The Bravo Billionaire. Christine Rimmer
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his mother had decided to give him a reason.
She’d known his one weakness, the weakness she herself had created by adopting the sprite. His weakness was Mandy. And Blythe had used Mandy—just as this dog groomer from Texas had used her.
“Ambrose,” Jonas said. “Thank you for answering my questions. Now, I have a few things to say to Ms. Hewitt. Leave us.”
Ambrose hesitated. Jonas knew why. The lawyer thought it unwise to leave the little Texan alone with him right then. After all, one could never be sure what the Bravo Billionaire might do when provoked.
In the past, when he’d been younger and less disciplined and his people did not do what he asked them to do, Jonas sometimes threw things. Expensive, very breakable things always worked best. Things that shattered satisfyingly on impact. Once, he’d thrown a Ming vase through a stained-glass window. And on another occasion, he’d tossed a Tiffany bowl at a marble fireplace. He had also, during what he thought of as his Great White Hunter phase—a short phase, really, though the scandal sheets liked to make much of it—stood his ground to bring down a charging rhinoceros. Beyond the rhino, the rumor mill had it that he’d wrestled alligators and won, and that he’d gone at a grizzly bear with only a hunting knife for a weapon.
He never denied such rumors. Why should he? Being considered fearless and unpredictable had always worked in his favor.
“Ambrose,” he said, making a warning of the name.
The lawyer shifted nervously in his chair and turned his worried gaze on the dog groomer. “Er, Ms. Hewitt. Perhaps you have some questions?”
And, right then, for the first time since Jonas had entered the room, the dog groomer spoke.
“It’s all right, Mr. McAllister.” Her voice was a honeyed Texas drawl. It crept along Jonas’s nerve endings, setting off little flares of annoying heat right below the surface of his skin. He found himself staring at the tiny mole, low down on her right cheek, midway between her pert nose and her soft lips.
“You go on now,” she said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Bravo alone.”
Chapter 2
Emma Lynn Hewitt could see that the lawyer was worried for her. And maybe he had good reason to be. It was probably plain crazy for her to volunteer to be alone with Blythe’s scary, overbearing son right then.
But come on. What could the man do to her, really? If looks could kill, she’d have keeled over stone dead when he walked in the room and spotted her sitting there.
He was probably going to say some ugly things. He might even throw something—that big crystal water pitcher on the credenza over there, or maybe even a swivel chair or two. She had heard he sometimes threw things. But to the best of her recollection, she hadn’t heard that he threw things at people.
No. She didn’t believe he would do anything to physically hurt her. He would just use words to try to beat her into submission. Well, sticks and stones, as her aunt Cass used to tell her all the time. Words, even the mean, hard words of Blythe’s big, scary son, could not hurt her unless she allowed them to.
This was not her fault, whatever Jonas Bravo chose to believe.
The lawyer coughed. “Ms. Hewitt. Are you certain about this?”
Emma reached out and gave the lawyer’s sleeve a nice little pat. “I’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry ’bout me.”
“Well. If you’re positive…”
She beamed him a giant-sized smile. “I am.”
Mr. McAllister picked up his glasses and stood. Emma watched the tall, kind-faced lawyer walk down the length of the big conference table and go out through the double doors. It was a lot easier looking at the lawyer than at the man who sat beside her with tension radiating off him like steam.
As soon as the door swung shut behind the lawyer, Blythe’s son spoke in that arresting voice of his, which was soft and deep and just a little bit rough, like velvet when you rub it against the grain.
“This is your doing, isn’t it?”
Emma sucked in a big breath through her nose. One of her best groomers and dearest friends, Deirdre Laventhol, was real big on yoga. In yoga, you always breathed through your nose.
It was supposed to be calming.
Emma slowly let the breath back out the same way she’d sucked it in. It didn’t help much. She still felt angry and confused and a little bit afraid of the man who was so determined to blame her for something she had not done. Her heart was beating too fast. Just racing away in there. And her hands felt clammy. She had to resist the urge to rub them on her skirt.
Oh, Blythe, she thought miserably, why did you do this? I told you I plain don’t like him. And he never liked me. I told you that.
But Blythe hadn’t listened. She was like that sometimes, once she got an idea in her head.
Emma would say, “I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me, either. He always gives me that narrow-eyed suspicious look, like he’s waiting for me to grab the silver and run—or to cheat you out of every last penny you own.”
And Blythe would say, “You’re wrong, Em. You don’t understand him. Naturally he’s hostile with you. He doesn’t want to admit the attraction. But you’re the woman for him. And he’s just right for you.” And then Emma would groan and order her friend to forget that idea. Blythe would always drop the subject about then, which left Emma assuming that her friend had gotten the message.
To assume, Aunt Cass used to say, makes an ass out of u and me, too…
Emma made herself look at him again. It wasn’t that he was so hard to look at. He was a big, muscular man in a high-dollar suit with a burning look in eyes that sometimes looked blue—and sometimes looked black as the darkest part of the night.
Not handsome. No. His features were too blunt, too…basic for that. Not handsome, but masculine. Emma had always thought that the air kind of vibrated with male energy whenever Jonas Bravo was around—even when he wasn’t ready to chew nails like he was now.
Women were supposed to be drawn to him “like moths to a dangerous flame.” Yep, she’d actually read that about him somewhere. Blythe had told her that his “playboy phase” had come to an end around the time he turned thirty. But during it, he’d dated the most beautiful and charming women in the world. Famous actresses. The stunning youngest daughter of one the nation’s oldest and wealthiest families. Not to mention a long string of starlets and showgirls from both the good old U.S. of A. and abroad.
Blythe had often mentioned oh so casually to Emma that in the past few years, Jonas had hardly dated at all. Blythe had said she considered that a good sign. She thought he was ready for the real thing, for the love of his life.
In fact, looking back now, it seemed to Emma that Blythe was constantly bringing up Jonas whenever she and her friend spent time together. It seemed, looking back, that she should have been warned that Blythe might do something crazy like this—something bizarre and extreme, something just next door to desperate, to try to get her and Jonas hooked up.
But then, Aunt Cass’d had a saying for that, too—the one about hindsight always being twenty-twenty.
“Don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent look,” the Bravo Billionaire growled. “Admit it. You set this up.”
Emma folded her clammy hands in front of her, yanked her shoulders up tall and looked him dead in the eye. Think bold, she told herself silently. Think one hundred percent completely unconcerned about the mean things this awful man is saying to you.
“Didn’t you?” he taunted.
She answered truthfully—as if the truth was going to do her a bit of good with this wild man. “I most certainly did not. I didn’t know a thing about it until I walked in here today.”
One