A Deal With The Billionaire

Chapter Three

Tristan

“The wedding will be held in six months,” Marcus said. “That’s adequately enough time to plan a proper celebration without dragging things out too long. However, announcements should go out right away.”, He smiled, showing no whiff of the snake coiled beneath his hospitable tone and expression. We’d recessed to the dining room shortly after my arrival, and the conversation had instantly swerved into wedding planning territory. Anger coiled through me. Of course, he’d like the world to know his daughter was getting hitched to a Carter as soon as possible. Men like Marcus would do everything to expand their social standing, including finding the balls to blackmail me in my office three weeks ago, right on the heels of my grandfather’s death. Rage reignited in my chest. If I had my way, he wouldn’t have left New York with his bones intact. Unfortunately, my hands were tied, and until I found a way to untie them, I had to play nice. For the most part. “No, it won’t.” I wrapped my fingers around the stem of my wineglass and visualized it was Francis’s neck I was stifling instead. “No one will believe I’m marrying somebody with such short notice unless something was wrong.” For example, your daughter is pregnant, and this is a shotgun wedding. The hint had everyone shifting in their seats while I kept my face blank and my voice bored. Constraint didn’t come naturally to me. If I didn’t like someone, I made damn sure they knew it, but exceptional circumstances called for exceptional measures. Francis’s mouth thinned. “Then what would you propose?” “A year is a more practical timeframe.” Never was better, but sadly, it wasn’t an option. A year would do. It was short enough that Marcus would agree to it and sufficient for me to find and destroy the blackmail evidence. Hopefully. “Announcements should also go out later,” I said. “A month gives us time to craft a decent story, considering your daughter and I have never so much as been seen in public together before.” “We don’t need a month to come up with a story,” he snapped. Although arranged marriages were common in high society, the involved parties went to incredible lengths to conceal the true reason behind the marriage. Admitting one’s family joined with another simply for status reasons was considered vulgar. “Two weeks,” he said. “We’ll announce the weekend Brielle moves into your house.” My jaw tensed. Beside me, Brielle stiffened, apparently caught off guard by the revelation she’d have to move in before the wedding. It was one of Marcus’s stipulations for keeping his mouth shut, and I was already dreading it. I hated people invading my personal space. “I’m sure your family would like the announcements to go out sooner rather than later as well,” Marcus continued, placing a soft vigor on the word family. “Don’t you agree?” held his stare until he shifted and looked away. “Two weeks it is.” The announcement date didn’t matter. I’d simply wanted to make the planning as difficult for him as possible. What mattered was the wedding date. One year. One year to eliminate the photos and break the engagement. It would be a huge scandal, but my reputation could take a hit. The Coles couldn’t. For the first time that night, I smiled. Marcus shifted again and cleared his throat. “Excellent. We’ll work together to draft—” “I’ll draft it. Next.” I ignored his glare and took another sip of wine. The conversation devolved into a mind-numbing rundown of guest invites, flowers, and a thousand other things I didn’t give a s**t about. Restless anger stirred beneath my skin as I tuned Marcus and his wife out. Instead of working on the Aurum deal or relaxing at the Velour Club, I was stuck entertaining their bullshit on a Friday night. Beside me, Brielle ate quietly, appearing lost in thought. After several minutes of strained silence, she finally spoke. “How was your flight?” “Fine.” “I appreciate you taking the time to fly in when we could’ve met in New York. I know you must be busy.” I cut a piece of meat and brought it to my mouth. Brielle’s stare burned a hole in my cheek while I munched leisurely. “I also heard the more zeroes one has in their bank account, the fewer words they’re capable of speaking.” Her deceptively friendly voice could’ve sliced through butter. “You’re proving the rumor correct.” I thought a society heiress like yourself would know better than to discuss money in polite company.” “The keyword is polite.” A ghost of a smile flickered over my mouth. Under normal events, I might’ve liked Brielle. She was stunning and surprisingly humorous, with intelligent brown eyes and the type of innately refined bone structure no amount of money could buy. But with her pearls and designer tweed, she looked like a carbon copy of her mother and every other uptight heiress who only cared about their social status. Plus, she was Marcus’s daughter. It wasn’t her fault she was born to the bastard, but I didn’t give a damn. No degree of beauty could wipe off that stain on her record. “It’s not courteous to speak to a guest that way,” I mocked softly. I reached for the salt. My sleeve grazed her arm, and she visibly tightened. “What would your parents say?” I’d already clocked Brielle’s hangups less than an hour into our acquaintance. Perfectionism, non-confrontation, a despairing need for her parents’ approval. Boring, boring, boring. Her eyes narrowed. “They’d say guests should adhere to social comforts as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation.” “Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing as you stepped out of a Stepford Wives magazine?” I flicked a gaze over her suit and pearls. I didn’t give a s**t if people like Elise wore such an outfit, but Brielle looked as out of place in the dowdy clothing as a diamond in a burlap sack. It pissed me off for no good reason. No, but they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy,” Brielle said coolly. “You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Carter. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.” Another smile, still faint but more concrete. Not so boring after all. However, the embers of my entertainment hissed into a smoky death when her mother stuck herself into our conversation. “Tristan, is it true that all Carters get married at the family estate in Silvercrest Lake? I hear renovations will be finished by next summer before the wedding.” My smile vanished as my muscles tightened at the reminder. I turned away from Brielle to face Elise’s eager expression. “Yes,” I said, my tone clipped. “All Carter weddings have taken place at Villa Emelda since the nineteenth century.” My many-times great-grandfather had built the villa and named it after his wife. My family could trace its roots to Venice, but they later migrated to Munich and built a fortune trading luxury textiles. By the time the Munich trading boom ended, they’d diversified enough to hold onto their riches, which they used to acquire property throughout Europe. Now, centuries later, my modern relatives were scattered across the world—New York, Rome, Switzerland, Paris—but Villa Emelda remained the most beloved of all the family estates. I would rather drown myself in the sea than tarnish it with a mockery of a wedding. My anger came roaring back. “Wonderful!” Cecelia beamed. “Oh, I’m so thrilled you’ll be part of the family soon. You and Brielle are a perfect match. You know, she speaks five languages, plays the piano and violin, and—” “Excuse me.” I pushed my chair back, cutting Elise off mid-sentence. The legs scraped against the floor with a satisfyingly harsh screech. “Nature calls.” Silence thudded in the wake of my startling rudeness. I didn’t wait for anyone to speak before I walked out and left a fuming Marcus, flustered Elise, and red-faced Brielle in the dining room. My anger remained a restless burn beneath my skin, but it cooled with each step farther away from them. In the past, I’d exacted retaliation on those who crossed me immediately. f**k revenge being a dish best served cold; my motto has always been strike fast, strike hard, and strike true. The world moved too quickly for me not to move along with it. I took care of the problem harshly enough to ensure there wouldn’t be any future problems, and I moved on. Resolving the Cole situation, on the other hand, required patience. It was a virtue I wasn’t familiar with, and it stretched tight over me like an ill-fitting suit. The echo of my footsteps faded as marble floors gave way to carpet. I’d visited enough mansions with identical setups to guess where the restroom was, but I bypassed it in favor of the solid mahogany door at the end of the hall. A twist of the knob disclosed an office styled after an English library. Wood paneling, overfilled leather furniture, forest green accents. Marcus’s inner chamber. At least it wasn’t overly decorated with gold like the rest of the house. My eyes were starting to bleed from the mess. I left the door open and walked to the desk, my pace unhurried. If Marcus had a problem with me poking through his office, he was welcome to engage me. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave the pictures lying around behind an unlocked door when he knew I’d be here tonight. Even if the photos were here, he’d have backups stashed elsewhere. I settled into his chair, plucked a cigar from the box in his drawer, and lit it while I examined the room. My anger gave way to compassion. The dark computer screen tempted me, but I left the hacking to Julian, who was already tracking down digital copies of the photos. I moved on to a framed picture of Marcus and his family in the WatchHill. Research told me they had a summer house in WatchHill, and I’d bet my newly acquired Renoir that he kept at least one set of evidence there. Where else… “What are you doing?” The smoke from my cigar blurred Brielle's face, but her displeasure came through loud and clear. That was fast. I’d expected at least five more minutes before her parents forced her to come after me. “Enjoying a smoke break.” I took another lazy drag. I didn’t touch cigarettes, but I indulged in the periodic Cohiba. At least Marcus had good taste in tobacco. “In my father’s office?” “Obviously.” Dark satisfaction filled my chest when the smoke disbanded to reveal Brielle’s frown. Finally, some visible emotion. I’d started to think I was stuck with a robot for the rest of our ludicrous engagement. She crossed the room, plucked the cigar from my hand, and plunged it into the half-empty glass of water on the desk without taking her eyes off mine. “I understand you’re probably used to doing whatever you want, but it’s incredibly rude to sneak off during a dinner party and smoke in your host’s office.” Tension lined her elegant features. “Please join us in the dining room. Your food is getting cold.” “That’s my problem, not yours.” I tilted back. “Why don’t you join me for a break? I promise it’ll be more enjoyable than your mother’s hand-wringing over floral arrangements.” “Based on our interactions so far, I doubt it,” she snarled. I watched, amused, as she took a deep breath and released it in one long, regulated exhale. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Brielle said, her voice calmer. You’re clearly unhappy about the arrangement, you don’t need the money or connection with my family, and you can have any woman you want.” “Can I?” I drawled. “What if I want you?” Her fingers curled into loose fists. “You don’t.” “You give yourself too little credit.” I rose and revolved the desk until I stood close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her neck. How much rapid would it beat if I wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her head back? If I kissed her until her mouth bruised and hiked up her skirt until she begged me to f**k her? Heat ran to my groin. I wasn’t interested in actually f*****g her, but she was so prim and proper that she prayed for corruption. The silence was deafening as I lifted my hand and scuffed my thumb over her bottom lip. Brielle’s breathing shallowed, but she didn’t move away. She stared at me, eyes full of defiance as I took my time exploring the lush arc of her mouth. It was full, soft, and disturbingly tempting compared to the stiff formality of the rest of her appearance. “You’re a beautiful woman,” I said lazily. “Perhaps I saw you at an event and was so enchanted I asked your father for your hand in marriage.” “Somehow, I doubt that’s what happened.” Her breath hovered over my skin. “What kind of deal did you make with my father?” The reminder of the deal killed the sensuality of the moment as quickly as it came. My thumb halted on the center of her bottom lip before I dropped my hand with a silent swear. My skin tingled with heat from the memory of her softness. I hated Marcus for the blackmail, but I despised Brielle for being his pawn. So what the f**k was I doing, toying with her in his office? “You should ask your dear father that question.” My smile cut across my face, cruel and devoid of humor as I regained my composure. “The facts don’t matter. Just know that if I had any other choice, I damn well wouldn’t be getting married. But business is business, and you…” I shrugged. “You’re simply part of the deal.” Brielle didn’t know about her father’s manipulation. Marcus had warned me not to tell her, not that I would’ve, anyway. The fewer people who knew about the blackmail, the better. He’d uncovered one of my few weak spots, and I’d be damned if I publicized it to the world. Brielle’s eyes glowed with anger. “You’re an asshole.” “Yes, I am. Better get used to it, mi amour, because I’m also your future husband. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I straightened my jacket with conscious care. “I have to return to dinner. As you said earlier, my food’s getting cold.” I brushed past her, reveling in the delectable taste of her resentment. One day, she’d get her unspoken wish and wake up to a broken engagement. Until then, I’d bide my time and play along because Marcus’s injunction had been clear. Marry Brielle, or my brother dies.