Redeemed By Passion

Two

There was a method to his madness...and a madness to his methods. Shakespeare’s quote, Brooks Abbingdon thought, had never been more apt. His particular method of madness was to marry.

In two weeks’ time.

Teresa hung up the phone and looked at him with wide, defeated eyes. “I’d be...” she hesitated “...happy to do your wedding. Two weeks is no problem.”

Another success for The Fixer and that meant that another hefty bill would be landing in his Brooks’s inbox soon. Fact: sometimes you had to pay for things to go your way.

Seeing that Teresa was at the end of her rope—it was the early hours of the morning and she’d had a hell of a day—Brooks told her to rest and Teresa immediately dropped her head back and closed her eyes. She’d been shocked by his time frame; hearing that he had yet to choose a bride might cause her brain to explode.

Because, really, who planned a wedding without securing a bride?

Apparently, he did.

Brooks stretched out his legs and jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, mostly to hide the small tremor in his fingers. Married? Him? He’d always believed, still did, that wedding rings were the world’s smallest, strongest pair of handcuffs. But here he was, about to get hitched because his grandfather refused to listen to reason.

Stubborn old bastard.

Lester Abbingdon desperately wanted to invest in a friend’s yet-to-be-developed chain of luxury boutique hotels. Brooks wasn’t convinced that the investment would provide a decent, or any, return. But Lester rather fancied the idea of being the world’s next hotel mogul and, since he couldn’t take money from the swimming-in-cash Abbingdon Trust, he was determined to raise the money he needed by selling his personal stake in Abbingdon Airlines. Brooks had no intention of dealing with a new partner, of having to justify his decisions or, far worse, ask for permission to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with his company.

No, the only option was to buy his grandfather’s shares from him and in order to raise the cash needed—without having to get banks or other investors involved—that meant, yippee-doo-dah, getting married.

Brooks stared out the window into the inky blackness and remembered his first visit to the stuffy offices of the Abbingdon Trust’s lawyers. He’d been twenty-one and in their wood-paneled offices, they told him that, as the only Abbingdon heir, he was entitled to a sizeable monthly income from the trust but he was also set to inherit a crap-ton of cash on his twenty-fifth birthday. If he was married.

The offer would only be renewed every five years and at twenty-five, using Lester’s money to buy his first two cargo planes, he’d opted not to marry—he’d been having too much fun playing the field and had no intention, and no need, to sacrifice his freedom. Ditto at thirty but at thirty-five, Abbingdon Airlines was worth the inconvenience. He wanted control and for control he needed cash; to get the cash he needed to marry...

He’d established and grown Abbingdon Airlines; it was his hard work that had made the company one of the most trusted and respected companies in the country. His clients knew that they could rely on him to get them, or their goods, where they needed to go in the shortest time possible. But Lester wanted to go and play Monopoly with real-life assets and had placed him between a rock and a hard place. Shouldn’t ninety-year-old men be smoking cigars and playing bridge?

And of course, every time they spoke about this deal, Lester never failed to remind him that he was ecstatic that he was being forced to marry and that maybe, God willing, he’d get a much-desired great-grandchild, preferably a grandson, out of the deal. Lester then launched into his oft-repeated lecture on his lack of commitment to providing an heir to continue the Abbingdon line, that if he didn’t hop to it—his words—six hundred years of DNA-soaked history would cease to exist. The art and furniture collected over twenty-four generations would scatter to private collectors all over the world. Abbingdon Castle and its surrounding land would be sold to the highest bidder. The Abbingdons weren’t royalty but they were damn close.

And it all rested on Brooks’s shoulders...

Or in his loins.

He’d have a kid, one day. Not now. Right now all he wanted to do was save his company.

Brooks took a sip of his whiskey, staring past young Joshua St. Claire—sleeping now, thank God—to the inky night beyond the window of his Global 7000 jet. The kid was so out of it, he barely registered that he was on a private jet and hadn’t noticed the rich leather seats, the fine wood veneers and the stylish carpets and stonework. This jet had just hit the market but he owned one and, being aviation crazy, it annoyed him that neither of his two guests appreciated their luxurious mode of transport.

And his annoyance had nothing to do with the aircraft’s hefty price tag, which was upward of half a billion dollars. This plane was superbly designed, exquisitely manufactured and brilliantly engineered. It was, in its way, a masterpiece. And his guests, like his grandfather, didn’t share his passion for anything with an engine and two wings.

His business was damn good. And his life, up until two weeks ago, had been friggin’ amazing.

Yet, here he was, planning his wedding. And because the Abbingdon Trust paid for all Abbingdon weddings, he was going to take full advantage and turn his wedding into a massive networking event, inviting all his present clients and anybody he thought could be a potential client. If he was going to put his head in a hangman’s noose, then he was going to swing in style.

All he now needed was a bride.

Brooks looked at the cool beauty in the chair across from him and cocked his head. Teresa St. Claire was beautiful; there was no doubt about it. Tall and slim, she rocked an old-school Grace Kelly vibe, classy as hell. Despite the rumors and gossip swirling around her she’d held her head high and he’d yet to see her unhinged, to break into a sweat.

He liked calm women, women who could keep it together when their lives were falling apart. That showed a strength of character few women—hell, few men—possessed. Teresa St. Claire was beautiful, sexy and smart. What more could he want in a wife? The Fixer had also suggested her as a candidate to be his wife; said that she was a possibility and that he could, possibly, make that happen.

Marrying Teresa would’ve been an elegant, and quick, resolution to his current problem. Except for the little problem that she was crazy about Liam Christopher... He wasn’t the most perceptive guy in the world but even he noticed the way she looked at Christopher. Part exasperation, part denial, part annoyance but mostly like all she wanted to do was strip him naked and do several things to him that were X-rated. Brooks knew that he was marrying for convenience, as a means to an end, but he certainly didn’t need to watch his wife pine for someone else. Or wish he was someone else.

So he refused The Fixer’s offer and settled for his arranging for Teresa to organize his blowout wedding.

What could The Fixer have on her to (a) think that he could get her to agree to marriage and (b) to get her to undertake such a massive event on such short notice? It had to be something...

But Teresa’s past didn’t concern him and he had bigger worries. Like who might say yes to his crazy-ass proposal to marry him.

In two weeks’ time.

Happy bloody birthday to him.

* * *

Teresa leaned back in her chair and stared out the high-arched windows of her waterfront office in Seattle, just a few blocks from Pike Market. She loved her view, her open-plan office with its high ceilings, industrial lighting and its hardwood floors. But today all she could think about was the look of betrayal on Joshua’s face as she left him at the tightly controlled and monitored rehab facility two hours away. He understood that he had to lie low but, damn, his tightly crossed arms and the emotion washing in and out of his eyes nearly dropped her to her knees.

She wanted to believe his denials about his addictions, she really did. But she still didn’t know how to explain that small puncture mark on his arm. Had someone injected him and then, in his woozy and hazy state, manipulated him to take a flight across the country to Napa to gate-crash Matt’s party? Was that possible or was she overreacting, allowing her imagination to run wild because she so badly wanted to believe him?

All her anxiety about Joshua would simply evaporate if she could pay off Joshua’s debt. Then they’d both be free. She’d been such a naive fool to believe that when the drug-running charges against Joshua were dropped—thanks to The Fixer—he would get his life together. Silly her.

Most women in their late twenties were concerned about their careers, their young children or their new marriages—and, frequently, a combination of all three—but no, she spent her time stressing about unpaid debts to criminals, her inconvenient attraction to a man who blew hot and cold but whom she couldn’t avoid, and rocketing from crisis to crisis. It was times like these that Teresa wished she had a mother to turn to but her mom, like her brother, relied on her. Since her father’s death, she’d been the glue holding their family together, the strong one, the capable one, the one who could always make a plan.

It would be so nice to rely on someone else, to have someone in her corner loving and supporting her but she was terrified that that person would, just like her father had, fade on her. Sharing the load meant opening up, allowing herself to be vulnerable, exposing herself...

What if that person left, disappeared on her, leaving her to waft in the wind? No, it was better to hang tough...

Besides, there was only one person who’d scaled her walls to peek inside her soul—she hadn’t told anyone else but Liam about Joshua and the stress she was under—and he was even more closed up and messed up than she was. They were a hell of a pair...

Teresa heard a throat clear and lifted her head to see Corinne hovering by her partly open door as if deciding whether to knock or not. Teresa dropped her hands, swallowed her sigh and gestured her assistant inside. Corinne’s face reflected the grim mood of the rest of her colleagues: they were worried about the future of Limitless Events, and Teresa didn’t blame them. For any event company, Saturday’s events would be a death knell and she had no doubt that most of her people were brushing up their résumés.

Teresa gestured for Corinne to sit. When Corinne’s eyes met hers, she saw her curiosity and knew a dozen questions were hovering on Corinne’s tongue. Teresa’s respect for her increased when Corinne just powered up her iPad and asked a simple question. “So, what’s the plan?”

Teresa tucked a strand of hair that had fallen from her loose bun behind her ear. “The plan is that we arrange Brooks Abbingdon’s big blowout wedding.”

Corinne’s brown eyes widened. “He’s getting married? To whom?” Corinne read the social pages and entertainment magazines with utter dedication and Teresa knew that she was wondering whether she’d missed a crucial piece of gossip.

“He didn’t say.”

Corinne looked at her like she was, finally, losing it. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

Yep, crazy. “Brooks didn’t tell me who he was marrying. I suspect it’s someone very famous and intensely publicity-shy. And that’s okay. We don’t need her input because Brooks was very explicit in what he wanted.”

Corinne leaned forward, her expression intense. “So what does he want?”

Teresa half smiled. “He wants me to recreate Delilah Rhodes and Alex Dane’s wedding. With one crucial difference...”

Corinne bounced up and down and gestured Teresa to keep talking. “What? What’s the difference?”

“Delilah and Alex had a massive budget.”

“Our budget is smaller? Dammit. Okay, we can get creative.”

Teresa shook her head. “No, we have an unlimited budget. We can spend what we like, how we like, but it’s got to be blow-your-socks-off amazing. But we only have two weeks to get everything organized.”

Corinne pulled a smile up onto her face in an effort to appreciate the joke. “Ha ha.”

“I wish I were joking. But I’m not. Brooks has thrown Limitless Events a lifeline. Minimal time is the cost of that lifeline.” Teresa forced a smile of her own. “But, if we work every hour of the day, maybe we’ll all still have jobs at the end of the month.”

Teresa watched as confusion and disbelief flew across Corinne’s face and gave her assistant a minute to take in the news. She’d come into her office thinking that the company could not possibly recover from Saturday night’s fiasco but instead of getting pink slips, they were going to organize the wedding of the year.

How did this happen? Why was this happening? Teresa couldn’t answer Corinne’s questions, not without explaining that she owed someone a favor and that this was his way of collecting. The Fixer had told her, when he checked on Joshua to see if the $7 million debt was real, that she owed him a nonmonetary favor and she was finally being asked to cough up.

She’d always worried that The Fixer would ask her to do something illegal, something below board—she wasn’t an idiot; she knew that he wasn’t a law-abiding angel—and she was so relieved that he was asking her to use her skills to repay her debt. Yeah, Brooks’s time frame was totally ludicrous but, compared to some of the scenarios she’d imagined, this was child’s play. And, thank God, legal.

And best of all, Brooks was still going to pay her. Bonus.

Teresa couldn’t help wondering how Brooks had heard of The Fixer and whether asking for help on organizing his wedding was all he’d asked of the man who, it was reported, could arrange anything, anywhere. She’d heard of The Fixer through her previous boss, Mariella Santiago-Marshall, but how had Brooks connected with her sure-his-hands-are-dirty angel? It had to be word of mouth, whispered over boardroom tables or over glasses of five-hundred-dollar whiskey. But unlike hers, The Fixer’s fee to Brooks was sure to be hard cash.

Hey, she didn’t care. She was ridding herself of one debt. And she’d use the enormous fee Brooks had offered her to pay some of Josh’s debt, hoping to placate Joshua’s money lender and buy them some time.

But nobody would be getting paid if they didn’t get to work. Teresa looked at Corinne and issued the first of many instructions. “I’d like you to make up a mood board of all our most expensive weddings to show to Brooks, to get an idea of what he does and doesn’t want. Focus on the Newport Bridge wedding.”

When Corinne left the room, Teresa stood up and walked over to her window and watched the Seattle-Bremerton ferry cross Elliott Bay. She placed her hand on the window and sighed at the wet, miserable day. Normally, the weather didn’t bother her but today it just reminded her of her soggy heart, her tear-soaked soul.

She missed Liam...

Get used to it; you’re going to be missing him for a long, long time.

Never again would she feel his mouth on hers, the scratch of his two-or three-or four-day stubble on her skin. Her body wouldn’t hum in pleasure as he traced her lips with his, drawing out the anticipation of his tongue moving into her mouth to tangle with hers. She doubted that she’d ever again experience the flood of wet, warm heat between her legs as his hands tightened on her hips and he laid siege to her mouth.

Memories of how he made her feel rushed over Teresa. He’d slowly, too slowly, pull her shirt from the waistband of her trousers or skirt, his fingers drawing bright, bold patterns on her skin. Liam loved to turn her around in order to trace the bumps of her spine, his hard and rigid cock pressing into her butt. No matter how much she begged, Liam treated her like a present he wanted to take his time opening, slowly removing her clothes, one feminine piece at a time. His words burned her skin—“You’re so pretty,” “God, I want you,” “Can’t wait to watch you come”—and with a flick of his tongue across a lace-covered nipple, he’d have her hovering on the edge of an orgasm, desperate to take flight.

He’d take his time, too much time, before slipping his fingers into her panties, to find the heat between her slick folds. He always knew how to touch her, whether it was with a flick of his finger or a swipe of his tongue. He’d bring her to orgasm, sometimes once, a couple of times twice, with his fingers and his tongue, not entering her until she was limp and languid and so very, very well loved.

Then he’d push inside her, hot and long and devastatingly masculine and build her up again. And again. And yet again before allowing her to crash and burn and flame.

None of that would happen again.

The thought made her want to cry. But she didn’t because she was Teresa St. Claire, and when had tears helped with anything? No, the best she could do was to soldier on because that was what she did best.

Like brightly colored pieces of a shattered mosaic pile, Teresa always picked up all the pieces she could and rearranged them to make a new pattern or picture. But damn, it was getting harder and harder to do.

* * *

In his office at the Abbingdon private airport on the outskirts of Seattle, Brooks lifted his head to watch an ACJ—an Airbus Corporate Jet—land on the runway to the left of his office on the top floor of the office block that housed Abbingdon Airlines’ headquarters. The jet was exquisite and the touchdown perfect on the slick runway. Brooks looked at his watch and yep, the limousines were leaving their hangar to pick up the twenty guests who had flown in, as he’d heard, for Carmen, playing at the Seattle Opera House. He’d been offered tickets to attend but couldn’t remember by whom.

Brooks shrugged. It didn’t matter since he didn’t have time to waste attending the theater when he had a wife to find, a future to secure.

Pulling his eyes off the ACJ and its fluid, feminine lines, Brooks looked at his computer monitor and opened the email he’d received while he was salivating over the jet. Brooks read the two-word correspondence:

For consideration.

Knowing, without a smidgen of doubt, that the message was from The Fixer, Brooks double-clicked on the first of three files. A photograph of a raven-haired beauty popped up in front of him and Brooks lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. Beneath the photograph The Fixer had a brief paragraph detailing why she was a suitable candidate to become the first Mrs. Brooks Abbingdon. In Mari Ruiz’s case, she was a divorcée who’d been skinned by her husband, leaving her with a taste for high living but with no one to fund it. She had two degrees, was a champion ballroom dancer and spoke three languages. She was also a gourmet cook.

Mmm, interesting. Brooks opened the next file, a sultry redhead, who was a young widow looking for a dad for her three kids, all under the age of seven. Brooks dismissed her immediately; this situation was messed up already without adding kids to the chaos. Sighing, Brooks opened the third file and sucked in a surprised breath.

Well, well. Nicolette Ryan wasn’t someone he’d expected to find on his computer at nine thirty in the morning. He knew Nicolette, had been introduced to her once or twice and he’d had her microphone pointed in his face on various occasions. She was intelligent and witty and, holy hell, with her long black hair and petite frame, and those expressive, brown-black eyes, as sexy as sin. He liked her. She was the one journalist most of his friends and acquaintances found tolerable.

But why was she on his list of prospective brides? Intrigued, Brooks read The Fixer’s report. Nicolette Ryan was, per his comments, brainy and ambitious and wanted to make a break into serious reporting. Apparently, she’d been floating a documentary film to any producer who’d listen but nobody was taking her seriously. The project was important to her—personally important and related to something in her past—and The Fixer was convinced that there was little she wouldn’t do to see the project on the big screen.

Brooks scrolled down, annoyed to realize that The Fixer hadn’t explained his cryptic comment about her past. Brooks touched the reply button and banged out a quick message asking for an explanation. He was about to hit the Send button when the thought occurred that, had The Fixer wanted him to have that information, he would’ve given it. A demanding email wouldn’t change his mind.

The point was: Nicolette Ryan wanted something and if he could provide her the means to achieve that goal, she might be amenable to a temporary marriage.

Brooks flipped back to look at the picture of the sultry brunette but, compared to Nicolette, she looked over-the-top, too high-maintenance.

He’d met Nicolette; he liked her and there’d been a buzz of attraction when they spoke. It wasn’t love at first sight—who believed in that anyway?—but something definitely arced between them.

He was hopeful. After all, everyone had their price—his was Abbingdon Airlines—and he just needed to find out whether her documentary was important enough to her to sacrifice her single status. God, he hoped so.

He was running out of time.

Three

Nobody in Seattle refused to take his calls and Teresa St. Claire wouldn’t be the first.