How they met, fell in love and married made the headlines. And I’m certain none of the publicity was by choice, because Anthony is so private that nobody knew why he left his family in Louisiana to move to Los Angeles…until all the articles about his family scandal came out.
The media probably didn’t report everything truthfully, though. They always try to make stories as sensational as possible, and if omitting a few facts can enhance the sensationalism, they do exactly that. Probably half my clients complain about it.
And even though I got to work for Anthony’s wife Ivy twice, introduced through Elizabeth Pryce-King, I never got to go to the mansion. That’s unusual; my clients generally prefer that I go to their homes because it’s more convenient for them. But not Ivy. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s a private person too, if she just isn’t used to bossing people around, or if there are secrets in the mansion. Then I laugh, because of course there aren’t any secrets. They just built the place…and this isn’t some messed-up fairytale.
The security panel at the edge of the estate accepts my guest code, and the wrought-iron gates part majestically to let me through. I park my car to one side, where other vehicles are, and climb out. The air smells of fresh flowers from an impressive garden, and the breeze is refreshing.
I take my time and admire the gorgeous landscape, complete with a huge water garden with mini tea candles floating on the calm surface. So many small lights glow in the evening, making the home look like a castle for fairies. It’s really lovely.
At the main door, I run into Yuna Hae, the party’s hostess. Her auburn hair is down, and she is in the cutest Chanel dress and shoes. I’ve never seen her look or dress badly—not that I’ve known her for long—and nothing hides her bubbly personality.
She hugs me. “Hey, you made it!”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” I say, hugging her back. “Is Kim here yet?”
“Nope. She’s being fashionably late, no doubt. But that doesn’t mean we don’t get to hang out and have fun! Come on, let me introduce you to some people.” She gestures, pulling me toward the center of the foyer. “You have no idea how thrilled I am because all of my favorite people are here, even Edgar.”
“Edgar?”
“Edgar Blackwood. Tony’s older brother. He spends almost all his time running the family business in Louisiana, you know. But I bet he wanted the special treat I prepared!” She waggles her eyebrows.
“A special treat? Like…a cake or something?”
“Oh, you’ll be amazed. It’s awesome.” She taps the back of a tall, dark-haired man. He’s talking with someone, but he turns around, green eyes sharp with interest.
I recognize him instantly. Anthony Blackwood. He’s pretty famous—and infamous—and not only due to his family scandal. He owns some of the best and most popular clubs in the world, including Z here in L.A.
He doesn’t seem as cold as his reputation would suggest, although he’s just as well dressed as the pictures I’ve seen. He’s very handsome, his features finely carved. If it weren’t for the firm lines of his lips and jaw, he’d be pretty.
“Tony, say hello to my friend, Jo Martinez. Jo, Anthony Blackwood.”
He shakes my hand firmly. “Anthony. Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” I say.
“Ivy’s talked about you. She always appreciates your help.”
My smile grows more genuine. “She’s so lovely.” It’s true. She’s one of the nicest people to work for.
“Have you met my brother?” He gestures at the man he was talking with, who comes half a step closer.
Anthony is certainly handsome enough, but his brother is…
Wow.
Normally I think clothes make the man, wielding the presence he needs if they have the right combination of color, material and cut. But in this case, clothes seem to be an afterthought. He’s tall, with magnificently broad shoulders that signal power and dominance. He stands with perfect posture, his back straight, his head angled just so to show the bold lines of his facial bones. His features aren’t as elegantly carved as Anthony’s, but there’s rawness to them that’s utterly masculine and hot. And his eyes… They’re green like Anthony’s, but different. Darker, deeper and completely controlled without being cold.
I wonder what they’d look like when they aren’t so controlled…
Suddenly, the place feels too hot.
My “no” to Anthony’s question comes out a near-breathless whisper. I clear my throat and add, “I don’t believe so,” then extend my hand. “Jo Martinez.”
“Edgar,” he says, with a hint of a Southern drawl. “Edgar Blackwood.” Dios mío, that voice that should be illegal. It brushes over me, as decadent as velvet, and I suppress a shiver as sensation seems to pool between my legs. How in the world is he making his name sound like my dirtiest fantasy? My grandmother would say he’s sold his soul to the devil.
He takes my hand in a soft fingers-only grip and gently pumps it twice. The contact sends a tingle up my arm, making my neck heat.
“Charmed,” he says.
“Ooh, how nice. Is that what Louisiana gentlemen say when they meet a lady?”
The green eyes crinkle slightly. “Depends on the lady.”
Oh my God. I bet tons of women sigh over him and make fools of themselves. I don’t want to be a cliché he won’t even remember two seconds from now.
But then I feel it… The soft, slow drag of his fingertips as though he loathes to let me go. And although he’s looking at me calmly enough, I can see a glimmer of heat in his eyes.
So this is a two-way street. And I can see that he knows it. We share a moment that Anthony and Yuna are not privy to, even though they’re standing right beside us.
Solemn and somber is not my type. Usually I date men who are easygoing and don’t take themselves or anyone else too seriously.
But maybe he just takes his responsibilities seriously. If I remember correctly, he’s the eldest Blackwood brother. Rafael acts like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, so that makes sense. I wonder what Edgar’s like in bed. Is he still serious, even when he’s naked and hard? Does he direct all that serious attention to licking and stroking and fucking?
I try to tamp down a vivid mental movie of Edgar doing exactly that, but desire sparks anyway. I don’t get it. I’m not the type to mind-strip a man I just met and fantasize about him. I’ve had plenty of hot male clients, and none of them made my hormones spin out of control.
“Would you like to get a drink?” he says, holding my eyes.
If you ask me in that voice, the answer will always be…
“Yes.”
Chapter Two
Edgar
I lead Jo to the huge open area where Yuna had her team of caterers and servers set up the food and drinks. And the entire time, my heart is pumping a little bit faster and my blood is growing a little too hot, pooling in my dick.
For a second I wonder if the finger of scotch I had on the plane was laced with some illicit chemical compound. Why else would I get turned on by a handshake? It’s weird. Maybe even deviant.