Harden My Hart (The Notorious Harts 3)

PROLOGUE

‘THIS ISN’T OPTIONAL, BRO.’

I close my eyes, wondering what time it is and, for a moment, where I am. Ibiza? Madrid? Rome?

I was on a yacht at some point—the lapping of the water is at the forefront of my mind—but was that last night? Or days ago? I train my eyes—so bleary it’s as if they’ve been acid-washed—on the side table. There’s a half-empty bottle of rum—apparently I drink rum now—my sunglasses, a pair of keys. Further into the room there’s my jeans and a shirt, thrown over a chair.

New York? Am I in New York?

‘What?’ My voice sounds like it’s been acid-washed too. All gravelled and deep. My mouth tastes like an ashtray. I push up, lifting a hand towards my hair to get it out of my eyes on autopilot before remembering I shaved it a month ago. It’s grown out a little, but it’s still short enough not to bother me.

‘Grace had the baby weeks ago. You have to go see them.’

Something pulls at my gut—something that momentarily makes breathing impossible. I have an almost irresistible urge to tell Theo all the things he seems to have forgotten:

Jagger’s your brother, not mine. I’m not a real Hart. That baby isn’t my niece. She’s yours.

But we’ve had all those conversations before, enough times for me to know he’ll never understand how it feels to wake up at twenty-nine thinking you’re one thing, only to have a meeting that pulls everything out from under you. To have no earthly idea who you are nor where you came from. To have lived your whole life with an inexplicable but no less real belief that you were different. Wrong somehow.

I’m not a Hart.

I never was.

I was raised by a Hart, raised to be a Hart, but the blood in my veins isn’t theirs. I don’t belong and never did—everything I’ve believed in my life is based on fraud. Even as I think that, I catch myself. Did I really feel like I belonged? Shards of memory slide through me, sharp and unrelenting.

‘You’re not like your brothers. You’ve gotta work harder, be better.’

Or, ‘I know your mom was prone to outbursts but in this house you keep a grip on how you’re feeling. Tears are for babies.’

That last one was a week after I’d moved in with the Harts—I was just a kid. My mom wasn’t coming back for me, I’d had a bad dream and all I wanted was to be held by her, to breathe her in, to feel her arms wrapping me tight.

‘You live here with me now. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.’

In some ways Ryan, the man who raised me, masquerading as my father, was right, but hearing it just made me want to break down and cry. I was terrified and miserable.

‘Holden?’ Theo’s waiting for me to say something. I shove the memories aside; they’re not helpful.

‘I will.’ I grip the phone, pushing out of bed on one wave of reluctance, forcing my feet to carry my naked body across the room. Something makes a noise. I turn around to see a woman in my bed.

Hmm.

Who is she? I frown, trying to piece together the events of last night, of the last few nights, with no success.

I grab my jeans, almost tripping over my feet as I step into them, zipping them up halfway then striding out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

Los Angeles. The sun beats a path through the windows in a way I find offensive. I want to tell it to fuck off. Instead, I pull the curtains shut but the rough motion hurts my head.

‘Go there today.’

There’s half a bottle of beer left on the bench. I lift it, take a drink then pull a face. It’s room temperature and flat. ‘Why?’

‘Because. You’re being a dick. Your brother and his wife have had a baby and you’ve dropped off the face of the earth. Pull your head out of your arse and get there.’

I grip the phone tighter. Theo’s the baby of the family but he’s never pulled any punches with me. With anyone. I like that about him generally, but right now it makes me want to reach through the phone line and shake him.

‘I’ve got stuff on today.’

‘Don’t be such a shit. I’ll make the arrangements. Just get your butt to LAX by midday or I’ll fly over there and drag you to Australia myself.’

CHAPTER ONE

Five hours out of Sydney

I’M USED TO flying in luxury. It only took me a couple of years to work my way out of economy and into premium cabins. Up until recently, until I handed in my notice after eight years’ of criss-crossing the globe, I was working first class cabins. But even those are nothing compared to the unrivalled grandeur inside this Hart jet.

I’m talking a huge plane, like a commercial jet, that more closely resembles a penthouse apartment. Leather sofas, reclining armchairs, a cinema, bedrooms fitted out like the nicest hotels I’ve ever been in, bathrooms with proper spa baths, and a boardroom fitted out with a bank of computer screens, printers, everything you could need to run an empire from the air. I don’t know what I expected, but definitely nothing quite like this.

‘Please, Cora, I need your help. I’ve never been so sick. I literally can’t even get out of bed. There’s no way I can fly today. We weren’t meant to be going anywhere; this is completely unscheduled. Besides, you’ve quit now, haven’t you?’ I hesitated. ‘It’s a luxury long haul. Maybe a domestic flight or two once you’re there. And I’ll owe you. Big time.’

I press my lips together, wondering when I became such a soft touch, shaking my head a little from side to side. The induction was brief but thorough. A nice man—Edward—who’d been managing Hart jet crew for eight years, he explained as we boarded the steps, ran me through the basics. It was, in theory, as Amy had said, much easier than commercial. No regularly scheduled meal service and instead of looking after a cabin full of passengers who expected me to jump when they snapped their fingers I had only one passenger.

Holden.

Hotter than Hades.

Hart.

And though there’s only one of him he’s sure intent on making me feel as hectic as if I had a full complement of guests to care for.

I look at the dim light in the galley, compressing my lips. There are four flight crew members on board, plus four pilots. I was nominated to do the overnight shift but I don’t care. The truth is, I love flying through the night. There’s something magical about it—contrasting shades of darkness that only the trained eye can pick out. Purples and blacks blend differently depending on the atmosphere and whether we’re flying over ocean or land. I’m used to this, but I’ll never tire of it. I’ve tried to capture the phenomenon on film without success. It’s one of the few things that are better in reality, rather than captured as a photograph.

The other crew members are sleeping. They presumed Holden would sleep and that I’d be left to my own devices. It is, after all, two in the morning LA time. But no, he’s wide awake, and when I push into the cabin his grey eyes—the colour of the ocean on a stormy day—are fixed on me in a way that provokes an involuntary and unwelcome reaction. I want to photograph him. The idea comes to me unbidden but I can’t help imagining what a striking portrait he’d make. He’s handsome but there’s a contrast with his easy good looks and his manner, which is somewhat forbidding.

My stomach pulls and my pulse heaves. I ignore the unwelcome physical response, keeping a professional expression locked to my face.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

He turns his attention back to the papers in front of him. They bear the ‘Hart Brothers Industries’ insignia in the corner.

‘Who are you?’

I frown, not immediately comprehending why he’s asking me that.

Impatience flickers across his face; my pulse trembles. ‘It’s not rocket science. I’m asking your name.’