The squeak of water pulled her attention away from the painting and had her checking the last door. It was a small bathroom with a sink, toilet, and bathtub shower. Through the plastic curtain, she could see the shadowy outline of a man lathering his body. Limbs lifted and hands glided, causing the tingle of sexual awareness to return. She ignored it and cleared her throat. The shadowy figure halted in mid-lather.
“I just need a few minutes,” she said. “Two tops. And believe me, it will be well worth your while.”
After only a second, the infuriating man started to sing Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” in a loud baritone. Olivia groaned in exasperation and turned to the mirror over the sink.
Talk about a swamp creature. She looked like she’d been slimed by the kids on Nickelodeon. Her normally shiny blond hair was tinted green with bits of bark and whatever else lived in the bayou. Besides the leech suction mark on her neck, she had numerous mosquito bites on her arms, and her clothes were just plain disgusting. For a brief moment, she considered hopping in the shower with Deacon, clothes and all, and joining in on the chorus. Instead she took off her backpack and reached for the bar of Dial soap on the side of the sink. She had just finished washing her hands and face when the screen door slammed, the sound followed by the loud clomp of boots and unidentifiable clicks. By the time she’d dried with the towel on the rack, two bearded men and a big dog had appeared in the doorway.
The dog gave one deep-throated woof. Olivia might’ve been scared if the animal with the droopy face hadn’t had the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen.
“Don’t mind Blue,” the taller of the two men said in a Southern drawl that slipped from his lips like the finest satin. “That’s just his way of saying hello. He loves the ladies.” He flashed a lazy smile that, even disguised by a full beard, dripped with sex appeal. “Nash Beaumont at your service, ma’am.”
The water shut off, and the plastic shower curtain jerked back so hard that it tore from two of the metal hooks. Standing there with water cascading down his naked body, Deacon looked at his brother.
“No need to introduce yourself, Nash. You and Grayson should remember Uncle Michael’s brat.”
CHAPTER TWO
Deacon Beaumont had pictured his second meeting with Olivia Harrington much differently. In his fantasies he was always dressed in an expensive designer suit and either helping a supermodel out of his brand-new Maserati or sitting behind a massive desk in his penthouse office. Olivia was always dressed in hand-me-downs and begging for money…and mercy. Of course in the fantasy he gave her neither. Money and mercy were for people who deserved them. And as far as he was concerned, Olivia didn’t deserve anything but his strong dislike.
His hatred was reserved for her stepfather.
Nash took a towel off the rack and handed it to him. “I’m going to make a guess and say that you and our cousin decided to take a swim. And while I would love to hear the story, I think it can wait until after we show Olivia some Southern hospitality and let her get out of those wet clothes.”
Olivia’s clothes were soaked. Her white T-shirt was completely transparent, showing every detail of the lacy bra beneath. And when Nash’s gaze lowered, Deacon had to squelch the desire to wrap the towel around her. Fortunately, his brother had never been much of a gawker and quickly averted his gaze.
Grayson, on the other hand, was out-and-out gawking. He had always had an almost reverent fixation on women. He had trouble talking to them, but he loved to look at them. And paint them. It didn’t matter if they were beautiful or plain. Skinny or fat. Young or old. Or covered in bug bites and lichen. If you were a woman, Grayson wanted you as one of his subjects. For some reason—his brother’s pretty-boy good looks or his innocent blushes—women didn’t mind posing for him, usually with their clothes off.
Well, it wasn’t happening with Olivia. She wasn’t staying long enough for Grayson to paint her, or for Nash to show off his Southern hospitality. And Deacon made that perfectly clear when he shoved both his brothers out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
“She’s not staying,” he said as he strode into his bedroom.
Nash and Blue followed, Nash flopping down on the bed Deacon had painstakingly made that morning and Blue dropping to the floor in a puddle of loose bloodhound skin. “We can’t just throw her out, Deke,” Nash said. “Especially when she came all the way here to visit her Louisiana cousins.”
Deacon glanced back to see Grayson standing in front of the closed bathroom door, his hand twitching as if he were sketching Olivia. “Jesus.” He walked into the hallway and grabbed his brother by the collar of his shirt and pulled him into the bedroom before closing the door. “There is no way prissy Miss Olivia Harrington trekked from California just for a visit. Especially after the way she treated us the first time we met. And we’re not her cousins. Her gold-digging mother just happened to marry our filthy-rich asshole of an uncle.”
“I don’t remember being treated that badly.” Nash stretched out on the bed and tucked a pillow behind his head. “If Donny John had shown up at my California mansion begging for money with his three urchin sons in tow, I would’ve called the cops too.”
Deacon pointed a finger at him. “Get your dirty boots off my bed.” After Nash rolled his eyes and complied, Deacon pulled open the top dresser drawer and took a clean pair of boxers from the neatly folded stack. “No, instead good-hearted Uncle Michael took pity on his poor hillbilly relatives and invited us to stay the night before kicking us out the following morning.”
“Only after you molested his stepdaughter.” Grayson finally pulled his head out of the clouds and entered the conversation.
Deacon slammed the drawer. “I did not molest Olivia!”
Grayson raised his hands. “I believe you, Deke. But you have to admit that the evidence was pretty damning.”
“Damning evidence seems to be the bane of the Beaumont brothers,” Nash said dryly. And if anyone knew about damning evidence, it was Nash. He had spent months in jail after being falsely accused of a crime.
Olivia hadn’t accused Deacon, but she hadn’t spoken up for him either. She had just stood on the balcony like a spoiled Juliet and watched as the neighborhood security officers escorted him and his family off the property. Now she wanted to offer him and his brothers some kind of proposition. Well, as far as he was concerned, she’d had her chance to talk.
“One of you can take her back to town.” He pulled on the boxers. “I need to head out to the work site.”
“What work site?” Nash asked. “I thought you couldn’t break ground until you reeled in a new investor. Did you find one?”
Deacon had. Unfortunately, the one investor he had on the line was the one he didn’t want to reel in. Francesca Devereux had made it very clear what she wanted from the deal. And it wasn’t a return on her investment. She wanted a cougar cub—a man she could parade around her social events like her froufrou pet poodle. Deacon had never been pet material. But he wasn’t the type of guy to give up either. The project had taken him years to pull together, and he was convinced the lakeside condos would make money. If he had to prove it by becoming some rich woman’s arm candy, then so be it.