Chapter One
Eric
When the Kingston family decides to throw a party, it means no less than two hundred people at their twenty-thousand-square-foot Aspen estate, valets at the door, an abundance of Kingston Motors luxury cars in the drive, and money. Lots of money, because Jeff Kingston has nothing to do with anyone who doesn’t have money, aside from me, his bastard son, otherwise known as the backup heir just in case my half-brother kicks the bucket.
I exit the guest house, where I’m staying until my meeting with my father tomorrow, which I shouldn’t have accepted. I don’t know why the fuck I’m even here, aside from the fact that these people are supposed to be my people, and leaving the SEALs was like leaving family. It’s hard to let go of that need for a family unit. Family. Right. What the hell was I thinking? Like I could ever really be a Kingston.
I travel down a stone path shrouded in flowers and low hanging trees, twisting left and then right until I enter the courtyard filled with bodies in fancy dresses and tuxedos like the one I’m in now. A waiter walks by and I snag a glass of champagne when I’d rather have whiskey, but I’ll settle for anything to get me through tonight’s launch of a new model of car. I barely give a shit about the old model, which is exactly why my father shouldn’t want me to work for him. I walk to one of the few dozen standing tables covered in white tablecloths, down my drink and accept another when my gaze catches on a woman, on her and just her.
She’s standing on the other side of the pool, a princess in a strappy black dress, with flawless ivory skin and long brown hair, surrounded by her subjects. At least, that’s how she reads to me, no doubt like every other socialite I’ve ever met in this godforsaken world, and yet I’m watching her when I never watch them. There’s something about this woman, a white swan among the black swans on a pond made of money and death, my mother’s death more specifically, since that’s how I got here.
My princess must feel my attention because she tunes out the conversation she’s having with several other people, her chin lifting, her gaze sweeping wide and then catching mine. I don’t even think about looking away. I don’t care that she knows that I’m watching her. I don’t care if she knows that I’m thinking about fucking her. I’m the bastard in these parts. From the time I was thrust into this place right before my senior year of high school, I do what I do and everyone whispers about it. I’m not going to change that now. Let them whisper about what I want, and this woman, whoever the fuck she is, is worth the whispers.
The man next to her touches her elbow, his gaze shooting my direction, his jaw setting hard with anger. Priceless and so typical of my father’s class of people. He’s pissed at me for getting his woman’s attention. He should have fucked her better. My cellphone buzzes with a text message and I cut my stare, downing my champagne and then reaching for my phone to find a message from Grayson Bennett, a close friend from my first go at Harvard right before I left and went into the Navy. Unlike me, he’s no bastard, but rather the true heir to the Bennett empire.
Call me, his message reads, which is typical Grayson. He wants something, he asks, and usually with actual words, not a text message. And since we have unfinished business, I don’t want to be overheard, I walk toward the house where I know I can find both privacy and that whiskey I’m craving. Unfortunately, I might just find my way to the rightful heir to the throne, right along with our father as well, but at least I’ll make my showing and get the hell out of here.
“There he is. My brother.”
My jaw clenches at the sound of Isaac’s voice even before he steps into my path. Think of the devil and he shall appear, I think, but this time, at least he’s come bearing gifts. He offers me one of the two whiskey glasses he has in hand. “The good stuff. The kind we drink around these parts.”
He doesn’t mean “we” as in me and him. He means “we” as in the Kingston family, which excludes the likes of me. Our eyes lock and hold, the drama of the past, the hatred between us palpable, and I have no doubt the crackle of energy around us is the attention of the room. We are, after all, the much whispered about heir and the would-be heir who despise one another. Him the prince, with thick, dark hair and green eyes, while I’m simply the bastard, with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a good four inches on his short ass. He tells everyone he’s five-eleven, but we all know he’s five-nine. I don’t look like I’m his blood. I damn sure don’t feel like I’m his blood, but my mother made sure I can’t be denied. She ordered the DNA test that changed my life and not for the better in my opinion.
I accept the glass and his gaze flicks over my Rolex peeking from beneath my white dress shirt and lingers on my tat before a smirk lifts on his face. “Looks like someone got all inked up.”
“The bastard brother might as well look the role, right?”
“You’re never going to let me live down calling you that, now are you?”
“We both know you don’t want to live it down, but you will have to face me every day if I decide to join the company. It’s my turn to smirk. “We both know that didn’t go well for you at Harvard.” It’s a reminder of our shared college days, where everyone compared us, and he often came up short. “You must have been so damn relieved when I left school and entered the Navy, and frustrated as fuck that I’m back.”
His eyes spark with a familiar anger I don’t have to intentionally stir. He hates me for being the bastard child of his father’s mistress, the brother thrust on him only months after his mother died. An ironic turn of events considering my mother’s cancer. He steps closer, toe to toe with me, all up close and friendly. “If you think that because you’re some sort of SEAL Team Six hero or something, that I won’t buckle you right at the knees, you’re wrong. You will not take what is mine.”
“I see you two got right back into the brotherly love.”
At the sound of my father’s voice, Isaac grimaces and my lips quirk. “Seems we have,” I say, as Isaac rotates and we both face my father, who looks fit and trim in his tuxedo, and far younger than his fifty-four years, a mere hint of gray in his thick dark hair. “I have someone I want you to meet,” he says, and that’s when my little princess steps to his side, her crystal blue eyes meeting mine as my father says, “Eric. Meet your stepsister, Harper.”
