Billionaire Games Boxed Set (The Marriage Bargain, The Marriage Caper, The Marriage Fix)

by Edwards, Sandra

  “Harry, these are my children.” Papa looked at each of them as he said their names. “My eldest son Julian and his wife Camille, my youngest son Andre, and my daughter Lecie.” His gaze cut back to Andre rather than Julian, which was where it usually landed since he was older. “Mr. Martel is Edouard’s attorney.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet each of you.” The attorney shook the brothers’ hands and bowed his head respectfully to Camille and Lecie. “My condolences.”

  “Likewise,” Julian said.

  “Pardon me,” Camille, the American of the bunch, spoke up. “Who is that couple over there?” She gave a nonchalant nod toward the other side of the casket. “The man keeps staring at us.” It was hard to know if the woman was staring too; she had an old-fashioned, black veil hanging from her hat and it covered her face entirely.

  Harry glanced over his shoulder and turned back quickly. “Ah…distant cousins of Julian and Andre’s. They are Conrad and Cecily Garceau.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sure it’s just idle curiosity. Long lost relatives can be intriguing.”

  “If you would excuse me,” Andre nodded and backed up a step or two. “But I’d like to visit my mother’s grave before we leave.”

  After a brief turn of pleasant goodbyes, Andre looked at his brother. “You coming?”

  “We’ll catch up in a moment,” Julian said.

  That was enough for Andre. He gave the attorney one last friendly nod and let the hand holding the bouquet of flowers drop to his side as he headed off.

  Two rows over, he found his mother’s grave, which had been adorned with a fresh spray of yellow roses. His stepmother Claudette’s doing, no doubt. She was always attentive to Andre and Julian’s feelings, making sure there were fresh flowers on their mother Naoma’s grave on her birthday and at Christmas. Andre would have to remember to thank her.

  He knelt and deposited the flowers into the vase-like hole at the bottom of the headstone. The yellow calla lilies in his bouquet complemented the roses in Claudette’s spray.

  Andre traced his fingertips over his mother’s image—infinitely young and beautiful—permanently encased in the marble stone. He smiled, then tightened his lips to keep from tearing up.

  A longing ache tore at his chest, even though he had so few memories of his mother that he couldn’t remember what she looked like. The only thing left of his tattered recollections was being held lovingly in a woman’s arms. By now, her face had faded from his mind. But not the scent of her. His mother had always smelled like a garden of roses dampened by rain. To this day, the scent lingered in his memories.

  If Andre had needed a reminder that fairy tales don’t come true, a visit to his mother’s grave would always do it. His mother’s life, after she married his father, had been anything but a fairy tale. Otherwise, why would she have killed herself? She hadn’t left a note, so they had no way of knowing, and that troubled Andre each and every day of his life.

  Why was she so unhappy? She’d loved Julian and Andre, evident by the pictures. Was it because marrying Papa had devastated her dreams?

  Naoma had been a wonderful ballet dancer, but there was no room for dancing when she became the wife of Maurice de Laurent. She’d left that world behind, right along with her maiden name.

  Had marrying Papa killed her spirit?

  “Little brother…” Julian laid his hand on Andre’s shoulder and said no more. Words strong enough to comfort a long-grieving son did not exist.

  Still kneeling at the grave, Andre looked back over his shoulder. Julian wore a satisfied smile, hanging on to Camille’s hand. She seemed utterly content, standing at his side. Andre hoped his sister-in-law didn’t live to regret her decision to marry into the de Laurent family.

  Big brother had guts. Andre didn’t have aspirations to curse a woman like that—which was why he’d never marry.

  Andre remained nearby while Julian and Camille offered a moment of silence before they headed back to the car.

  Claudette, Lecie and Papa were already in the limo. Andre, the last to climb in, sat next to Julian and avoided looking at Papa sitting across from him. Papa was up to something. Andre didn’t know what, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  Papa opened his lapels and fiddled with his tie. Papa, nervous? Now that was a novelty.

  “It was a very nice service,” Claudette said.

  “Yes, but I still don’t understand why we were there.” Julian shook his head. “We barely knew the man. Andre and I haven’t seen him in more than twenty years.”

  “You two—” Papa’s voice grew stern. “—are the nearest living relatives the man had.”

  “What about our long lost cousins?” Andre asked.

  “They’re very distant relatives. And of little consequence.” Papa looked at Andre, which surprised him, because Papa always looked at Julian when he talked to them. “Clear your schedules for next Wednesday. You have an appointment scheduled with Harry Martel. You too, Lecie,” Papa added glancing at her.

  “Wait…” Andre said. “Wasn’t that Edouard’s attorney?” He waited for Papa’s nod, then added, “Why are we meeting with him?”

  Papa shrugged. “Who knows…” He feigned nonchalance. “Maybe he left a little something to each of you.”

  “Why would he leave me anything?” Lecie asked. “I’m not related to him.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in inheriting a fortune from our long lost uncle.” Julian laughed. “It’s more likely that he’s left us a mountain of debt.”

  Andre didn’t care why the attorney wanted to see them. Debt or fortune, he wouldn’t be the one to inherit. So why did he have to be there?

  He’d much rather go see Tasha. He needed the kind of comfort only she could bring.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN TASHA GORDON’S OPINION, Electric Avenue had to be the dumbest name ever for a restaurant. But it did have a couple of things going for it. One, it served superb food, and that brought about the second benefit—customers who tipped really well.

  That’s what kept Tasha going while she pursued her real dream. Acting.

  This year, she’d been in several commercials and a handful of bit parts, enough to feel satisfied that it was sufficient to keep her name in the loop. But, so far, she hadn’t landed that big break. Not yet.

  She wasn’t deterred. Not in the least bit. She had two auditions lined up for later this week, and she hoped the buggy feeling that had swooped down upon her a couple of days ago would be gone by then.

  It wasn’t so much a sickly sensation as it was a heavy feeling in her gut. One that hadn’t quite progressed into nausea, but it was still there, just the same, waiting to graduate.

  Tasha strolled through her station, leaving checks on tables that she’d already served, and offering more services and making small talk with her customers.

  The couple at table twenty-four were tourists, from somewhere deep in the heart of Europe—perhaps Hungary. Their accents reminded Tasha of the Gabor sisters. Taking their orders had been a little iffy at first because they were talking so fast, but Tasha rose to the challenge and guided them with expertise into a cadence that she could understand. By the time she placed their check on the table, they were old friends. Much like the elderly couple at table seventeen. Don and June came into the restaurant every Tuesday and Friday, without fail. Tasha loved it when Beverly, the hostess, seated them in her area. They were fun to chat with and they tipped well.

  Beverly had just seated a lone gentleman at a recently vacated table, and after a quick goodbye to the Hungarian couple, Tasha headed his way.

  She stopped at his table and offered him her standard greeting of, “Good morning.” She shot him a smile before offering, “Can I get you started with something to drink?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee,” he said with a British accent.

  “Sure thing. I’ll just grab that for you while you look over the menu.”

  “Thanks, love,” his voice followed her as sh
e turned away.

  Oh, great. Another guy who thinks he’s Don Juan. Tasha chuckled as she headed for the coffee.

  After delivering the orders to tables fourteen and fifteen, she grabbed the coffeepot and headed back to Don Juan.

  He flipped over the upside-down cup with a smile, and Tasha began pouring the elixir into the mug. “Decided what you want yet?” she asked, watching the coffee as she poured.

  “I think I’ll try the Electric Bash.” He pointed to the menu.

  “How do you like your eggs?” She set the coffeepot on the table.

  “Over easy.”

  “Link or patty?” she asked of the sausage.

  “Patty.”

  “Toast, bagel, or English muffin?” She looked at him. He was eying her closely. He was probably figuring the odds of her remembering his order since she wasn’t writing it down. But no worries, Tasha could do this stuff in her sleep.

  “Toast.” He nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “I think that’ll do it.”

  “Cool. I’ll get that order in and it’ll be out in a jiff.”

  She turned away, and heard him say, “Thanks, love.” Luckily, sweet talk seemed to be the extent of his flirting.

  Tasha went about her business, handing out checks, delivering dishes of food, refilling beverages and taking more orders—all while that heaviness in her gut grew.

  But she trudged on, making her rounds until she was back at Don Juan’s table. She gestured the coffeepot in his direction and he nodded.

  “I keep thinking,” he said, as she poured, “that I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “You been in here before?” She chuckled.

  “No. First time.”

  “Well, you know what they say,” she said, after she filled his cup. “Everybody has a twin somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s it.”

  Tasha strode away, wishing she felt better. Maybe what she needed was some rest. That’s it, as soon as her shift was over, she was heading home for a date with her pillow.

  A few minutes later, she delivered Don Juan’s Electric Bash, complete with eggs over easy, sausage patty and toast.

  He examined his breakfast and then looked up at her with a satisfied smile. “Thanks.”

  “Can I bring you anything else?”

  “No. I think I have everything I need.” He picked up his napkin and spread it over his lap. “You know…” He picked up his fork with one hand and pointed the finger on his other at Tasha. “I think I have it.”

  “Have it?”

  “I’ve seen your picture in the papers.” He nodded. “With that rich guy. Laurent or something or other.”

  “Guilty as charged.” No use denying it. She’d tried that angle, and it’d gotten her nowhere. Tasha sucked in a big gulp of air. Undoubtedly, this meant little or no tip.

  That heavy feeling in her gut moved up into her throat.

  “Must be nice, jet-setting around with all that money.” His words could’ve been construed as umbrage, but the casual tone of his voice and the chuckle that followed suggested otherwise.

  “Well, my jet-setting consisted of a ride to a wedding. Not mine. My college roommate’s.” Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. Tasha and Camille hadn’t been college roommates. Tasha hadn’t gone to Stanford, or any other university for that matter. Even so, she had to distance herself from the de Laurents as much as possible when she was at work.

  “Ah, but you got to live it for a day or two, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” She shrugged and then shook her head. “Definitely didn’t make me rich by association.” She glanced around the restaurant. “Hence my working in this fine establishment.”

  “Don’t fret it, love.” He jabbed his fork into the eggs. “Those of us who have to work for our money appreciate it more.”

  “Yeah.” She snorted a laugh. “You enjoy your meal.”

  Tasha walked away feeling confident in her ability as an actress. Hell, she’d just convinced a perfect stranger that she had no other ties to the de Laurents than hitching a ride to an old friend’s wedding.

  And here at work, unless she wanted to jeopardize her finances, she’d keep up that charade. Nobody liked tipping the rich.

  Half an hour later, Don Juan was gone but Tasha wasn’t expecting much of a tip because he’d recognized her from the papers. She hoped she’d put in enough of a performance that he’d left her a little something.

  Anticipation swirled inside Tasha as she strolled toward his table. A pile of ones had been propped against his coffee cup. Tasha scooped them up and gave them a quick count before stuffing them inside her apron pocket.

  Imagine that. A five-dollar tip for a fifteen-dollar breakfast. Very generous, considering that most people who recognized her as the recent companion of Andre de Laurent left her little to no tip, thinking she had access to enough money and didn’t need any of theirs.

  Nice to see there was still some good in the world. It made Tasha almost forget about the off-kilter feeling that’d taken up residence and left her feeling a bit tired and just plain old yucky these days.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FATE HAD DEALT ANDRE DE LAURENT a lousy hand; he’d been born second. He didn’t mind though—most of the time.

  Andre had been conditioned from birth to accept the fact that his older brother Julian was and always would be in control of de Laurent Enterprises. But that didn’t bother Andre. In fact, he liked it that way. Julian had all the responsibility and Andre would still inherit more money than he would ever spend in his lifetime.

  So everything should’ve been satisfactory, right? It was, right up until that day, two weeks ago, when they learned of Edouard Renault’s death.

  Clearly, the siblings would inherit their granduncle’s estate, and Julian would once again come out on top. Andre had never felt envious toward his brother until faced with the prospect of Julian inheriting another conglomerate. That was enough to turn a small corner of his heart envious.

  Andre cleared his throat and glanced around Harry Martel’s office. The opulent surroundings were unfamiliar to Andre and his family. Martel wasn’t a man the family had done much business with since Andre’s mother died.

  The attorney’s seat behind the desk was empty. He hadn’t come in yet. But Andre, Lecie and Julian were all there, waiting in evenly spaced chairs perched in front of the desk.

  Julian’s leg had begun to bounce, a sure sign that he was getting tired of waiting. Lecie was texting—who, Andre wouldn’t hazard a guess.

  Still punching keys, Lecie said, “How long do you think this is going to take?” She looked to Julian for an answer.

  “Not too long, I should think,” Julian said.

  “I still don’t understand why I’m here.” Lecie rolled her eyes and went back to her texting.

  Julian draped his hands on the arm of his chair, preparing to stand, when the door behind the desk opened and Martel entered the room.

  The attorney looked at each of them, addressed them by name and then took his seat behind the desk. “Thank you all for coming in today,” he said, opening the top file on the stack in front of him. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  “With all due respect,” Julian said, “we barely knew the man. Haven’t seen him since our mother died. And Lecie has never met him, nor is she related to him.”

  “Nevertheless, he is recently deceased and you are three of the five people listed in his will.”

  “Three of five?” Julian asked.

  “Who are the other two?” Curious, Andre straightened. His long-lost relatives?

  “They’re irrelevant.” Martel paused, settling his gaze on Andre. “Unless—” He pointed his pen at Andre. “—you cannot meet the terms of the will.”

  “Me?” Andre laid his palm against his chest. “Why me?”

  “We’ll get to you in a moment.” The attorney looked at Lecie. “Edouard left you the sum
of fifty-million dollars in cash, and his home in the United States. California.”

  Lecie’s crystal blue eyes lit up. Andre could guess the thoughts running through her head right now. Fifty mil. A home in California. USA, here I come.

  Over Julian’s dead body. Andre chuckled inside. Big brother would have a conniption fit if little sister attempted to strike out on her own, especially in America.

  Andre had barely heard the attorney say that Edouard had given Julian fifty million too, and a house near Toulouse.

  The bequeathals so far didn’t make sense. Martel had said the other two relatives would only be relevant if Andre failed to meet the terms of the will. But he knew his mother’s family had much more than one-hundred million dollars.

  Was it feasible? Was fate about to smile upon Andre?

  “Regarding Edouard’s mother’s jewelry.” Martel never raised his gaze from the document. “The pieces shall be split equally among the three of you. You will take turns choosing a piece. Lecie will go first, followed by Julian and then Andre.”

  Yes, but what about the rest? Had Uncle Edouard squandered away the family’s fortune? What did that mean for Andre’s share of the inheritance?

  “The remainder of the estate…” The attorney glanced up at Andre before returning to the document. “Which includes one-hundred percent of the shares in Mont Claire Enterprises, twelve pieces of real estate consisting of homes and condominiums in or near Paris, Avignon, Bordeaux, London, Barcelona, Seville, Athens, Naples, New York, Palm Beach, Lake Tahoe and Hawaii, and approximately 3.2 billion dollars in cash will go to you, Andre.” Martel lifted his eyes and met Andre’s gaze. “Are you married, Andre?” He waited while Andre shook his head. “Are you planning to get married anytime soon?”

  “Should I be?” A measure of anxiety crept into Andre’s voice.

  “If you want to keep this inheritance…” Martel nodded. “Yes, you should.” The attorney cleared his throat and went on. “If you are not married within sixty days from the date of this notification—today—you will not only forfeit the entire portion of your share, but also your siblings’ inheritances as well. If that is the case, the entire estate will be divided equally between the two remaining relatives.”