had a living room that even had its own, smaller closet off to one side. I resisted the temptation to inquire whether an even tinier living room existed within in some kind of recursive living rooms with closets MC Escher nightmare that went on forever.

  “Zoey!” Angelica cried, as if we were old, dear friends. She kissed me on the cheek.

  Angelica Hunt was totally stunning. I’m one hundred percent straight, but damn. No wonder she married a billionaire.

  She had delicate features, vivid blue eyes, long, flowing blonde hair, and the cheekbones of a supermodel. Perhaps two inches shorter than me, she was still plenty tall for a woman, and boasted a slim, toned figure with a waist to hip to bust ratio that could only be achieved via surgical intervention or extremely aggressive corsetry. Knowing her practically unlimited wealth, I’d bet the former.