Trust Fund Fiancé
highlight_author
Naima Simone
highlight_reads
18,9K
highlight_chapters
18
HarlequinOne
A man had a few pleasures in life.
For Ezekiel “Zeke” Holloway, they included kicking back on the black leather couch in the den of the three-bedroom guesthouse that he and his older brother, Luke, shared on the Wingate family estate. He had an ice-cold beer in one hand, a slice of meat lovers pizza in the other and Pittsburgh playing on the mounted eighty-five-inch flat-screen television. Granted, he might’ve been born and bred in Texas, but his heart belonged to the Steelers.
And then there was this. He lifted the dark brown cigar with its iconic black-and-red label and studied the smoldering red tip before bringing it to his lips and inhaling. A hint of pepper and chocolate, toasted macadamia nuts and, of course, the dark flavor of cognac. It could be addictive...if he allowed it to be. These cigars cost fifteen thousand dollars a box. Which was why he only permitted himself to enjoy one per month. Not because he couldn’t afford to buy more. It was about discipline; he mastered his urges, not vice versa.
And in a world that had suddenly become unfamiliar, cold and uncertain, he needed to believe he could control something in his life. Even if it was when he smoked a cigar.
He sighed, bracing a hand on the balcony column and slowly exhaling into the night air. Behind him, the muted hum of chatter filtered through the closed glass doors. Guests gathered in the cavernous parlor behind him. James Harris, current president of the Texas Cattleman’s Club—of which Ezekiel was a member—hosted the “small” dinner party. As a highly successful horse breeder in Royal, Texas, and a businessman, James commanded attention without trying. And when he invited a person to his elegant, palatial home, he or she attended.
Even if they would be rubbing elbows with the newly infamous Wingates.
Bringing the cigar to his lips again, Ezekiel stared out into the darkness. Beneath the blanket of the black, star-studded night, he could barely make out the stables, corrals and long stretch of land that made up James’s property. He rolled his shoulders, as if the motion could readjust and shift the cumbersome burden of worry, anger and, yes, fear that seemed to hang around his neck like an albatross. It was ludicrous, but he could practically feel the hushed murmurs crawl over his skin through his black dinner jacket and white shirt like the many legs of a centipede. He could massage his chest and still nothing would alleviate the weight of the censure—the press of the guilty verdicts already cast his and his family’s way.
Not even the influence and support of James Harris could lessen that.
Lucky for Ezekiel and his family that the denizens of Royal high society hungered for a party invitation from James more than they wanted to outright ostracize the Wingates.
Ezekiel snorted, his lips twisting around the cigar. Thank God for small favors.
“And here I thought I’d found the perfect escape hatch.”
Ezekiel jerked his head to the side at the husky, yet very feminine drawl. His mouth curved into a smile. And not the polite, charming and utterly fake one he’d worn all evening. Instead, true affection wound through him like a slowly unfurling ribbon.
Reagan Sinclair glided forward out of the shadows and into the dim glow radiating from the beveled glass balcony doors. It was enough to glimpse her slender but curvaceous body. The high thrust of her small but firm breasts. The fingertip-itching dip of her waist and intriguing swell of her hips. As she drew nearer to him and a scent that reminded him of honeysuckle and cream teased his nostrils, he castigated himself.
At twenty-six, Reagan was only four years his junior, but she was good friends with his cousin Harley, and he’d known her most of her life. She was as “good girl” as they came, with her flawless pedigree and traditional upbringing. Which meant she had no business being out here with him in his current frame of mind.
Not when the dark, hungry beast he usually hid behind carefree, wide grins and wry jokes clawed closer to the surface.
Not when the only thing that usually satisfied that animal was a willing woman and hot, dirty sex. No...fucking.
Ezekiel blew out a frustrated breath. Yes, he’d had sex, but made love to a woman? No, he hadn’t done that in eight long years.
If he had any sense or the morals that most believed he didn’t possess, he would put out his cigar, gently grasp her by the elbow and escort her back to her parents. Away from him. He should—
Reagan touched him.
Just the feel of her slim, delicate hand on his biceps was like a cooling, healing balm. It calmed the anger, the fear. Leashed the hunger. At least so he could meet her thickly lashed, entirely too-innocent eyes and not imagine seeing them darken with a greedy lust that he placed there.
“I know why I’m hiding,” he drawled, injecting a playfulness he was far from feeling into his voice. “What’s your excuse?”
Those eyes, the color of the delicious chicory coffee his mother used to have shipped from New Orleans, softened, understanding somehow making them more beautiful. And horrible.
He glanced away.
On the pretense of finishing his smoke, he shifted to the side, inserting space between them. Not that he could escape that damn scent that seemed even headier with her so close. Or the sharp-as-a-razor’s-edge cheekbones. Or the lush, downright impropriety of her mouth. The smooth bronze of her skin that damn near gleamed...
You’ve known her since she was a girl. You have no business thinking of her naked, sweating and straining beneath you.
Dammit. He narrowed his gaze on the moon-bleached vista of James’s ranch. His dick wasn’t having any of that reasoning though. Too bad. He had enough of a shit storm brewing in his life, in his family, in Wingate Enterprises. He refused to add screwing Reagan Sinclair to it.
In a life full of selfish decisions, that might be the cherry on top of his asshole sundae.
And regardless of what some people might think, he possessed lines he didn’t cross. A sense of honor that had been drilled into him by his family before he’d even been old enough to understand what the word meant. And as a little dented and battered as the Wingate name might be right now, they were still Wingates.
That meant something here in Royal.
It meant something to him.
“Let’s see.” She pursed her lips and tapped a fingernail against the full bottom curve. “Should I start alphabetically? A, avoiding my parents introducing me to every single man here between the ages of twenty-two and eighty-two. B, boring small talk about the unseasonably hot summer—it’s Texas, mind you—gel versus acrylic nails and, my personal favorite, whether MTV really did need a reboot of The Hills. Which, the only answer to that is no. And C, karma—I avoided every one of Tracy Drake’s calls last week because the woman is a terrible gossip. And now I find out that I’m seated next to her at dinner.”
He snorted. “I’m pretty sure karma starts with a K,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
“I know.” She shrugged a slim shoulder, a smile riding one corner of her mouth. “I couldn’t think of anything for C.”
Their soft laughter rippled on the night air, and for the first time since arriving this evening, the barbed tension inside him loosened.
“And I just needed air that didn’t contain politics, innuendo or cigar smoke,” she continued. The velvet tone called to mind tangled, sweaty sheets at odds with her perfectly styled hair and immaculately tailored, strapless cocktail dress that spoke of unruffled poise. Even as Ezekiel’s rebellious brain conjured up images of just how much he could ruffle her poise, she slid him a sidelong glance. “One out of three isn’t bad.”
Again, the miraculous happened, and he chuckled. Enjoying her. “I know it would be the gentlemanly thing to put this out...” he lifted the offending item between them “...but it’s one of my few vices—”
“Just a few?” she interrupted, a dimple denting one of her cheeks.
“And I’m going to savor it,” he finished, shooting her a mock frown for her cheekiness. Cute cheekiness. “Besides, no one in there would accuse me of being a gentleman.”
Dammit. He hadn’t meant to let that slip. Not the words and definitely not the bitterness. He was the carefree jokester of the Holloway brothers. He laughed and teased; he didn’t brood. But these last few months had affected them all. Turned them into people they sometimes didn’t recognize.
Talk and accusations of corruption and fraud did that to a person.
So did a headlong tumble from a pedestal, only to discover those you’d known for years were only wearing the masks of friends, hiding their true faces underneath. Vultures. Sharks.
Predators.
He forced a smile, and from the flash of sadness that flickered across her lovely features, the twist of his lips must’ve appeared as fake as it felt. For a moment, anger that wasn’t directed at himself for fucking caring about the opinions of others blazed within him. Now it was presently aimed at her. At her pity that he hated. That he probably deserved.
And he resented that more.
“Gentlemen are highly overrated,” she murmured, before he could open his mouth and let something mean and regrettable pour out. Her quiet humor snuffed out the flame of his fury. Once more the utter calm of her presence washed over him, and part of him wanted to soak in it until the grime of the past few months disappeared from his skin, his mind, his heart. “Besides, I want to hear more about some of these vices.”
“No, you don’t,” he contradicted.
Unable to resist, he snagged a long, loose wave resting on her shoulder. He pinched it, testing the thickness, the silkiness of it between his thumb and forefinger. It didn’t require much imagination to guess how it would feel whispering across his bare chest, his abdomen. His thighs. Soft. Ticklish. And so damn erotic, his cock already hardened in anticipation. As if scalded by both the sensation and the too-hot mental image, he released his grip, tucking the rebellious hand in his pants pocket.
Giving himself time to banish his impure thoughts toward his cousin’s friend, he brought the cigar to his mouth. Savoring the flavor of chocolate and cognac. Letting it obscure the illusory taste of honeysuckle, vanilla and female flesh.
“You’re too young for that discussion,” he added, silently cursing the roughness of his tone.
“Oh really?” She tilted her head to the side. “You do know I’m only four years younger than you, right? Or are you having trouble with remembering things at your advanced old age of thirty?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Brat,” he rumbled.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she said, something murkier than the shadows they stood in shifting in her eyes. But then she smiled, and the warmth of it almost convinced him that the emotion had been a trick of the dark. “So don’t hold back. And start with the good stuff. And by good, I mean very, very bad.”
He exhaled, studying her through the plume of fragrant smoke he blew through slightly parted lips. “You think you can handle my bad, Ray?” he taunted, deliberately using the masculine nickname that used to make her roll her eyes in annoyance.
Anything to remind him that he’d once caught her and Harley practicing kissing on his cousin’s pillows. That she used to crush on boy bands with more synthesizers than talent. That he’d wiped her tears and offered to pound on the little shit that had bullied her on the playground over something she couldn’t change—her skin color.
Anything to reinforce that she wasn’t one of the women whose front doors would witness his walks of shame.
With an arch of a brow, she leaned forward so she couldn’t help but inhale the evaporating puff. “Try me,” she whispered.
A low, insistent throb pulsed low in his gut, and his abs clenched, as if grasping for that familiar but somehow different grip of desire.
Desire. For Reagan? Wrong. So damn wrong.
Coward, a sibilant voice hissed at him. And he mentally flipped it off, shifting backward and leaning a shoulder against a stone column.
“Let’s see,” he said, valiantly injecting a lazy note of humor into his voice. “I can put away an entire meat lovers pizza by myself and not use a coaster for my beer. I’m unreasonably grouchy if I’m awake before the god-awful hour of seven o’clock. Especially if there’s no coffee to chase away my pain. And—this one I’m kind of embarrassed to admit—I buy at least five pairs of socks every month. Apparently, my dryer is a portal to a world where mismatched socks are some kind of special currency. And since I can’t abide not matching, I’m constantly a spendthrift on new pairs. There. You now know all of my immoralities.”
A beat of silence, and then, “Really?”
He smirked. “Really,” he replied, then jerked his chin up. “Your turn. Regale me with all of your sins, little Ray.”
As he’d expected, irritation glinted in her chocolate eyes. “I have no idea how I can follow that, but here goes.” He huffed out a low chuckle at the thick sarcasm coating her words. “Every night, I slip downstairs after everyone has gone to bed and have a scotch by myself. No one to judge me, you see? Since my nightly ritual could be early signs of me becoming an alcoholic like my uncle James. What else?”
She hummed, trailing her fingertips over her collarbone, her lashes lowering in a pretense of deep thought. But Ezekiel knew better. She’d already given this a lot of consideration. Had already catalogued her perceived faults long before this conversation.
Acid swirled in his stomach, creeping a path up his chest. He straightened from his lounge against the pillar, prepared to nip this in the bud, but she forestalled him by speaking again. And though a part of him yearned to tell her to stop, to warn her not to say another word, the other part... Yeah, that section wanted to hear how imperfect she was. Craved it. Because it made him feel less alone.
More human.
God, he was such a selfish prick.
And yet, he listened.
“I hate roses. I mean, loathe them. Which is important because my mother loves them. And every morning there are fresh bouquets of them delivered to the house for every room, including the kitchen. And every day I fight the urge to knock one down just to watch them scatter across the floor in a mess of water, petals and thorns. Because I’m petty like that. And finally...”
She inhaled, turning to look at him, those eyes, stark and utterly beautiful in their intensity, pinning him to his spot against the railing. “Once a month, I drive over to Joplin and visit the bars and restaurants to find a man to take to a hotel for a night. We have hot, filthy sex and then I leave and return home to be Royal socialite darling Reagan Sinclair again.”
Heat—blistering hot and scalding—blasted through him, punching him in the chest and searing him to the bone. Jesus, did she just...? Holy fuck. Lust ate at him. Lust...and horror. Not because she took charge of her own sexuality. It was a twisted and unfair double standard, how men like him could escort woman after woman on his arm, and screw many more, with only an elbow nudge or knowing wink from society. But a woman doing the same thing? Especially one of Reagan’s status? Hell no. So for her to take her pleasure into her own hands? He didn’t fault her for it.
But the thought of her trolling those establishments filled with drunk men? Some man who wouldn’t have an issue with not taking the utmost care with her? Of potentially hurting her? That sent fear spiking through him, slaying him.
And then underneath the horror swirled something else. Something murkier. Edgier. And better off not being unearthed or examined too closely.
“Reagan...” he whispered.
“Relax,” she scoffed, flicking a hand toward his face. “I made the last one up. But turnabout is fair play since I’m almost eighty-two percent sure you were lying to me about at least one of yours. Maybe two.”
He froze. Stared at her. Stunned...and speechless. Mirror emotions—hilarity and anger—battled it out within him. He didn’t know whether to strangle her for taking twenty years off his life... Or double over with laughter loud enough to bring people rushing through those balcony doors.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he finally muttered, his fingers in danger of snapping his prized cigar in half. “And payback is not only a bitch but a vengeful one.”
“I’m shaking in my Jimmy Choos,” she purred.
And this time, he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. Or the goodness of it. Surrendering to the need to touch her, even if in a platonic manner, he moved forward and slipped an arm around her shoulders, hugging Reagan into his side like he used to do when she’d worn braces and friendship bracelets.
There was nothing girlish about the body that aligned with his. Nothing pure about the stirrings in his chest and gut...then lower. A new strain took up residence in his body. One that had nothing to do with the whispers and gossiping awaiting him inside. This tension had everything to do with her light, teasing scent, the slender hand branding his chest, the firm, beautiful breasts that pressed against him.
Still, he squeezed her close before releasing her.
“Thank you, Reagan,” he murmured.
She studied him, nothing coy in that straightforward gaze. “You’re welcome,” she said, not pretending to misunderstand him. Another thing he’d always liked about her. Reagan Sinclair didn’t play games. At least not with him. “That’s what friends are for. And regardless how it appears right now, you have friends, Zeke,” she said softly, using his nickname.
He stared down at her. At the kindness radiating from her eyes. An admonishment to hide that gentle heart of hers from people—from him—hovered on his tongue. The need to contradict her skulked right behind it.
Instead, he set his cigar down on an ashtray some enterprising soul had left outside on a wrought iron table. He wasn’t an animal, so he didn’t stub it out like a cigarette, but left it there to burn out on its own. In a while, he’d come back to dispose of it.
Turning to Reagan, he crooked his arm and waited. Without hesitation, she slid hers through his, but as they turned, the balcony door swung open and Douglas Sinclair stepped out.
Ezekiel knew the older man, as he was a member of the TCC. Tall, lanky and usually wearing his signature giant Stetson, he could’ve been an African-American version of the Marlboro Man. He shared the same brown eyes as his daughter, and right now those eyes were trained on them—or rather on Reagan’s arm tucked into his.
A moment later, Douglas lifted his gaze and met Ezekiel’s. Her father didn’t voice his displeasure, but Ezekiel didn’t miss the slight narrowing of his eyes or the barely-there flattening of his mouth. No, Douglas Sinclair was too polite to tell Ezekiel to get his hands off his daughter. But he stated it loud and clear just the same. Ezekiel might be a TCC member as well, but that didn’t mean the traditional, reserved gentleman would want his precious daughter anywhere near him.
Not when Ezekiel’s family had been accused of falsifying inspections on the jets that WinJet, a subsidiary of Wingate Enterprises, manufactured. Not when three of their workers had been injured on the job because of a fire in one of the manufacturing plants due to a faulty sprinkler system. Not when they’d been sued for those injuries because those inspections hadn’t been up-to-date as the reports had stated.
Even as VP of marketing for Wingate Enterprises, Ezekiel had found it damn near impossible to spin this smear on their name. No one wanted to do business with a company so corrupt it would place profit above their employees’ welfare. Not that his family was guilty of this sin. But public perception was everything.
And while most of the club members had stood behind the Wingates, Douglas hadn’t been vocal in his belief in their innocence.
So it was no wonder the man didn’t look pleased to find his daughter hiding in the dark with Ezekiel.
Not that Ezekiel could blame him. Reagan shouldn’t be out here with him. But not for the reasons her father harbored.
“Reagan,” Douglas said, one hand remaining on the door and holding it open. “Your mother has been looking for you. It’s almost time for dinner, and Devon Granger is eager to escort you into the dining room since you’ll be sitting next to him.”
Ezekiel caught the soft sigh that escaped her, and felt the tension invade her slender frame. But when she spoke, her tone remained as soft and respectful as any dutiful daughter to a father she loved and revered.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be there in a moment,” she murmured.
“I’ll wait for you,” came his implacable reply.
If possible, she stiffened even more, but her lovely features didn’t reflect her irritation. Still, anger for the other man’s high-handedness kindled in Ezekiel’s chest. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, not a wayward toddler. His arm tautened, trapping hers in the crook of his elbow. Next to him, Reagan tipped her head up, glancing at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Deliberately, he relaxed his body, releasing her and stepping to the side.
“It was nice seeing you again, Reagan,” Ezekiel said. Switching his attention to Douglas, he gave the man an abrupt nod. “You, too, Douglas.”
“Ezekiel.” Then, extending his hand to his daughter, he added, “Reagan.”
She glided forward, sliding her hand into her father’s. She didn’t shoot one last look over her shoulder at him. Didn’t toss him another of her gentle, teasing smiles or a final farewell. Instead, she disappeared through the door, leaving him in darkness once more.
And yeah, it was for the best.
No matter her father’s reasons for not wanting to leave her alone with Ezekiel, his concerns were valid. If anyone else had noticed that she stood alone with him in the shadows, the rumors would’ve burned like a brushfire.
And the longer they remained enclosed in the dark, the harder it would’ve become for him to remember that she was off-limits to him. Because of their history. Because she was too good for him. Because her parents were seeking out a suitable man for her.
And Ezekiel—a man with a slowly crumbling business empire and more emotional baggage than the airplanes WinJet manufactured—wasn’t a good bet.
Not a good bet at all.
