She was thirty-seven, desperate for children, and traditional enough to want a Catholic wedding. She’d already signed an NDA prior to my approaching her, something I’d made Devon do with all of my potential brides, save for Persephone, who was:
My first candidate, and therefore my sloppiest attempt. And—
Too good to tell a soul.
I punched her address into the navigation app, rolling out of my private ranch’s driveway, where I had spent the past few hours riding my horses, ignoring my responsibilities, and not seething over the fact Persephone Penrose needed to think about marrying me when the other option available was grisly death in the hands of street mobsters.
I deliberately wasn’t home because I knew Persephone wasn’t going to take the bait.
She had too much integrity, morals, not to mention—another flipping husband somewhere in the globe.
“Let’s hope for your sake you’re not dumb enough to turn down my offer, too,” I muttered to an invisible Minka as I took the highway toward Boston.
Bride number two it was.
As if it made any difference.
Sam Brennan threw his cards onto the table later that evening, tilting his head back, a ribbon of smoke curling past his lips.
He always folded.
He didn’t come here to play cards.
Didn’t believe in luck, didn’t play for it, and didn’t count on it.
He was here to observe, learn, and keep tabs on Hunter and me, two of his most profitable clients. Made sure we kept out of trouble.
“Sally” by Gogol Bordello rose from the surround system.
We were in my drawing room for our weekly poker night. A tasteful, albeit boring space, with upholstered leather incliners and heavy burgundy curtains.
“Don’t worry, sons. It’ll all be over soon,” Hunter tsked, attempting his best John Malkovich impression in Rounders. “Poker is not for the faint of heart.”
“This, from someone who is a Nordstrom membership away from being a chick.” Sam slid his cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other, his forearms nearly ripping the black dress shirt he wore.
“You bet your ass I have a Nordstrom membership.” Hunter laughed, unfazed. “I don’t have time to shop with my stylist, and the ladies at the store know my measurements.”
“I see your thirty-five k and raise eight thousand.” Devon tossed eight black chips to the center of the table, drumming his fingers over his cards.
Devon was the opposite of Sam. A hedonist lord with a taste for fine, forbidden things, open manners, and zero scruples. Watching money burn was his favorite pastime. Ironically, Devon Whitehall needed a job like Hunter needed more distasteful sexual innuendos in his repertoire. He chose to go to university in America, passed the bar, and stayed far away from Britain.
I was pretty sure he had his own can of worms waiting to be cracked open back in his homeland but didn’t care enough to ask.
“All in,” I announced.
Hunter smacked his lip, pushing his entire stack of chips forward.
“You’re taking the piss.” Devon narrowed his eyes at my brother. Hunter flashed an innocent smile, batting his lashes theatrically.
“It’s a zero-sum game, Monsieur Whitehall. Don’t step into the kitchen if you don’t like the burn.”
“You’re mixing two phrases,” I said around the Cuban cigar in my mouth, pushing my chips to the center of the table. “It’s don’t step into the kitchen if you can’t take the heat. Burn is what you get between your legs for sleeping with enough women to fill up Madison Square Garden.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you inviting me to your sainthood ceremony, big bro.” Hunter took a pull of his Guinness, dragging his tongue over his foam mustache. “Oh, that’s right, it never happened because you bonked half of Europe. ’Sides, this was all in the past. I’m a married man now. There’s only one woman for me.”
“And that woman is my sister, so you better think carefully about what you say next if you want to get out of here with all your organs intact,” Sam reminded him.
Sam had brown hair, gray eyes, and tan skin. He was tall, broad, and had that ragged, hunky look that made women lose their pants and senses.
“Dude, my wife is knocked up. Too late for you to second-guess what we’re doing in our spare time. By the way, the abdomen pain she had this week turned out to be gas, thanks for asking,” Hunter tutted.
Was I seriously listening to a fart report from Sailor now?
“Not every single conversation must circle back to the fact your wife is pregnant,” I reminded him.
“Prove it.”
Sam jerked his thumb toward Hunter.
“You realize I will kill your brother at some point, right?” he asked me.
“Won’t hold it against you.” I spat the cigar out to an ashtray. “But wait until after he reveals his cards.”
“Speaking of marital bliss,” Devon swirled his Johnnie Walker Blue Label in its tubmler, “I believe our host has some marvelous news to share.”