Chapter One
Mike the Motorhead Millionaire Marries…Again.
Hawke groaned as the all-too-familiar headline punched him in the gut. For the love of all that was fucking holy, his pops had gone and married another gold digger.
Grabbing the gas nozzle and jabbing it into the tank of his Hog, he quickly scanned the article on his phone. Yup. Married. For the ninth time, and at some damn drive-thru chapel in Vegas, no less. This just had win written all over it.
When the hell was the old man gonna learn you didn’t have to marry a chick to get her to sleep with you? Hawke sighed. Probably not before he bankrupted the family at this rate.
Hawke had been down in Mexico checking out some vintage Harleys for one of the family’s Reno shops and having a little R and R the past week. He’d turned his phone off, and he was now paying the price. Who the fuck met a chick and married her in less than a week?
The gas gurgled as he topped off his tank, and he shoved his phone back into the front pocket of his jeans so he could finish the routine of recapping and paying. When he’d settled back on the bike, he switched the ignition and throttled with a little more force than was necessary, enjoying the loud purr of the engine as it fired up and rumbled between his legs.
He was only about sixty miles from the house he’d bought for the family in the Hill Country near Austin last year, and he doubted his anger was going to settle down in such a short ride. Fuck it. Pulling back on the throttle, he let the huge beast roar as he took off like a man possessed down the winding roads out in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.
Hawke loved riding his bike, his blood singing with adrenaline. Being the oldest in an ever-growing clan of step-siblings—probably with a few more after this recent wedding—he’d always felt like he needed to be the responsible adult, the one who took care of the company and the family. But on his Hog, he rode hard and fast, the wind rushing against his body as he took each turn with just enough speed to be dangerous, but not enough to lose control.
If there was one thing he always was, it was in control. He couldn’t be a loose cannon like his father. Someone had to be responsible for the sake of the kids dragged into every unfortunate marriage his pops undertook.
He ground his teeth and throttled the engine just a bit more as he took the next deep curve.
The massive home was in front of him in no time, and he pulled the bike up short in front of the six-car garage. It wasn’t easy getting all of his stepbrothers and sisters in one place, so he’d wanted somewhere private with plenty of bedrooms where they could hang out when they were in town. His dad kept an office in the house, and that’s where Hawke was headed first.
After hanging his helmet on the peg in the garage, he rolled the Harley next to the old Ford truck he kept for hauling crap around. Then he went into his dad’s office. When his dad was in love—which felt like every Tuesday—he had a tendency to give the new woman of the month whatever she wanted.
If his old man had already modified his will…
The thought had him picking up speed as he walked through the ginormous kitchen, which was decked out like a villa in the south of France. At least, that’s what the designer who’d helped him with the house had said. Huge copper pots hung from racks over a massive butcher-block island with baskets of fresh tomatoes and onions in the center.
He liked to cook, had learned in order to care for his brothers and sisters. Too bad his pops hadn’t ever married a woman with the desire to actually enter a kitchen.
Hawke had spent the last six years of his life building the family’s company to include seven different Harley dealerships throughout Texas, Nevada, and South Dakota, as well as two custom shops where they overhauled Hogs and other bikes. His dad had controlling interest in the corporation, something that Hawke was determined to change.
He had to protect the family’s interests, and he couldn’t do that if his dad was going to give away everything they worked for to the next wife.
Trucking it down the long hallway and through the massive marble foyer, around the huge spiral staircase that dominated the entry, and past the formal dining room that hadn’t been used often enough, he finally made it to his dad’s office in the west wing of the house. He was sweating bullets now, and yanked his leather jacket off and tossed it on a chair as he passed.
It took him a bit to find the key to the locked drawer of his old man’s desk and about thirty seconds of guilt before he dug into the file drawer in search of the will.
Normally, he wouldn’t invade another man’s privacy, but the family fortune was at stake, and his dad couldn’t be trusted anymore. Hawke had to find a way to convince his pops to sell him the last few shares so he didn’t have to do this every time the old man decided to get hitched. Hawke was only thirty-two years old, but he was pretty sure this shit was going to give him a heart attack one of these days.
He read through the papers quickly. No changes yet.
Well, hell, there’s that.
He pulled out his cell and dialed Gray, the family lawyer and a friend since they were in high school.
“He hasn’t called me—yet,” Gray answered.
“Thank Harley Davidson for that,” Hawke said and settled into the desk chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes in relief. “So, I guess you saw the article?”
“Yep. You’ve got to talk to him about this. Every time he gets married, he puts the company in jeopardy.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Cannon sold me his shares, and Sherilynn gave me hers for my birthday last month. How close am I?” Hawke asked. His brothers and sisters didn’t have much interest in the family business, so they’d been helping him to gain control. His dad had doled out the shares evenly to his children and stepchildren several years ago but had retained enough personal interest to still cause a risk if he married the wrong woman again. His last ex had cost Hawke a small fortune to buy out when the marriage had eventually fizzled…five weeks after the ceremony.
“You’re at about forty-two percent.”
Not close enough.
“If you’d get married, we could use the clause in the trust from your mother. Then you wouldn’t have to worry.”
Hawke tossed the will on the desk. A picture of most of his stepsiblings sat on the desk in a leather frame. That one had been taken two of his dad’s marriages ago. “I’m not fucking getting married. Never happening. My old man has done that enough for all of us.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Just saying it would solve a lot of your problems.”
There was a loud splash. He sat up straight, gaze scanning the hall beyond the office doorway. Who the hell was here? His family usually shot him a text if they were going to be in town.
“Gotta let you go.” Hawke didn’t wait for an answer before shutting down his phone and running for the back door.
There was a naked woman in his pool.
Could be worse.
He opened the French doors and stepped out. It occurred to him he shouldn’t stare, but she was fucking beautiful, and she was swimming naked in his pool.
“Nice day for a swim,” he said.
She squeaked and went under water, flailing her arms. He was about to jump in and save her when her head came back up.
“Get out! Pervert. This is private property.”
He quirked an eyebrow. Bat-shit crazy, anyone? “Look, lady, I know it’s private property. I also know you don’t live here.”
“I live here,” she said indignantly. “Wait—I didn’t hear the alarm go off. Are you the handyman Mr. Vance said was coming by to fix the back door?”
What was wrong with the back door? Mr. Vance… So, she knew his dad. Please, God. Don’t let this be the new wife. He’d thought the happy couple was on their honeymoon in Fiji. According to the article, at least.
“Yes,” he said before he really thought about her question. There was no handyman. He fixed things around the house.
He had to find out who she was and why she thought she lived in his house. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t delusional. He had enough crazy on his plate right now. Leaning against the doorframe, he idly rubbed the tattoo on his left bicep, with the phrase “Everything has beauty” hidden within an intricate design of swirls and shapes that formed a three-dimensional heart.
“Oh thank God. I was worried you might be an ax murderer.”
“Axes are messy,” he joked. She didn’t say anything. “Sorry. Kidding. Are you all right in there?”
“I’d be better if you’d turn around or go away so I can get dressed,” she said pertly.
He wasn’t so sure about leaving, especially since she believed she lived in his house. But she looked harmless enough.
“I’ll be inside.” He turned his back but paused. “I still don’t know who you are,” he said. “I’m not really comfortable having a stranger in the house.”
“I’m not,” she said. “A stranger that is. I’m part of the family.”
Right.
The glass in the door reflected her journey as she crawled up the pool steps. She was limping and her ankle was black and blue.
She was fucking hot. Red hair piled on top of her head. Pixie face devoid of makeup, and the pinkest little bow-shaped mouth he’d ever seen. He imagined that mouth around his—
Oh, fuck no. Not going there.
She was tiny, slim, and held herself like a queen looking down on her people. Impressive.
“I’m Amy,” she said. “Thanks for turning around.”
Her back was to him, so she had no idea he could see her in the glass.
“You’re welcome.” Hawke tried to look away. “So, how are you related to Mr. Vance?” He was more curious than ever.
“He married my mom. I’m a dancer and hurt my ankle. After the wedding, he gave me the key and told me I could hang out here. I’m doing some physical therapy here in town.”
A dancer? The gold digger’s daughter was a stripper? Great. This just kept getting fucking better and better.
He had to go. His cock was tightening, and this woman was his stepsister, no less. The daughter of the gold digger who might at this very minute be stealing the company out from under him.
Yep, time to go.
“Okay. I’ll see about that repair.” He left, closing the door behind him with a final click.
Holy fuck. That was trouble right there. And the faster he got rid of it, the better off he’d be.
…
And the hits just keep on coming.
That handyman was the hottest dude Amy had ever seen. Broad shoulders, rock-hard abs under that tight black T-shirt and those low-slung jeans. And all those beautiful tattoos running up and down his arms. Having spent her entire life surrounded by more refined men, the pure rawness of this guy had exhilarated her.
Walking heat, that one. And he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Story of my life.
Of course, he probably thought she was an idiot for swimming naked.
You are.
What had she been thinking? Well, no one was supposed to be here. She didn’t have a swimsuit, and the salt-water pool would have done all kinds of horrible things to her silk lingerie.
She’d forgotten all about the handyman. She pulled the towel around her even tighter.
Rehab started in two days, and she’d probably be in even more pain. But if she was going to make auditions for the fall shows, she had to stay in shape. Two months—that’s all she had before she needed to be in peak condition. At least she had a nice place to hang out. Her new stepdad seemed okay. Nicer than a lot of the other men her mother had run through.
She hobbled up the back stairs to dress. After tightening her hair into a bun on the top of her head and throwing on her favorite yoga pants and sports bra, she headed downstairs. Maybe the handyman would be gone, and she wouldn’t have to be mortified all over again.
Starving, she headed into the spacious kitchen. Her mom’s new man had an awesome house. She loved the huge kitchen looking out over the river. She was technically homeless since fleeing Paris…but she wouldn’t think about that now. Those memories would turn her into a weeping mess, and she was here to heal in more ways than one.
She concentrated on making a sandwich and added some fruit to the plate. Before the car service had dropped her at the house, she’d stopped to get some groceries. She’d been surprised to find the fridge and pantry full when she arrived.
She couldn’t believe her mother had married again. This was husband number three, but Amy had an idea this one was a keeper. Her dad had been the love of her mom’s life. He’d died when Amy was eight, and her mom had been trying to replace him ever since. But Mr. Vance had flown to Paris several times with her mom to see Amy perform, and they’d taken her out to dinner. The love in their eyes when they looked at one another was special, and so very different from the other men her mom had hooked up with. Even though she didn’t always see eye to eye with her mother, she wanted her to be happy.
She’d always thought her mother went through men like chocolates. It had made her and her stepbrother’s lives a living hell. But as an adult, she’d begun to understand her mom a little better.
From the few memories Amy had, her dad had been awesome. He was the one who had encouraged her to take ballet. She’d been a clumsy kid. Hell, she still was. The joke was she could dance across the room—just don’t ask her to walk across it.
She had the bum knee and the ankle to prove it. Though, if someone hadn’t tripped her accidentally on purpose, she wouldn’t be in her current predicament.
After finishing her sandwich, she tossed the paper in the trash. Opening the fridge, she pulled out a yogurt and an orange. When they’d Facetimed her from Fiji, her mom and Mr. Vance had given her the run of his family house. She was grateful.
After her fall, she’d been confused about what to do next. Turned out one of the leading kinesiologists was in Austin, a former dancer who knew how to get other dancers back on their feet the fastest way possible.
Today, though, she was going to relax, something she never did. Maybe even watch television. She spent so much time in dance studios she didn’t even know what was on anymore. If she wasn’t training, she was rehearsing for a performance, or she was asleep. There wasn’t much time for anything else.
But today, she was going to explore this big-ass house. Her mom’s second husband had lived in River Oaks in Houston, and she’d thought his house was big, but this was ginormous.
So far she’d peeked into the six bedrooms upstairs. She’d taken the smallest one, preferring cozier spaces. Her apartment in Paris would fit in one of the bathrooms of this place.
What if I never get to go back? Her stomach twisted. Nope, not going to think about that.
Upstairs there was a huge game room with a pool table and full bar, and a media room with the biggest screen she’d ever seen. Everything in this state seemed to be supersized, including the men.
As she passed the front door, she caught sight of movement in one of the rooms off to the left. Was the handyman still here? Her pulse kicked up a notch at the thought of seeing that tall drink of water working up a sweat.
She bet he’d intended to look fierce when he’d crossed his arms and flexed his tatted muscles, bracing his legs apart as he glanced down at her. She’d stared at the tic in his jaw as he gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. The whole package, she was sure, had intimidated many a man, but she’d worked with some of the meanest asshole artistic directors in ballet, so intimidation didn’t work on her. The whole effect had been ruined because he had the warmest caramel-colored eyes she’d ever seen. Yeah, this guy wanted to be all that, but he was a huge teddy bear on the inside, she just knew it. She idly wondered what he was trying so hard to hide.
She followed the sound of someone opening and closing drawers in the office off the foyer and caught him red-handed, sitting at the desk and going through a stack of papers.
“What the heck are you doing in here?” She hoped he was just checking the desk for…sticky drawers. Anything other than what it looked like—stealing. “You have no right. Put those papers down.”
His eyebrow went up, and he leaned back in the chair.
“Look, this is my house, and I don’t appreciate you invading my privacy like this. I think you should go now.” She threw a thumb toward the door.
“Really?” He stood. Damn, he was huge. The Hulk had nothing on this guy. And geez, he had a scary glare now. Gone were the sweet eyes she’d wanted to drown in earlier. “Because the last time I looked, it was my name on the deed to the property, sis.”
Sis?
What the hell had she done now?
“I thought you were the handyman,” she said, crossing her arms and taking a step inside the office door. “You definitely let me go on thinking that outside.”
“Nope,” he said. “I’m Mike Vance’s eldest son, darlin’—your new stepbrother. Hawke.”