The Brat (The Playgirls #3) (5 page)

Shane was lost for words at first. Then, Monique said she’d go get her.

“No, no. No need. I’ll…”
Carry on giving myself a migraine by wondering what I’ve done that could be bad enough for her to prefer staying at the mercy of her dreadful family than working here, with me.
“I’ll call her mobile. Nice talking to you, Monique.”

Chapter Seven

Brooke

She knew that staying away was a temporary fix, at best, and an unconstructive one at that. In a few days, Jack would be back, and he’d ask why she’d started working at home. There was no answer to that that could even remotely pass as a valid excuse.

The thing was, Brooke had lived through Shane announcing that he was getting married – with a huge smile on his face. She’d already had to pretend to smile and chock out congratulations. She was not submitting herself to anymore of that.

He’d either been speaking to Fiona, or to another conquest he needed to use
that
voice for. She didn’t want to know.

The possibility that he might have actually been on the phone with an investor or some sort of inconsequential relation crossed her mind… but it didn’t matter. In the end, she’d just been reminded of one heartbreaking fact: Shane Vaughan wasn’t and would never be hers.

She was so grateful she’d had the willpower to refuse his suggestion about sex; she would never have survived that.

“What are you doing?”

Oh for Christ’s sake!

There she was, convincing herself that distance was definitely the way forward, so
obviously
he turned up at her place.

“Working out?”

Staying home a week had meant eating her weigh in pancakes, cookies and muffins, so the hula-hooping was a necessity.

Shane’s gaze started at her ankles, and crawled up her legs, lingering on her shorts and her bikini top. He made it to her face, but not quite to her eyes; as per her custom, she had a cherry lollipop in her mouth, and it seemed to retain his interest.

Then, he cursed.

“That,” he almost yelled, pointing at her, “is not working out. That’s fucking porn.”

She rolled her eyes, slowing down her hips gradually; sure, it wasn’t much of an exercise at this rate, but her hips had the time to undulate in a way that made his veins pop.

Brooke just couldn’t help it; who could blame her, really? She’d noticed that particular exercise had turned him on for years. She knew better than to take it personally; he was a guy, and she was kinda showing how the goods worked.

But her self-esteem had already taken a huge backlash since she’d started spending time around him; he owed her a few admiring glances to build it back up.

The problem was that later, she’d wonder why she wasn’t enough. What the Fionas of the world had that she didn’t.

“I take it you haven’t come all the way to ogle at me?” she asked casually, without stopping.

“I’m good with ogling for now,” he replied, his eyes ablaze, wetting his mouth – which only served to remind her of what it felt like against hers.

Or on her tits.

She heard him swear again when she changed the rhythm, popping her hips a bit higher at each turn.

Then, the French windows opened in front of Helena Barnes.

Needless to say, the woman was plastered on Cosmo – although it was midday.

She slurred a sultry: “Oh, Shane darling, you’ve been so naughty, we haven’t seen you in ages!”

She shamelessly threw herself at him, kissing both cheeks, way too close to his mouth, and running her fingers on his pecs and bicepts before he’d managed to disentangle himself from her.

Helena could do classy when she wanted to; but the moment he’d been legal, Shane had become a prey, like the pool boy and the gardener. He wasn’t enough of a legacy for her to consider him as anything more serious than that. She only turned on the real charm for billionaire whom Patrick wanted to do business with.

Yes, he lent out his wife. A lot.

“Helena. You know how it is – always busy. I’m just here to see how Brooke’s doing.”

This unfortunately brought Helena’s attention on her daughter.

She’d stopped hula-hooping, of course, but that didn’t discourage Helena from laughing out loud.

“Oh, sweetie. Look at you, trying for the pro league. I’m sorry to say so, but you just don’t have a chance, honey. Shane has better taste.”

Shane

He was going to murder that woman.

It wasn’t what Helena was saying; she’d always been a bitch, everyone knew that. The problem was that Brooke believed it, he genuinely could see it in her eyes. They’d been alive with mischief when she’d been teasing him with those hips of hers, and now, it was all gone, under a layer of shame. She disguised it well, anyone would have just read some exasperation… but he knew Brooke. Helena had just zapped off her confidence.

Fuck.

That explained so much. How many times had he seen the brat shine like a freaking diamond one day, only to become shy, unsure of herself the next. Helena was the reason behind it. What lies had she whispered to her child, to make her believe she was anything but the most beautiful, charming, endearing thing he’d ever seen? 

“On the contrary, Helena. I find Brooke plenty appealing,” he smiled pleasingly, wrapping an arm around her daughter, to make his meaning quite clear.

Brooke froze, but she didn’t push him away; when he glanced back towards Helena, she looked like she was sucking on a rotten lemon.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

“Oh, that’s too good. You’re trying to get to her trust fund, aren’t you!” the bitch said.

Shane was startled; she had access to her trust fund, didn’t she? How else was she launching her business?

Shane knew for a fact that Jack had been given a tenth of his – a million – when he’d graduated; he’d assumed Brooke had received the same amount.

Reading his confusion, Helena pounced:

“Oh, she didn’t tell you, did she? If my daughter is trying to get to you, it’s because she knows her father isn’t going to give her a cent before she gets married – to someone who could invest her funds wisely, of course. Patrick and I have to approve.”

There were no words. None.

So, Jack, the irresponsible player, who’d gambled thousands during his college days, could get a mil to play with at twenty-three, but Brooke, first in
every single one of her class,
employed by an outstanding company, first, then launching her own business, wasn’t good enough?

He knew the Barnes had been bigots, but it still shocked the heck out of him.

“Helena, I made over eight mils of profits since the beginning of the year, and we’re in February. Brooke and I don’t need money; although I do hope you approve of me, of course.” 

He told himself he was just baiting her.

He wasn’t.

His money was Brooke’s to do as she pleased; if she had asked, he would have sent her whatever she needed to get her business out there.

Of course, what he was insinuating right now was another matter altogether: he made it sound like she was his partner. His… wife.

She wasn’t, couldn’t be, wouldn’t be – he still had no intention to get married again – but he knew that would piss off Helena to no end, so he smiled and played his self-appointed role.

Helena was far less self-assured, for a minute, until she’d found another angle.

“Sure. You’re together. So why is Brooke still under my roof?”

She said it like it was a bother to be sheltering her own daughter.

“That would be my doing, I’m afraid. I’d wager our wedding night wouldn’t be nearly as interesting, if Brooke and I had sleepovers.”

He dropped a kiss on her tanned skin to punctuate his meaning.

Shit. What was he doing?

Helena had often made him want to punch something, or make a point of proving she was utterly wrong about her daughter, at least, but he’d never acted on the impulse until now.

And Brooke. Was she going to thank him, or knee him in the junks? Given her expression, it could easily go one way of the other. She was frozen in a grimace she might have tried to pass off as a smile, battling between amusement and panic.

“Mh. Funny you haven’t been around to ask Patrick for her hand.”

He rolled his eyes at that.

“Old fashioned, much? We were going to tell you when we’ve set a date.”

“Where’s the ring?”

Jeez, that woman was relentless. Good thing he had an answer for everything.

“Getting sized,” he replied, just as a cold voice was saying a curt: “Helena.”

Oh, shit.

It was one thing to gloat at the pathetic wannabe cougar who should have taken a hint out of Michael Jackson’s book and stopped with the plastic surgery when the first one had gone wrong… but despite his poor taste in women, and his unacceptable indifference to his children, Patrick Barnes was another matter.

He was an outstanding businessman, and a shrewd one, at that. His reputation for dismantling companies without breaking a sweat was the reason why, even when they could have use the help, Jack and Shane had never messed with any business he was attached to.

But now, Shane had just voluntarily entered his line of sight.

The man smiled and damn if it didn’t seem genuine; at least, it would have, if only it had reached his eyes.

They weren’t happy; they were eager. Greedy.

“Mr. Vaughan. I suppose a formal welcome to the family is in order. Champagne?”

•

Brooke

The world had just crashed and burned.

Admittedly, it was partially her fault; seeing her mother’s face had been funny as hell, so she didn’t even attempt to stop Shane from sprouting nonsense.

But her father had heard, and although he knew – he must know – it had just been a joke, he was playing it to his advantage.

He’d been quite clear about the fact that Brooke was entirely useless to him. Too fat, at first, then not refined enough to be shown off, with the sons and daughters of his friends who played golf and tennis.

He’d allowed her to go to whatever college she wanted to attend, and paid for every expense, including her amazing flat in New York; but he’d been very clear as to why.

He had no use for her; save for making a decent match. Her one job had been to get herself a husband – one he would
approve
of, as her mother had said.

He’d stopped helping the minute she’d got herself a job, instead. While he’d accepted her return, he didn’t hide his contempt everytime they crossed path.

But now, he was smiling. At her.

Well done,
his gaze said.
This is a suitable son-in-law.

Fuck.

She opened her mouth to come clean – now was better than later – but Shane beat her to it, speaking first:

“Thanks Patrick. Sorry, we should have told you sooner, but we were going to speak to Jack, first… and set a date.”

“Soon, I hope?” the man cooed, like a dotting father, when in fact, it could be translated as
I hope you’re taking this filth out of my hands soon, before you change your mind.

“We’ll let you know.”

He stared at Shane with the intensity of a predator.

“Mh… You know Brooke’s trust fund is just worth two millions. My father set it up for them… But given the fact that you’re still growing your business, I’ll throw you a wedding gift. I’ll give you as much as Jack: ten mils. Just indulge a old man, and don’t make us wait.”

Her hand stiffened on Shane’s, cautioning him. She knew her dad. That wasn’t a gift.

“Thanks Patrick, it’s very generous. But keep it. I’m already taking the most precious thing you could give me.”

Ok, the whole thing was going to explode in their face sooner, rather than later, but who cared. She was swooning, and she wasn’t even ashamed of it.

“No offense. I kinda like being able to say I’m a self-made-man.”

She saw her father’s smile twitch, ever so slightly.
What the
hell
was he thinking, provoking him?
It was common knowledge that Patrick Barnes was the very opposite of a self-made-man. He was a legacy.

“Darling,” she cut in, her voice at least five times higher than usual, “Don’t we have this
thing
to get to?”

Obviously, she wasn’t nearly as proficient an actress than any other amongst the present company, but who cared: Shane took the life jacket she was throwing them both, and led her out of the house.