Michael was the one person who had known how much French Kiss meant to her. Which was why she couldn’t understand how he could have willed it to three men who had never set foot inside French Kiss’s doors. Three men he didn’t know or love. And maybe he hadn’t loved her either. Maybe it had all been wishful thinking.
The slam of a screen door pulled her out of her thoughts, and she quickly finished the call. “Listen, I have to go. Try not to kill Babette.”
“You ask too much,” her mother said dryly.
Olivia hung up just as Deacon came around the corner of the house. After his shower he had changed into a blue T-shirt that hugged his muscles and a pair of faded jeans that hugged his…
“Do you always stare at men’s crotches?”
Her gaze lifted to Deacon’s annoyed eyes. Between the sapphire-blue shirt and azure sky, they looked even more purple. “What color would you say your eyes are?”
He squinted. “Is something wrong with you? Do you have a hearing problem? I ask you if you always stare at men’s crotches and you answer by talking about the color of my eyes.”
“I’d say indigo—somewhere between a deep blue and dark purple.” She pulled her gaze away from his eyes and looked down. “And me looking at your crotch is strictly business. I’m planning on starting a new line of men’s underwear.”
“Right.” He held out his hand. “I’m assuming you’re done with my phone.”
She handed him the phone. “It’s slimmer than mine. Did you just buy it?”
“Let me guess. You thought my cell phone would be the size of a sneaker.” He slipped the phone into his back pocket. “Obviously you’re still the same stuck-up little rich girl you were at fourteen.”
She had never been stuck up, just terrified and jealous of the three brothers who had shown up on her doorstep. They had come into Michael’s mansion like a whirlwind of burping, roughhousing, cussing testosterone, and Olivia had been completely unprepared. Like her mother, she hadn’t known that Michael had family. She’d thought she was the only child in his life—the only one vying for his attention. Suddenly there were three boys who shared his blood. And no matter how hard she’d tried to be a perfect little stepdaughter, she couldn’t compete with that.
Her fear of losing Michael’s love had kept her from being a good hostess. She’d tried to avoid the Beaumonts, until…the one afternoon she’d discovered Deacon in the garden. His resemblance to Michael surprised her and made her even more jealous, which led to her doing something completely out of character. Now all she could hope was that Deacon wouldn’t hold the incident against her.
“So did you read the contract?” she asked.
“Most of it.”
“And?”
Instead of answering he headed back to the house, leaving her no choice but to follow. Once on the porch, he sat down in the rocker and scratched the dog’s ears, rocking slowly back and forth. It was a stall tactic if ever there was one, and she tried to push down her apprehension and act like it didn’t matter.
Climbing the steps, she checked to see if her clothes were drying. She had just lifted her panties from the railing when he spoke.
“I’m assuming those are from French Kiss’s latest collection?” When she turned he was looking at the panties she held in her hand with a hot-eyed intensity that made her feel all flushed and needy. Since flushed and needy wouldn’t get her what she wanted, she set the panties back on the railing.
“Actually they’re last year’s. Since Michael’s stroke we haven’t produced a new collection.”
He picked up her glass of sweet tea and took a long drink from the same spot her lips had been only moments before. When he was finished, he set it back on the railing. “That doesn’t seem very smart.”
It wasn’t, and she hated his pointing it out. Her eyes zeroed in on the droplet of sweet tea that clung to his beard just below his full bottom lip. “So are you going to sign the contract or not?”
He studied her with his intense eyes, allowing the seconds to tick by while sweat beaded at her temples. Finally, he got up from the chair and answered. “Only an idiot wouldn’t.”
Olivia’s shoulders relaxed. “You won’t be sorry. It’s a good deal for everyone involved.” Without thought she reached out and brushed the droplet of tea from his beard, her finger grazing his lip.
As quick as a snake’s strike, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers curling around her thumping pulse. His gaze locked with hers, and all the oxygen seemed to evaporate from the humid air as he tugged her closer. So close she could feel the heat of his words against her lips when he spoke.
“Don’t screw with me, Olivia.” He released her and walked into the house.
As the screen door slammed behind him, one thought paraded through Olivia’s mind.
His beard had been soft.
As soft as Deacon was hard.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sometimes you are such an ass, Deke,” Nash said. “Grayson and I would’ve taken Olivia back to her rental car so she wouldn’t have had to call a car service. It’s the least we could do for fifty million.”
Deacon stood at the window watching the SUV bounce down the dirt road. He waited until the last of the dust had settled before he released the curtain and turned to his brothers. Nash was sprawled out on the couch, tossing darts at the dart board above the fireplace, while Grayson sketched on his sketchpad. “The Beaumont brothers aren’t chauffeurs. Besides, the deal isn’t final yet.”
“You’re so skeptical, Deke,” Grayson said. “It will go through. I trust Olivia.”
“You don’t even know Olivia.”
“I don’t have to know her. Honesty is etched in the lines of her face.” Grayson continued to draw. “Damn, I wish I could’ve painted her.”
“Once you have millions, you can hire any woman you want to be your model.” Nash threw a dart, and it hit the bull’s-eye dead center.
Grayson stopped sketching and smiled. “I can, can’t I?”
“And while you’re at it, you might want to buy some whiskers to fill in that sparse beard of yours.” Nash changed his aim. The sharp point of the next dart stuck in the back of Grayson’s sketchpad with a soft thunk.
Grayson hopped to his feet. “What the fuck, Nash? You could’ve put my eye out.”
Nash laughed. “Not likely. I always hit what I aim at.” To prove it, he tossed another dart. This one whizzed past Deacon’s cheek and embedded in the window frame.
Deacon lifted an eyebrow. “It seems that you’ve been away from home a little too long, Nash. You’ve forgotten the order of the food chain.”
“Maybe I’m just challenging it.” Nash got to his feet.
“You think you’re ready for that?”
“Only one way to find out.” He grinned. “Beaumont test?”
While most brothers’ test of strength consists of a little playful wrestling, the Beaumont brothers tested their prowess in the boxing ring. For some reason their father thought boxing a gentleman’s sport. Where he had gotten the idea, Deacon didn’t know. Probably from the same place he’d gotten the idea that it was a man’s duty to pleasure the women of the world. And while Deacon had refused to follow in his father’s womanizing footsteps, he had always enjoyed fighting—either in the ring or in a barroom brawl. There was something cathartic about the feel of a fist hitting flesh and bone. Not that he and his brothers ever punched each other with the intent to permanently damage. Although there had been a few accidental broken noses and knockouts.