How to Undo the Proud Billionaire
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Joss Wood
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16.4K
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10
CHAPTER ONE
“YOUR PHONE IS RINGING.”
In his expansive corner office on the top floor of their company headquarters, Radd Tempest-Vane pulled his attention off the report in his hand, his eyes bouncing from his brother’s face to his smartphone, just released to the market, half-buried by a pile of reports. He pulled it free, cursed when papers fell to the expensive carpeting and turned the phone to show Digby the screen.
“Naledi Radebe.” Frustration jumped into Digby’s navy blue eyes, so like Radd’s own. They had been born eleven months apart and had on occasion been mistaken for twins. All three Tempest-Vane brothers shared the same dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and six-foot-plus height. Radd ignored the suddenly tight grip on his heart. So much time had passed, but sometimes he still thought of Jack in the present tense.
He probably always would.
“Are you going to answer her call?” Digby asked from the sleek leather couch next to Radd’s desk, his eyes already back on the screen of the laptop resting on his knees. Every few weeks, depending on their schedules, he and Digby met—either here or at Digby’s equally luxurious office at The Vane—to strategize, plan and discuss supersensitive, for-their-eyes-only company information.
“No, I’m busy. All the arrangements for her wedding to Johnathan Wolfe have been finalized and he’s happy.”
Radd returned his attention to his laptop. He didn’t have time to deal with the attention-seeking socialite today. The last time he checked, he and his brother had a massive international empire to run, deals to make, new markets to conquer.
An empire to restore to its former glory, a family name to rehabilitate and a multi-billion-dollar deal to protect.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling bank of electrochromic glass was an extraordinary view of Table Mountain and the endlessly fascinating Atlantic Ocean seaboard. If he was in the habit of looking out of the window, Radd might’ve noticed that it was a perfect day to spend on the beach or, at the very least, outside.
But Radd’s attention never strayed far from business so, instead of looking at his stunning view, his eyes flicked over to the massive electronic screen on the wall opposite him to look at the changes he’d made on the complicated spreadsheet they were working on. Something looked off with the figures; he’d made a mistake somewhere. Radd gritted his teeth and scraped his hand over his face, trying to wipe away his frustration. He wasn’t in the habit of making unforced errors, and wasting time upped his annoyance levels.
His phone jangled and, once again, he let the call go to voice mail.
“It’s your fault for agreeing to play wedding planner,” Digby commented.
“Naledi thinks that because her father tied the purchase of the mine to her wedding, she can boss me about. Dammit, I’m far too busy to play wedding planner,” Radd growled.
“And too rich and too important...” Digby mocked him.
Dig was the only one allowed to tease him, and nobody could cut him down to size quicker than his silver-tongued sibling.
Radd was more acerbic, impatient and abrupt than his brother. A previous lover once called him robotic and, had he cared enough to respond—he hadn’t—he might’ve agreed with her assessment. Feelings were messy, prickly and uncomfortable, and thanks to his narcissistic parents and his brother Jack’s death, he’d cultivated an attitude of stoicism, training himself not to react, to get perturbed, upset or excited.
Though, knowing he was a week away from acquiring the mine almost tempted his habitually unemotional heart to flutter.
Initially, it had been Jack’s burning ambition to rebuild the Tempest-Vane group of companies; he’d been almost evangelical in his quest to restore respect to the family name. For generations, their ancestors had been on the right side of history and people from all walks of life had known that, despite their immense wealth, the Tempest-Vanes stood for equality, freedom and tolerance.
Then the businesses and assets fell into their father’s hands and the Tempest-Vane name became synonymous with excess, dissipation, laziness and entitlement. And all those excesses had been splashed on the front pages of tabloids, locally and internationally.
It was hard enough to be the child of celebrity parents, but it had been hell being the sons of Gil and Zia Tempest-Vane.
Radd leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, remembering the humiliation he had felt every time a scandal hit the papers. Jack, as the eldest, frequently took them to task, but Gil and Zia ignored his pleas to calm down, to stay out of the news. And then they stopped taking his calls or replying to his emails.
None of the brothers were particularly surprised when their parents’ lackadaisical efforts to stay in touch dwindled to infrequent text messages and once-a-year, if they were lucky, visits.
Then Jack died and their parents’ behavior—before, during and after the funeral—was the final straw.
Although their escapades still hit the gossip columns with alarming and irritating frequency, years passed with no contact between them. Then, a year and some months ago, Radd received an email from his father, demanding a meeting with his sons. They were coming home, and there was someone they wanted them to meet...
The next news they had of their parents was of their deaths; Gil and Zia’s car had left the road in Southern California and crashed into the sea below. Radd still wondered who was so important to his parents that they were prepared to reach out and break the almost twenty-year silence.
He had a vague theory, but no proof to back it up.
Radd sighed, glanced at the spreadsheet and was reminded of what they were doing and why. He’d been sixteen when he realized all the family businesses were gone, along with most of the once-impressive Tempest-Vane fortune. Somehow, his parents had not only managed to strip the company of its most valuable assets, but also spend a good portion of the proceeds of the sales. The rest they had squirreled into untouchable trusts.
And they’d managed to do it on the q.t. To this day, Radd abhorred secrets and surprises.
Now, thanks to a little luck and lots of sweat—he didn’t do tears—the ranch and The Vane, the beloved Cape Town icon and the hotel Digby so loved, were back under their ownership.
But the final contract had yet to be signed, and Vincent Radebe, the current owner of the diamond mine they were trying to reacquire, and his demanding daughter stood between them and their end goal. The Sowetan-based businessman hadn’t been shy about tacking on some nonbusiness-related demands. His youngest child, and only daughter, was recently engaged and he was determined to give her the wedding of her dreams.
Because the Tempest-Vane brothers owned the most exclusive and sophisticated hotel and wedding venue in Cape Town, Vincent wanted the reception to be held at The Vane. Vincent also demanded Radd accommodate the wedding party at Kagiso Ranch, their six-star, phenomenally exclusive game reserve, for the week leading up to the wedding. All at cost.
Frustratingly, Radd could only find an opening for both venues eight months after his and Vincent’s initial discussion, thus delaying the sale. They couldn’t launch the extensive PR campaign, and the rebranding of the Tempest-Vane group of companies—reassociating their surname with corporate social responsibility and social justice instead of their parent’s wild life, dissoluteness and licentiousness—until they owned the mine.
Radd’s low store of patience had run out seven and a half months ago.
His phone rang again, and Radd snatched it up, thoroughly annoyed. “Naledi, what’s the problem?”
“Radd, my life is ruined!” Naledi wailed. Radd rolled his eyes as he put his phone on speaker. “Everything is falling apart!”
“Of course her life is tough, she only received twenty-one million on her twenty-first birthday,” Digby murmured, loud enough for Radd, but not Naledi, to hear.
Radd knew what Digby was thinking: when they were twenty-one and twenty-two, they’d ceased all contact with their dysfunctional and narcissistic parents and the only cash they had had access to was in a trust fund set up by their grandfather to pay for their education. Luckily, Gray Tempest-Vane vastly overestimated the amount needed to pay for their education and they’d taken every extra cent they had had and invested in a tech company developing a new type of payment system for internet transactions.
One small online retailer had picked up their system, then another and then they had landed Yours!, one of the three biggest online retailers in the world. The offers to buy them out had started rolling in and, five years ago, they had sold the company to a tech giant, and Radd and Digby had become two of the youngest billionaires in the world. Still, certain financial doors remained closed, thanks to their father’s legacy of defaulting on loans and being economical with the truth. Vincent Radebe was a case in point, but they’d persisted.
Radd intended to change the collective mindset of the old school captains of commerce and industry.
“What’s the problem, Naledi?” Radd demanded, gripping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“The flowers have arrived at Kagiso Lodge...”
“And?” Radd asked, eyeing the mountain of work he needed to plough through before the end of the weekend. Because life was currently finding it fun to screw with him, Vincent wanted him to host the pre-wedding party so, the first thing on Monday morning, he was flying to Kagiso Lodge.
Just shoot him now.
“The flowers are there, but my florist isn’t! She’s had the gall to schedule an operation for appendicitis.”
“What do you want me to do about it, Naledi?”
“Find me another florist, Radd,” Naledi demanded in her breathy, baby-doll voice. Radd wasn’t fooled; Naledi was her father’s daughter and below her gorgeous surface resided a band of tungsten, a hard layer of give-me-what-I-want-now.
Jesus wept. Radd was worth over a billion dollars and he’d been reduced to asking “How high?” when the Radebes said “Jump.” Normally, he was the one who issued orders, who expected to be obeyed, who made demands and expected others to work their asses off to give him what he wanted before he wanted it.
The ill-fitting, uncomfortable shoe was on the other foot, and Radd didn’t care for the sensation.
“The staff at the lodge have all taken flower arranging courses, Naledi,” Digby interjected in a reasonable tone. He mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
“I will not settle for less than the best!”
“Then we’ll most definitely find you a florist and we’ll make sure they are at the ranch tonight,” Digby told her, sounding ridiculously reasonable. Radd sent him a heated What the hell? look, and Digby mimed the word Mine. Then, in case Radd didn’t catch his meaning the first time, he mimed the word again.
Right. Gotcha.
After agreeing to find Naledi a florist, Radd disconnected his call, immediately pulled up another number and impatiently waited for his assistant to answer his call.
As briefly as possible, he told Andrew what he wanted. “Find me a florist, get them to meet me at the office at two-thirty. I’ll fly them to Kagiso tonight and return them to Cape Town when they’re done. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”
“Rate?” Andrew asked.
“I don’t care, just get me someone good.”
Radd disconnected and looked longingly at the state-of-the-art coffee machine on the far side of the room. Normally Andrew provided him with a steady supply of caffeine but, since the offices were empty, as he and Digby were discussing sensitive corporate and financial matters, it was self-serve. And, somehow, despite both of them having above-average IQs and post-graduate degrees in business, neither he nor Digby could make a decent cup of coffee.
Radd tried to ignore the headache building behind his eyes. “Andrew will work on the florist problem.”
“I doubt he’s going to find a celebrity florist who’ll drop everything to fly to Kagiso at a moment’s notice.”
Radd wasn’t so sure. Despite being a relentless pain in his ass, the Radebes were an influential African family, and working for them would add cachet to anyone’s resume. Kagiso Ranch was also one of most exclusive safari destinations in the world and, while they tried to fly under the radar, he and Digby were two of the country’s richest, and therefore most eligible, bachelors. Between them and the Radebes, there was serious name recognition.
Digby nodded, rolled his shoulders and pulled his laptop toward him. “Well, there’s nothing we can do until then.”
Radd looked at his watch, a vintage Rolex Daytona, one of only a few in the world. It had been his grandfather’s, then Jack’s, and it was his most prized possession. He set a mental alarm. Three hours had to be more than enough time for Andrew to find someone because, really...
How difficult could it be to toss some flowers into a vase?
Brinley Riddell noticed a Porsche Cayenne reversing out of a parking space right in front of the path leading to the beach and swung her nineteen-sixties Beetle Betsy into the spot, ignoring the angry hoots of the driver she’d cut off.
You snooze, you lose.
As she yanked up her handbrake and pulled the key from the ignition, her cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. Seeing her best friend’s profile picture on her screen, she swiped her screen to read the message.
What are you doing tonight and tomorrow?
Was that a trick question?
I’m dining with Bradley Cooper tonight and brunching with Oprah at The Vane at nine.
Brinley grinned at her facetious reply. She and Abby, friends since school, shared a small cottage in Bo Kaap, and Abby knew reading was Brin’s favorite way to spend a Saturday night.
Abby, the queen of Cape Town’s clubbing scene, replied with a short, pithy sentence and a couple of rolling eye emojis.
You’ve got to get a life, Brin. Good thing I’m here to make that happen.
Brin didn’t reply because a) she wanted to get to the beach, and b) they’d had this argument a hundred times before. Brin was very happy to spend the evening alone, while Abby needed people and attention like she needed air to breathe. In that way she was very much like Brin’s influencer, socialite sister Kerry, but, thankfully, in every other way that was important, she wasn’t.
She wasn’t rude or mean or self-absorbed or selfish. Abby liked men but, unlike Brin’s half sister, she didn’t use or play games with them. Abby wasn’t high maintenance.
In a smooth, much-practiced movement, Brin shoved her hand through the open window and grabbed the outside handle to open her door. None of her car doors locked but, by some miracle, her car had yet to land in a chop shop. Maybe it was the bright pink-and-rust color or maybe car thieves had standards, but so far, so good.
Slamming her car door shut, Brinley stepped onto the pavement and pushed her soft, loose curls off her face. It was one of those perfect African days. The summer sun was high in the sky but a soft wind kept the temperature from being unbearable. Standing at the top of the steep set of stairs leading to the beach, she smiled, struck as she always was by the beauty of the white sand and turquoise water. This was one of her favorite beaches and, since moving to Cape Town six months ago, she’d spent many of her free days down here, swimming, reading and, because she could, ogling the hot surfers and the volleyball players.
Looking was always fun, but Brin had a strict “Look, don’t engage” policy. When she’d left Johannesburg, she’d promised herself that she’d give herself all the time she needed to find herself, to discover who she was and what she stood for...
She was a very messy work in progress and dating added complications she didn’t need. And men weren’t, let’s be honest here, anywhere as satisfying as coffee, chocolate or bacon.
Brin leaned her butt against the door of her car and tipped her face to the sun, loving the gentle heat on her skin. She pulled in a series of deep breaths, telling herself that there was no need to rush, that she was allowed to stand still, to take a breath and to take the moment.
There were no emails to answer, text messages to look at, a demanding sister/boss to run after, people to please. It had taken all her strength and a great deal of courage to walk away from her dominating mother and sister, and she constantly reminded herself that she no longer answered to anyone and was a free agent...or she was trying to be.
God, leaving them had been the one and only thing she’d ever done for herself and by herself, and had she not, she would’ve lost herself forever. It had been so damn close...
Brin stared out to sea, trying and failing to remember a time when Kerry’s wants, needs and ambitions weren’t crucially important. Their family revolved around her half sister, and Brin might have still been in Johannesburg, working as Kerry’s very underappreciated personal assistant, had she not caught her sister kissing her boyfriend.
As long as lived she’d never forget their glib, unremorseful responses.
“Look, let’s be honest here. Your sister is smarter, incredibly successful and so much sexier than you. What was I supposed to say when she suggested we hook up...no?”
Well, Malcolm, yes.
Kerry’s eyes had held malice as she had twisted the knife of betrayal. “And, darling, don’t you think that you are punching above your weight with Malcolm?”
Strangely, Kerry’s betrayal and her mother’s reaction to the situation hurt far more than discovering Malcolm was a cheating jerk. On hearing about their fight, their mom instantly dismissed Brin’s feelings and, without hesitation or thought, defended Kerry’s actions, reminding her that her half sister was special, that she should be given a pass because she was beautiful and super famous. And really, who could blame Malcolm for choosing Kerry over her?
Everyone did. And always would.
Standing there, feeling slapped by her mother’s dismissive words, being told she was overreacting, Brin knew she needed to leave, to run, as hard and as fast as she could.
By the next morning she was in Cape Town and, so far, she’d resisted their constant pleas, demands and manipulations to return home because, deep down, she knew her only role was to make their lives easier.
She’d swapped her garden flat for a tiny second bedroom in Abby’s house, the use of Kerry’s Benz for wheezy Betsy, and her waitressing job barely covered her bills. But she was free of criticism, of being micromanaged, of standing in her sister’s very long shadow. In Cape Town, she could breathe.
She could be Brin.
That was, if she lasted in Cape Town. Brin thought about her depleted bank account and rubbed the back of her neck. She’d picked up a couple of gigs doing floral designs to supplement the money she earned from waitressing, but living in Cape Town was pricey and her expenses far outstripped her income. Her savings were depleted and, if something didn’t change soon, she was heading for trouble.
Might-have-to-go-home or ask-my-family-for-a loan trouble. Bleurgh.
About to walk down the steps, Brin heard the low rumble of an expensive car and watched as a deep red supercar swung into the parking lot. This was Clifton, one of the wealthiest parts of the country, so seeing seriously expensive cars wasn’t a novelty, but this was a James Bond car: glamorous, powerful and just a little, or a lot, dangerous.
And sexy. Brin was surprised to see the beast slide into the just-vacated parking spot next to hers. It was a beautiful machine, but not her style. She’d be terrified to drive it, thinking that the smallest scratch would cost her a few years’ salary to fix.
Who needed that sort of pressure? Betsy got her, wheezing and spluttering, where she needed to go.
Brin felt the heat from the pavement burning through her cheap flip-flops, the heat of the sun on her bare shoulders. She couldn’t wait to dive into the water; she was in desperate need of some Vitamin Sea.
“Brinley Riddell?”
Brinley slowly turned at the deep, growly voice and saw the driver of the supercar looking at her. He was tall, broad and whip-her-breath-away good-looking. Brin sighed when he rested his thick arms on the car roof, his big biceps pulling the fabric of his shirt against his skin.
Hot, hot, hot. And...kill me now.
Unlike his brother, Radd Tempest-Vane stayed out of the gossip columns, but Brin instantly recognized the city’s sexiest and most elusive bachelor billionaire. He was even better looking, if that was at all possible, than the photos she’d see of him in magazines and online. His wavy hair was, in real life, a deep, rich brown, his face more angles and planes, and his mouth a great deal grimmer than she remembered. And those eyes, God, his eyes...
Navy blue most would call them. But, to Brinley, they were the color of the inside of a blue pansy or the deep, dark shade of blue delphiniums. They were eyes holding a thousand secrets...
Her knees a little soft, Brin leaned back against Betsy as he approached her, idly wondering what the hell Radd Tempest-Vane, her best friend’s boss’s boss, was doing here at two-thirty in the afternoon. Since he was dressed in casual chinos and an untucked white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tanned arms corded with muscle on display, she presumed he wasn’t headed for the beach.
His body was staggering, all leashed power and feline grace. When their eyes connected, fireworks exploded on her skin and, deep inside, her womb throbbed, wanting or needing some intangible thing—unexplainable, unfamiliar.
“You are Brinley Riddell?” Radd demanded as he approached her.
He was here because he was looking for her. Brin swallowed and swallowed again. Why?
“Yes, I’m Brin,” Brin said, watching as he echoed her stance and leaned his butt against his car, facing her. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants, his expression inscrutable.
“My name is Radd Tempest-Vane.”
They both knew that she knew who he was, so Brin wasn’t sure why he bothered to introduce himself.
“I know.” Brin yanked her eyes off him and gestured to his car. “Nice car,” she said, wanting to break the silence between them. “What is it?”
“Aston Martin DBS Superleggera,” Radd curtly replied, his eyes not leaving her face. She felt pinned to the tarmac, unable to move.
Her stomach whirled and swirled, and all the moisture from her mouth disappeared. She wondered whether his mouth would soften when he kissed her, how his hands would feel on her naked skin. Brinley just knew that Radd was the type of guy who could give her everything she needed sexually and a great deal of what she never knew she wanted.
So this was what sexual chemistry felt like...
If Malcolm was out of your league, sister dear, then Radd Tempest-Vane inhabits a galaxy far, far away. He’s dated A-list Hollywood celebrities, international supermodels and, on occasion, a princess or two.
Brin did not appreciate hearing Kerry’s voice in her head and she silently cursed. She was not going to build him up into some mythical creature just because he was crazy-rich, famous and lava-hot. It was a sure bet that Radd, like her sister, was another bright spotlight, drawing energy from those around him to shine.
It’s just attraction, Brin reminded herself, a biological urge. It didn’t mean anything...she wouldn’t let it.
Brin gave herself a mental slap and ordered her body to return some blood to her head so she could think. When she felt like she could construct a proper sentence, she pushed her sunglasses into her hair and lifted her chin. “You know my name and you aren’t dressed for an afternoon on the beach, so I presume you are here, looking for me.”
“I am.” Radd nodded but didn’t elaborate.
Okay, was she going to have to have to pull teeth to get him to explain? “Would you like to tell me why?”
Because, honestly, she had no idea what Africa’s sexiest billionaire could want with her. Unlike her sister, she was neither bold nor beautiful. She didn’t socialize in the same circles he did; hell, she didn’t socialize at all. She was everything he wasn’t: run-of-the-mill, down-to-earth, habitually penniless.
Brin saw something flash in his eyes, an emotion she didn’t recognize. Confusion? Surprise? If he hadn’t been Radd Tempest-Vane, with a reputation for being ruthless, cucumber-cool and hard as a rock, she might’ve thought he was feeling a little off-balance.
No, she was just projecting her feelings onto him. After all, being tracked down by a billionaire at the beach was something that happened in romance novels, not to ordinary girls living ordinary lives. From what she knew of him, and it wasn’t much, this Tempest-Vane brother was tough and determined, a prime example of an alpha male who didn’t suffer fools. He had a reputation for going after what he wanted and not stopping until he achieved his goal. He was shrewd, powerful and intimidating.
“My PA has spent most of the morning trying to find me a florist to do some arrangements at my ranch before a wedding party arrives midmorning Monday. He was not successful in his quest to find me a celebrity florist at short notice,” Radd said, his tone businesslike.
Brin wasn’t surprised. It was the end of spring, and the wet and dismal Cape weather had retreated, leaving warm days and cooler nights. It was a busy time for functions, parties and weddings.
“After being unsuccessful at reaching anyone, my assistant called his assistant for help, and she suggested you.”
God bless Abby, Brin thought. “You need a floral designer?”
Radd gave her a try-to-keep-up look. Along with gorgeous and ripped, he was arrogant, too.
Fabulous.
But if he was offering work, she’d jump at his offer, any offer. All she needed was an idea of what the client wanted, the flowers—obviously—and supplies. She was good at what she did, she just needed a chance to prove it. And doing work for a Tempest-Vane brother, or for one of his companies, would be a bright, shiny gold star on her résumé.
And, as a bonus, her bank would stop sending her you-are-low-on-funds reminders.
“I can help you,” Brin told him, trying to not to sound too eager. “When do you need me to start, where must I be and how much are you going to pay me?”
“Now, at Kagiso Ranch and twenty-five thousand.”
Right. Well. Brin placed her hand on Betsy to stabilize herself.
Holy damn, Superman.
