He chortles. “I’m not that bad. And I’m not letting you derail me.” He sobers. “Anyway, I heard about Julian.”
My good mood dissipates somewhat. “What about him?”
“Come on, you don’t have to play dumb. The paintings? The marriage stuff?”
I pause, doing my best to hide my shock and dismay and wondering how Nate found out.
“He told you and your brothers the only way you’re getting your grandfather’s portraits is if you all marry within six months. And stay married for a year.”
Julian. I close my eyes briefly. My petty, petty father. He imposed those conditions purely out of spite, mad because we missed his sixth wedding. Actually, I think his new bride was in a snit that my movie star brother Ryder didn’t show, and Dad decided to use the opportunity to make us dance to his tune.
Most of the time, he fails. We’re too successful, too set in our ways. Whatever strings he can pull, we can too.
But Grandpa’s paintings are another matter.
Grandpa Thomas was the only one who cared about us while we were growing up. Our parents dumped us in European boarding schools as soon as possible, ostensibly to give us the best education money could buy. During the breaks, they had endless reasons why we shouldn’t come home to America. So we were foisted on our grandfather in Tuscany. He lived there with his second wife, working on his art.
Unlike our parents, he kept in touch, calling us at least once a week, making sure we were doing all right. The schools started to call him instead of our mothers or fathers because they soon understood our parents weren’t interested in anything beyond wiring tuition payments. As a matter of fact, it outright annoyed them if the schools even contacted them to say we were doing well. To them, it was the schools’ job to educate us as they saw fit without requiring parental input. If instructors were incapable of that, what good were they?
My brothers and I adored Grandpa. I always felt like I stood in a spotlight of benevolence when I was with him. And the paintings in question are the portraits he did of us as we turned eighteen. He captured all our youthful potential on the canvas. And I have a special longing for my portrait because it almost didn’t get done, what with Shirley having been so unwilling to let me travel to Tuscany to sit for it. The only reason she finally allowed it was that things would have looked very strange if everyone had gotten theirs done except me. She cared a great deal about appearances.
Those paintings should’ve come directly to us when Grandpa died. But instead they ended up with Dad due to a poorly worded will. Dad swore he’d piss on them and set them on fire if we didn’t do as he demanded. It’s appalling, but there’s really no choice.
Still, that doesn’t mean I want the fact that I more or less have to get married to become public. I have my share of admirers and stalkers, and I don’t want to be even more of a target. I certainly don’t want to have to hire an army of bodyguards to keep the freaks away. I tried that once, and it was a horribly cumbersome and embarrassing experience. With those men tagging along everywhere, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without drawing attention.
“Nonsense,” I say, pasting on my best “are you kidding?” smile. “Who told you such a crazy story?”
“Justin.”
“He must have gotten something confused. I’m sure he has a lot on his plate, what with being the new head of Sterling & Wilson and all.” He also happens to be my cousin’s husband and a font of gossip and news.
“My brother isn’t usually wrong,” Nate says matter-of-factly. “He has his sources.”
Of course. All the sycophants who jockey and snivel for any favor they can curry with his family. Mine has them too.
“So you’re claiming Ryder and Elliot married for the paintings?” I ask, my tone light and incredulous.
“Didn’t they?”
I laugh. “We’re talking the Ryder Reed here. International playboy? Maybe the world’s biggest movie star? And Elliot? A guy with a billion dollars who makes homemade porn?” I had the misfortune of seeing a few clips because they were all over social media. “Come on. Nobody can make any of my brothers do anything.”
“That isn’t what I heard.”
Damn it. Nate isn’t buying my lies. He may say and do ridiculous things at times, but he can sniff out bullshit from the real deal.
“What I’m saying is,” Nate continues, “I can help.”
My mouth dries. I don’t want to hear what’s coming. To distract him, I move my shoulders a little in silent suggestion that he keep massaging.
He presses his lips to the back of my neck. My heart thunders. Oh, no.
“Marry me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dominic
Irritation pricks my chest like a persistent needle. I feel like strangling someone as I do my best to tune Annabelle out. She’s been talking endlessly—ever since she magically recovered from her fainting spell, which she staged right before we had to leave. Nothing makes theatrics end faster than an unsympathetic audience threatening to desert the scene. Her husband might play the part to humor her. Not me.