Bryant wasn’t the kind of man who would misplace the responsibilities in order to exonerate himself of any sense of guilt when the shit hit the fan. That sounded too much like being a coward.

That said, realistically, everything that had occurred over the last year could be traced back to one single moment, one single sentence uttered by his older brother. Therefore, logically, the mess was entirely James’s fault.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” his brother said, catching him eyeing a pretty thing bent over a desk to turn her screen on. Then he’d even emphatically added, “Not that one.”

The whole thing was highly unusual. James had never presumed to have a say on whom Bryant chose to ogle, or fuck, for that matter. It would have been hypocritical, given the fact that he was just as much of a player.

Bryant lifted a brow, intrigued. If his brother had kept his mouth shut, he would more than likely have moved on, concentrating on the business they were discussing. She wasn’t the first attractive woman he saw in a professional setting, and, generally, Bryant ignored them. There was a time and a place for everything.

Today, he couldn’t just move on. James had said don’t, and that made it absolutely imperative that he must pay attention to the woman.

He looked again. This time, as she was smiling, chatting away with a colleague, he noticed that the woman wasn’t merely pretty. She had dark, almost black hair, that she wore down. The Hollywood-worthy hair cut, layered to complement her features, must have cost a fortune, and it was worth every single penny. It framed her face, and made soft waves past her shoulders. Her pearly skin was flawless, and delicate. Dark eyes, perky nose, gorgeous, gorgeous purple mouth.

Dark purple. Her choice of lipstick didn’t quite fit her otherwise classic look; it said edgy, daring. Two things Bryant had a hard time resisting.

Her body was made for sin. Her high heels, with their signature red sole, made her legs seem endless. She wore a gray, woolen high-waist dress suit, paired with a neck scarf. Professional to a tee, if it wasn’t for her shade of lipstick.

It shouldn’t have made him hard.

James groaned before pointing his index finger at him. “I’m not kidding, Bryant. Not. That. One.”

Had James actually planned to retain his interest, he couldn’t have done it any better.

“Tapping that?” Bryant asked casually.

James recoiled, looking quite sick at the thought, which made no sense whatsoever. She was perhaps a little young for his forty-eight-year-old brother, but older men had certainly fucked younger women.

“Ew. And, no. That’s Tori,” he said, as if that was an explanation.

For a beat, Bryant frowned, a little confused. Then, it hit him.

“This is Tori? As in, Victoria Brown?” And because that didn’t seem quite specific enough, he added, “As in, your goddaughter?”

A middle-aged man without a wife or any children – that he knew of – James had, understandably, always enthusiastically talked about his protégée. Being fifteen years James’ junior, and quite disinterested in a little kid he’d never seen, Bryant had long ago learned to tune him out when he recited the long list of deeds she’d added to her accomplishments.

If he was entirely honest, when he’d been younger, Bryant had even been a little jealous of the elusive Tori. Back in the day, his father had still been attempting to redefine the notion of midlife crisis, and his brother had altogether departed the continent, putting as much distance between them as he physically could, leaving Bryant alone. But James had been incessantly talking about a spoiled kid, instead of paying any mind to what Bryant was doing. So, yes, as a teenager, Bryant hadn’t been fond of Tori Brown.

That had been a long, long time ago, though. Before he’d learned just how much James had sacrificed for him. And before he had grown a hair on his chin. These last dozen years or so, he’d listened to tales of Tori with a complete lack of hostility, and with just as much interest.

Now he wished he could recall, for sure, whether she’d been doing yoga or gymnastics. Pointless question, really. Either meant she was quite flexible.

He crossed his legs, adjusting himself before reluctantly redirecting his attention to his brother.

“Tori. I’m surprised I haven’t met her yet.”

“That may possibly be because you never come to New York.”

That wasn’t actually accurate. He and his brother generally met up across the world, but Bryant had spent his fair share of time in this city. It wasn’t like he could get New York pizza anywhere else.

“And possibly because I didn’t want you to try anything with her. She isn’t that kind of girl.”

James’s jaw was set. Bryant didn’t need to ask what he meant by that. His brother knew exactly what he was into – he’d opened the doors of that world for him, and Bryant had never looked back. Still, he didn’t make every woman he screwed kneel for him. In fact, these days, it rarely happened.

Bryant smirked, amused by his brother’s protectiveness. “So says every father ever about their own daughters.” He just couldn’t help teasing him. Getting under James’ skin wasn’t usually that easy. “It always baffles me. I mean, wouldn’t a good father want his beloved child to have orgasms on tap?”

The poor man winced, holding his hands up in surrender. “Please don’t go there. You said you didn’t have a lot of time, and we have things to discuss.”

They did, unfortunately.

At long last, their father had given up the ghost. It could have been a sad affair, but, as the man had died of a heart attack, his face buried between the legs of a prostitute much, much younger than him, all they could do was clap their hands and have a toast.

Openly, anyway. Bryant knew he and his brother had been affected by James senior’s demise more than they liked to admit.

Senior had died unloved by either of his sons, and alone, in Amsterdam. And now, James was wondering whether he – whether they – were going down the same path. Hence why his brother was contemplating the ridiculously premature notion of retirement. And the considerably more ridiculous notion of making Bryant take his place at the head of his company.

There was no doubt that James was offering him the position because he knew Bryant needed a breather, an out from his own issues. His situation in London had become complicated, to say the least. Still…

“I’m a lawyer, James. I may have interned for you a lifetime ago, but I have no idea how to run a marketing agency.”

“You own your own firm; that means you can deal with employees. That’s the only thing that matters - my team are the best. The best account manager, consultants, designers. They can get clients, and keep them, too. They need a CEO, not another marketing expert.”

Bryant would have told him to get his board to appoint someone they trusted, if James’s business actually had a board, but his determined brother was the founder and sole owner of the business. Over the years, and regardless of how bad the market had been sometimes, he’d only accepted two investors: Bryant, and William Brown, Tori’s father, who’d passed away.

“How about her?” he asked, tilting his head left. “She owns twenty percent of the company. Your goddaughter has as much right as anyone to take your place. More than me: she actually works here.”

Bryant knew the answer before his brother even opened his mouth.

“She’s twenty-six. Has worked for us for three years. And yes, she’s the best goddamned coordinator in the whole firm, me included, but you know what they said when I employed her? ‘Nepotism.’ Then, when I took her from the mail room and made her an account manager, with a lower starting salary than any of theirs? ‘Maybe she’s screwing the boss.’ I need to give her a promotion, and it’s going to be bad. Practically everyone hates her on principle.”

“And they won’t hate your brother?”

James shrugged. “You don’t have a vagina.”

He sighed. Crude and unfair as it was, it was the world they all lived in. If the company’s image took a hit because they had the wrong CEO, they might as well sell out now.

Bryant wished he could tell James to fuck off. But he owed his brother. He owed him everything.

“Here are my terms: I’ll take a five-year contract. At the end of that contract, you’ll replace me. Ideally, with that woman, if her vagina has stopped being a liability for your company. But whoever the fuck you want.”

And, with a bit of luck, in five years he’d know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.