The Consequence of Seduction

“You?” She pointed. “You run a billion-dollar company?”

I’m sure she was trying to figure out how the hell he ran anything but his mouth, considering his desk was void of any sort of paperwork. All he needed was a computer. It was a bit terrifying how Max could do the work of ten men in less than half the time and with one tool.

“Yes.” His shoulders sagged. “But it runs itself. I’m just biding my time.”

“Biding your time?” She just had to ask.

“Until the presidency beckons.”

Jordan burst out laughing.

I remained silent—because I knew Max. With his luck? It was bound to happen. I could see it now. Max in the Oval Office sipping whiskey, smoking cigars, his twitchy finger hovering over all sorts of red buttons of mass destruction. I shivered.

Jordan crossed her arms. “You can’t be serious.”

I held up my hand. “Don’t get him started.”

“Four score and six months ago”—Max thrust his hand into the air—“I was a sad, lonely bastard without any real direction in my life—”

“He’s still a bastard,” I pointed out.

Max glared.

“Sorry.” I smiled. “Continue.”

“And this one . . .” He pointed to me. I was the one. I wanted to duck, but what was the use? Plus, I had a plan, one even Max wouldn’t see coming. “Saved me. I was on a dating show. You may know me as Bachelor Maximus.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed and then bulged out of her head. “Holy crap! The guy who’s scared of goats?”

Max flushed and tugged at his collar. “I’ll have you know Hades and I have a very complicated relationship that I don’t need to defend to anyone, least of all you.”

I eyed the wet bar in his office and made my way over. “This may take a while. Jordan, you want a drink?”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” she pointed out.

My response: “It’s Max.”

With a quick nod in my direction from Jordan, I knew I had at least one person on my side against the terrorist that was my brother.

Max yawned. “Whiskey, two cubes. Thanks, bro. So, Jordan, as his publicist I’m sure you’re aware that most Hollywood actors fizzle out after a breakout role mostly because they aren’t able to handle the fame and the pressure that comes with it.”

Jordan opened her mouth and then closed it.

“I’m sure you’re also aware that seventy-point-two percent of American viewers admit to liking a male actor not based on his acting performance but his dating life?”

She scoffed. “That isn’t even a real figure and you know it.”

“Fifty-two percent”—he just kept going—“of producers are more likely to hire an actor who’s willing to try Method acting for a role. And ninety”—he adjusted his tie as I brought him his drink—“ninety-eight percent of producers are more likely to hire an actor based on his ability to stay in a committed relationship.”

Jordan gulped. “So that last one may be true, but—”

“Tsk, tsk.” He winked. “I helped him.”

She tilted her head. “You think selling him out to the media without even telling him your plan is helping?” She took the drink out of his hand and knocked it back before handing the glass back to him. “I’m calling your bluff. You’re just a bored, sad little man.”

“Nothing about me is little.” He smirked. “You’ll have to get Reid to drop his pants to witness the definition of little.”

I muttered a curse and poured myself another drink, then brought over Jordan’s.

“Well!” She shrugged and downed her entire drink. She didn’t even choke or wheeze. Impressive. “Good job, Max. Now we have to pretend we’re in a relationship, and if it goes bad—if people find out that it’s fake or that it was a setup by his evil brother—then Reid’s finished. Done.”

“I’m not worried about that.” Max puffed up his chest. “Because by the way he’s looking at you right now, and the way your breath hitches every damn time he looks in your direction, I did better than I thought. Didn’t I?”

“How do you live with him!” Jordan threw her hands into the air, nearly hitting me in the arm as I handed her another drink, while I was still focused on the fact that she had trouble breathing around me. That was a good thing, right?

A knock sounded at the door.

Max frowned.

“What’s wrong, Max?” I walked over to the door. “Not part of your plan?”

“You sneaky little whore.” Max pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “What hast thou done?”

“Dad!” I damn near shouted, making my own father teeter on his heels. “You’re here.”

Our father wasn’t a man of many words—he was black-and-white, old school. Which really begged the question, where the hell did Max come from? No, really. I’d like to know.

One time I asked my mother if he was adopted.

And she just laughed and said, “Oh, your father used to be just like him!”

My father wore the same color tie every day for forty years. I highly doubted it.

“What can I do you for, son?” Dad’s hair was completely white and slicked back. He wore a black suit, white shirt, blue polka dot tie. Always. It never changed. He eyed Jordan and held out his hand. “Allen Emory. Pleased to meet you.”