Harden My Hart (The Notorious Harts 3)
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because you know our family inside and out, you knew Ryan almost as well as we did. Because you’re a lawyer, and a damned good one, so you’ll know how to protect us. And because we trust you,’ I add, the final caveat by far the most important. Trust doesn’t come easily to any of us, but Barrett has it in spades.
‘Please,’ Grace adds, sending us a look of kind admonishment.
‘Yeah, right. Please.’ I nod. ‘Go to San Fran, find out what you can about her and report back. Simple.’
He narrows his eyes for a moment, so I hold my breath, wondering if he might be going to say no. But after a moment he grins, a look of total acceptance. ‘Fine. But only because I love you guys like brothers.’
Meanwhile, two weeks later, San Francisco
The music forms a pulse in my veins, the beat deep and throbbing. I look around the exclusive bar, mojito in one hand, clutch purse in the other. The thin strap of my dress drops a little over one shoulder; I don’t bother to catch it.
The day has been a stinker. Baking hot, with barely a hint of relief coming in off the Bay. Even a dip in my infinity pool didn’t cool me down and here in this club, the press of bodies, the tightness of space combine to make my skin lightly sheened in perspiration.
But I’m not leaving, not yet. I look around, considering my options. A hot guy near the bar lifts his drink, silently inviting me to join him. He’s gorgeous but a bit fussy, his hair a little too styled, his look a bit too contrived. Then again, there’s the cowboy I was talking to earlier, straight out of Texas, all faded jeans and plaid shirt. It’s unusual to find a guy like him in a place like this—but in talking to him I learned his dad’s an oil baron. Makes more sense.
I continue to peruse the bar until my eyes skate past someone—at first—and then skim back. A man is watching me. I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if I’ve met him before.
He’s handsome, so it’s possible we’ve hooked up and I’ve forgotten, but no. I’m sure I’d remember him. His jaw is square, covered in stubble, his face autocratic and symmetrical, his skin has a golden tan and his hair is a deep brown with a slight wave. He has an air of authority in his bearing, from the way he’s sitting, so straight and controlled, to the breadth of his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, definitely bespoke, and hand-made shoes.
My lip curls with a hint of derision, because while there’s a chance he’s self-made there’s also a greater probability he’s some kind of entitled rich kid, living off his trust fund, wasting money on big boy clothes. Nonetheless, I’m intrigued enough to return his stare dead-on, lifting my drink and draining it until it’s empty.
I sashay towards the bar, not taking my eyes off him, and as I draw closer I lift my lips into a slow smile, loaded with sensual promise.
Rich kid or not, I’m not looking for anything more than one night. It’s my tradition—how I mark this date every year—and he looks like he’d at least be good in bed. Then again, that’s hard to know for sure—lots of hot guys have been total disappointments in the sack.
‘Hi there.’ I flash him a megawatt smile now and I see the way his expression shifts, speculation in his eyes.
‘Hi. How are you?’ An English accent, very plummy, very formal. Definitely rich kid.
‘Let me guess...’ I murmur. ‘You’re a lord.’
He shoots up one brow and my stomach twists because he’s incredibly handsome and, up close, he’s also very charming. His skin is tanned but he has some freckles across his nose, freckles that speak of a life spent outdoors. His hair is a deep brown with natural highlights at the side, and there’s warmth in his features, a look of complete kindness that I can’t help but recognise.
‘Close. Earl.’
‘Ah.’
‘Earl what?’ he prompts, expecting me to somehow intuit his title.
‘Well...’ I purr in response. ‘Now, that’s a little harder.’
‘Have a drink and I’ll drop some hints.’
He gestures to the seat beside him but I don’t take it. Instead, I move closer, so I’m standing within the void created by his legs. ‘I’ll have another mojito.’
A frown flashes across his face but then he smiles, lifts a hand and orders our drinks. I don’t know what his name is or why he’s here in San Fran, in this bar talking to me, but before midnight I’m going to have my wicked way with him—Happy birthday to me.
* * *