Rebel (Wolfes of Manhattan 1)

I backed up.

“It will only take a few minutes,” Reid said. “Then you’ll need to choose fabrics. He’ll need eight suits plus two tuxedos, Dieter, about thirty cotton button-downs, and thirty ties.”

“That’s overdoing it,” I said. “I own three pairs of jeans and a few T-shirts and flannels. Plus this shirt I’m wearing.”

Reid ignored me. “Make that ten suits plus the two tuxes. A camel hair overcoat for winter. And then if you could do the foot measurements, I’ll get them to our cobbler.”

“Are you going to measure me for boxers too? Socks? Condoms?”

Dieter laughed…sort of. “No, sir.”

Reid was right. The measuring only took a few minutes, though he came perilously close to my goods when measuring my inseam.

Once Dieter had written everything down, he brought out what appeared to be hundreds of fabric samples.

“Wool for suits.” He handed me a booklet of samples.

I looked through the fabric. Some of the colors were so close I couldn’t tell the difference. I handed it off to Reid. “You choose for me. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “Not like I won’t be doing everything else around here anyway.”

I rolled my eyes. “Look, Reid. I know you wish you were in charge. I wish you were too. This sure as hell isn’t what I expected for the rest of my life.”

“I know. Dad fucked us all over.”

“Give yourself a raise, then. You should be making at least what I’ll be making.”

“Believe me. I will be.”

“What am I making, by the way?”

“Cushy eight figures, Rock. Plus options and benefits and Dad’s Manhattan penthouse, as soon as it’s cleaned up and the detectives are done gathering evidence. You’re doing fine.”

Cushy eight figures. Damn. Whether it was ten million or ninety-nine million didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to spend that much money in a dozen lifetimes. I’d made a cool fifty K in a good year of construction, and it had been more than enough to suit my modest needs.

“So what do you think?”

I jerked my head back to Reid. “About what?”

“These for your suits.” He pushed several pieces of fabric into my hands.

“What are they?”

“Wool.”

“They don’t feel like wool.” I imagined the heavy sweaters I wore in Montana during the winter.

“They are.”

Dieter approached us and took the fabric Reid had chosen. “Wool is a very versatile fiber, Mr. Wolfe,” he said. “It can be woven into coarse yarns or very fine silky thread, and everything in between.”

“Whatever. Yeah, these are fine.” Just what I needed. A lesson in textiles. Christ.

“Let’s see the cotton poplins and oxfords for his shirts,” Reid said.

Dieter brought over another booklet of samples.

“You a fashion expert now?” I said to Reid.

“I know how to dress myself for the business I’m in. Something you should learn. Something you will learn.”

I eyed my youngest brother. Sharp dresser, that was for sure. I’d have taken him for a designer suit guru, not personally tailored. He was even slightly taller than I was, and I was no slouch at six-three. My little brother had grown up.

Reid chose my shirt fabric and then we went through soft silk for ties. Solids, paisleys, stripes… By the end my eyes were bugging out.

“Can you have a suit ready by tomorrow?” Reid asked.

“Sorry, sir. Next week at the earliest.”

Reid pulled out his wallet and peeled off a couple of Ben Franklins. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Dieter pocketed the bills. “It will be here by seven in the morning. I appreciate your business. But I’ll have to send over a premade shirt and tie, plus some shoes.”

“Fine,” Reid said. “Thank you, Dieter.”

Dieter bowed—yes, he fucking bowed!—and left.

Reid looked at his phone. “Time for our conference call. They’re breaking ground in Vegas today. Go to the conference room. I need to make a quick call first.”16LaceyI’d spent the weekend at the office. I had no shortage of work, and it was the best way to keep my mind occupied.

Even so, my thoughts strayed to Rock Wolfe more than once.

Now, back at my office once again, I faced a morning of no appointments. Nothing to keep my thoughts from grazing over to Mr. Asshole Extraordinaire.

I wasn’t falling for him. I’d known him for all of three days, had spent not more than five hours with him—though they were five pretty exciting hours. Still, I had relationships with leftovers in my refrigerator that were longer.

It had been a fuck. Several fucks, actually. Several amazing fucks.

But it was over.

Derek Wolfe, my client, was dead. Other than seeing that his estate was taken care of, I was finished with him and his family.

Saying goodbye to Derek Wolfe was no hardship. My thoughts wandered to the sixty-five-year-old dead billionaire.

Someone had shot him in the head in his Manhattan penthouse.

Derek Wolfe had no shortage of enemies, and he’d employed a highly paid security team.