Archer Banks’s ringing cell trampled the tropical night symphony composed of lulling waves, chirping bugs, and rustling palms. He would have fumbled around on the nightstand to silence the racket if an armful of bronzed, slender woman hadn’t stopped him. After rolling the beach bunny off his chest, he settled her gently on the edge of his double bed. Refusing to be distracted by her wild, sun-bleached mane, or the way the moonlight streaming in the window highlighted her damn-near-perfect ass, he forced his dick’s attention from the adorable snuffle she surrendered as she burrowed into his lumpy pillow.

Archer turned his back on all that natural beauty. He rebelled against everything in his soul by lunging instead for one of the only remnants of offensive technology he allowed to intrude in his life. He didn’t have a choice, really, since the hunk of plastic threatened the integrity of his eardrums by refusing to shut the fuck up.

Only one contact in the entire world had been programmed with the specific God-awful racket that now blared from his phone. The man who was instructed to interrupt Archer’s solitude only in a life-or-death emergency.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Phone in hand, halfway unlocked, he launched himself from the freshly laundered sheets, which smelled of sunshine and ocean spray. He growled to the caller, “Don’t expect me to rush to that bastard’s side for some kind of deathbed confessional.”

Archer figured he maybe should have said hello first. His bitterness had rushed out like pus from a festering wound before he could manage anything else. Odd, since he would have sworn these old injuries were scarred over by now.

“No need. He’s gone.” The familiar voice on the other end of the line, thousands of miles away, made Archer more homesick than the news of his own loss. “It was fast. Painless. Though probably traumatizing for the young ladies your father was attempting to have sex with when the stroke hit.”

“Jesus.” Archer stumbled across the room. He slipped out the sliding glass door that led to a half-rotten deck barely big enough for a pair of plastic chairs, then down the three steps to the beach. Naked, he sank onto his knees in the sand. He glanced over his shoulder toward the woman whose name wasn’t nearly as memorable as the way she’d sucked him off before getting him hard again, then riding him with thighs powerful enough to cling to a breaching humpback.

Brittany! That was it. He was almost sure.

Was he turning into everything he’d spent his entire adult life trying to distance himself from? Had his father remembered the names associated with the assassin pussies that had finally managed to take the bastard out?

Archer’s stomach churned at the thought. Acid seared his esophagus. Just like it had before he’d left that world he’d never belonged in. He hadn’t looked back since. Not even for a glimpse of the girl he’d abandoned, who wouldn’t welcome his attention after what had happened.

This was definitely going to be the second worst night of Archer’s life.

“Sir?”

He shook his head when the question came softly—kindly, even—from his family’s butler, who’d been more like a true relative than any Archer shared filthy blue blood with. It was the reason he’d borrowed the guy’s name when he’d fled and remade himself. “Come on, Banks. You changed my shitty diapers plenty of times. Don’t you think formality is uncalled for? I’ve never been that person. Much to my father’s disappointment—”

“Archer.” A soft chuckle warmed Banks’s tone this time. “That might have been true once. But not always. Over time, I think he might have envied your escape. Admired it, though he was too proud to admit such things. Or maybe he respected you too much to go against your wishes and contact you to let you know.”

“I highly doubt that.” Archer swallowed hard against the feelings he’d thought he’d buried deeper than a pirate’s treasure. He might be a thirty-one-year-old man, but some small part of him would always regret that he hadn’t been able to be the son his father wanted.

“Well, this is for certain. He didn’t truly disown you. You were never cut out of his will. In fact, despite your wishes, he left you everything.”

“Shit! Everything?”

“His entire holdings. All of it, down to the last cent.” Banks delivered the most devastating news of the night.

Everything Archer had never wanted had finally caught up with him. Golden chains ensnared his wrists and ankles, keeping him from imagining he could ever move freely again. He’d seen firsthand what it took to run an empire.

As quickly as a barracuda snaps up its unsuspecting dinner, Archer had gone from beach bum to billionaire.

Fuck him, life as he knew it—and loved it—was over.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair and caught sight of the woman he’d left in his bed dressing hurriedly by the light of the wall-mounted gooseneck lamp before blowing him a kiss and heading for the door.

At least he’d gone out with one hell of a bang.

Literally.

“It’s not exactly a death sentence, sir.”

“Banks,” he growled.

“I mean…Archie.”

The shock of hearing that long-lost nickname, right now, had Archer blinking fiercely. Somehow he didn’t think there was enough salt in the air to blame his reaction on that. “It feels like it. I’m proud of who I am these days. I don’t want the money. I don’t want to be like him. I can’t afford to lose myself.”

He scrunched his eyes closed. It was as if he were a recovering alcoholic who’d been offered an entire chain of distilleries. Archer knew unimaginable wealth could corrupt him. It hadn’t been easy to sacrifice everything once, but he’d quit superfluous material possessions cold turkey and had never been happier than he was here, with next to nothing.

Good friends, a job he loved, willing women, and time to enjoy life. Those things were priceless.

“So we’ll give it away. Form an umbrella foundation that supports any number of charities, funds, and projects for worthwhile causes. A lot of problems can be solved with seven billion dollars, give or take.” Banks’s solution seemed genius. Simple yet complicated at the same time.

“Perfect. Will you help me? And by help me, I mean run it. Make the day-to-day decisions. I don’t need to know the details. Use your judgment.”

“Of course. If that’s still what you want, after you’ve really thought about it some,” Banks promised. “I am the estate’s executor. It will take some time to settle things. Let me see to the legalities, and you start dreaming about who you’d like to help. This fortune could change the world.”

“I…uh… Okay, thanks.” Archer couldn’t believe this was happening. “Name it after yourself. Call it the Banks Foundation.”

He had to make sure his father’s name wasn’t included. No glory for that fucker.

“I suppose that’s naming it after us, isn’t it?” Banks sounded pleased with that. At least he didn’t mind that Archer had appropriated his name in his attempt to go incognito.

“Make sure you pay yourself, too. A shit-ton. Ten times whatever you think is an outrageous salary. You deserve a hazard bonus for the decades you’ve put up with my family’s shit. God knows I couldn’t do it. As if that wasn’t obvious when I bailed.”

“I will.” Banks laughed, then said warmly, “For the record, I’m proud of you, too. Dream big, Archie.”