PROLOGUE
I’M HERE TO watch her. My closest friends in the world—men I think of more as brothers than friends—have sent me here to find out what I can about the half-sister whose very existence they only learned of a week or so ago.
I’m here to watch her but even if I weren’t, even if that wasn’t the express purpose for my flying from London to San Francisco, I would find it hard not to watch her.
Avery Maxwell is, in a word, mesmerising.
If I didn’t know she was a Hart I’d never have guessed. Where her half-brothers are built like mountains, Avery is diminutive. Petite. She’d be about five and a half feet and her frame is slender, though there’s a strength to her, arms that are elegantly sculpted, eyes that are intelligent and assessing as they scan the crowded bar, lips that—even when they smile—look somehow cynical. That, come to think of it, is a definite Hart trait.
She has dark hair, thick and long; it falls down her back with a hint of wildness and untameability. I reach for my Scotch, cradling the glass for a moment, appreciating the feel of its fine shape in my hands, the elegant cut crystal half filled with amber liquid. She pauses, skimming the bar, and I wonder if she’s meeting someone here. It seems as though she’s looking for someone she recognises. Her eyes glance past me and I stiffen my spine, a hint of adrenaline flooding my system, as though she might—with one look of those dark, almond-shaped eyes—be able to discern my reason for coming to San Fran.
Her mouth forms a hint of a smile and then her eyes skate past me. I release a breath I didn’t realise I was holding and narrow my gaze.
Suddenly, this favour doesn’t feel so onerous—to find out what I can about the missing Hart and report back to her famous brothers. Their need to know what they can about her before working out the best way to make contact with her is completely understandable.
She could be any number of things that would make them want to steer clear. The fact she doesn’t know she’s part of one of the world’s most successful dynasties is odd—but they could use that to their advantage and simply refuse to acknowledge her existence.
I shift a little in my seat, wondering why that idea offends me. It might be my inner British aristocrat—the fact I was born into a family like mine and raised, all my life, to believe in the importance of blood, lineage and birthright—even though on some level I reject that thinking, it’s still a part of who I am.
And she’s a Hart. Their blood runs through her veins—that counts for something.
CHAPTER ONE
THE MUSIC FORMS a pulse in my veins, the beat deep and throbbing. I look around the exclusive bar, mojito in one hand, clutch purse in the other. The thin strap of my dress drops a little over one shoulder; I don’t bother to catch it.
The day has been a stinker. Baking hot, with barely a hint of relief coming in off the Bay. Even a dip in my infinity pool didn’t cool me down, and here in this club the press of bodies, the tightness of space, combine to make my skin lightly sheened in perspiration.
But I’m not leaving, not yet. I look around, considering my options. A hot guy near the bar lifts his drink, silently inviting me to join him. He’s gorgeous but a bit fussy, his hair a little too styled, his look a bit too contrived. Then again, there’s the cowboy I was talking to earlier, straight out of Texas, all faded jeans and plaid shirt. It’s unusual to find a guy like him in a place like this—but in talking to him I learned his dad’s an oil baron. Makes more sense.
I continue to peruse the bar until my eyes skate past someone—at first—and then shift back. A man is watching me. I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if I’ve met him before.
He’s handsome so it’s possible we’ve hooked up and I’ve forgotten, but no. I’m sure I’d remember him. His jaw is square, covered in stubble, his face autocratic and symmetrical, his skin has a golden tan and his hair is a light brown with a slight wave. He has an air of authority in his bearing, from the way he’s sitting so straight and controlled to the breadth of his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, definitely bespoke, and hand-made shoes.
My lips curl with a hint of derision, because while there’s a chance he’s self-made there’s also a greater probability he’s some kind of entitled rich kid, living off his trust fund, wasting money on big boy clothes. Nonetheless, I’m intrigued enough to return his stare head-on, lifting my drink and draining it until it’s empty.
I sashay towards the bar, not taking my eyes off him, and as I draw closer I lift my lips into a slow smile, loaded with sensual promise.
Rich kid or not, I’m not looking for anything more than one night. It’s my tradition—how I mark this date every year—and he looks like he’d be decent in bed. Then again, that’s hard to know for sure—lots of hot guys have been total disappointments in the sack.
‘Hi there.’ I flash him a megawatt smile now and I see the way his expression shifts, speculation in his eyes.
‘Hi. How are you?’ An English accent, very plum, very formal. Definitely rich kid.
‘Let me guess,’ I murmur. ‘You’re a lord.’
He shoots up one brow and my stomach twists because he’s incredibly handsome and, up close, he’s also very charming. His skin is tanned but he has some freckles across his nose, freckles that speak of a life spent outdoors. His hair is light brown with natural highlights at the side, and there’s warmth in his features, a look of complete kindness that I can’t help but recognise.
‘Close. Earl.’
‘Ah.’
‘Earl what?’ he prompts, expecting me to somehow intuit his title.
‘Well,’ I murmur in response, ‘now, that’s a little harder.’
‘Have a drink and I’ll drop some hints.’
He gestures to the seat beside him but I don’t take it. Instead, I move closer, so I’m standing within the void created by his legs. ‘I’ll have another mojito.’
A frown flashes across his face but then he smiles, lifts a hand and orders our drinks. I don’t know what his name is or why he’s here in San Fran, in this bar talking to me, but before midnight I’m going to have my wicked way with him—Happy Birthday to me.
* * *
My best friends’ half-sister is
flirting with me. And my dick is growing harder by the second and I want to ignore the reason I’m here and take this in a totally different direction. I want to fuck her.