Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

My father’s death should have been enough to break me, but somehow I was whole. Until now, when I’m in a million pieces at Christopher Bardot’s feet. “No.”

“I felt bad for you, to be honest. That’s why I wrote you back.”

“You’re lying,” I say, hating the tears in my eyes.

“You weren’t a sister to me.” His words are cold, his eyes unfeeling. There’s no doubt he means those words. “You meant nothing to me. Just a poor little rich girl, all along.”

Betrayal knots itself in my stomach, so tight and so deep I’m not sure I’ll ever be free of it. “Then why don’t you walk away, if I mean so little? Let me manage the trust fund, and you never have to talk to me again.”

“Obligation. This is something I have to do out of respect for your father.”

Not out of respect for me. Never that.

Both men and money have a way of disappearing when you need them most. It’s something I learned early, but clearly I needed to learn it again. Neither my stepbrother nor the inheritance were anything I could count on.

Neither of them were anything I could trust.

The paper in my hand has been crushed in my fist and smoothed out with shaking hands so many times the ink has almost faded. Almost, but I have the words memorized anyway.

“Where is he?” I ask the pretty receptionist without introducing myself. It must be obvious who I am, unless Christopher Bardot likes to torment women all over the country. He might have given her a heads-up; Like, “by the way, I have a stepsister who hates my guts.” Maybe they laugh about it before she gives him a blow job from beneath his desk.

That seems like exactly the kind of thing he would do.

“He’s in a meeting,” she says, clearly planning to block me. But her eyes give her away, her gaze darting to the frosted-glass doors to her right.

“Don’t bother buzzing me in,” I tell her, already heading in that direction.

When I push open the door, I’m confronted by a large conference room with dark wood paneling and leather chairs. There’s only one man inside.

And it’s not him.

Where Christopher’s hair is dark, this man’s is a deep gold, as if it’s been turned that way from hours spent in the sun. Instead of eyes black like obsidian, this man has blue eyes that look as bright as the sky on a hot summer day.

In so many ways they’re opposite, but there’s something about him that’s similar. The strength inherent in their bodies. The hunger for more than what

he has. I recognize an ambitious man the way a gazelle lifts her head and senses a tiger nearby.

This man takes his time examining my body. I shiver a little in the cool office air, goose bumps on my skin. It’s only the air-conditioning that makes my nipples turn hard beneath the cotton T-shirt, at least I think so, but it’s embarrassing either way.

“May I help you?” he says, and in those four words I hear a deep Southern drawl. While his eyes express acute interest, his tone is considerably more reserved.

“I’m looking for Christopher Bardot.” My voice comes out strong, which is impressive when you consider the carnal appetite in this man’s eyes would make a siren blush. If I weren’t riding high on righteous anger I’d probably stammer and stumble like every other female of the species must do when faced with a man as clearly alpha as this one. Some evolutionary instinct grabs hold of my ovaries and says, this man will hunt and protect and fuck.

“He’s not in the office at the moment, but if you want to sit down a spell, you can tell me what he’s done to piss you off. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

“Do you have a piñata shaped like him and a bat? That would help.”

He stares at me for a moment, and I think he’s about to throw me out on the street. That would probably be the right thing to do considering he doesn’t know who I am. Instead he throws his head back and laughs. “I like your spirit, even if I can’t condone your methods. My business partner has many annoying qualities, but even so, I would like him intact.”

“Your business partner?”

“Sutton Mayfair,” he says, standing as he introduces himself with old-world manners. There are stacks of papers surrounding him on the glossy conference table. Clearly I’ve interrupted him at work, but he doesn’t look impatient in the least. There’s something deceptively casual about him in his slightly rumpled suit and blond hair an inch too long. The kind of deception that would make his enemies underestimate him.

“So you must know where I can find him.”

“You can leave a message at the front desk.”

“And lose the element of surprise? I’d rather not.”