The Billionaires: The Stepbrothers: A Lover's Triangle Novel Read online

  His groin tightened at the thought of her sucking him off.

  Damn, she was sexy. Drop-dead gorgeous, with long, sculpted legs and a curvy hourglass figure. She’d sent his pulse into the red zone with her beautiful face, shimmering emerald irises, and those full, plump, crimson-colored lips he desperately wanted to feel wrapped around his cock.

  He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told her that if he’d known what she looked like, how sultry and sassy she was, he wouldn’t have led Scarlet on a wild-goose chase. He hadn’t wanted to deal with her at all when he’d learned she was an insurance fraud investigator—and had known instinctively the exact case she was probing into.

  But he really didn’t give a damn now about her profession or her cause. Now all that registered was her silky skin, the soft hitches of her breath, and the tremors along her spine when he touched her.

  The woman had him hot and bothered—from the moment he’d glanced up from his phone and found her standing defiantly in front of his table. He wanted her, plain and simple.

  And Michael Vandenberg was a man who always got what he wanted.

  So while his COO, CGC, and CFO hashed out details of this next investment, debated contract terms and conditions, and each gave their two cents’ worth on the pros and cons of the latest acquisition, Michael let all the background noise and advice simmer in his head as he typed out an e-mail message to his personal butler at the Crestmont and shot it off, wondering if Scarlet Drake would take the bait he intrepidly offered.…

  TWO

  Scarlet had just walked into her hotel room at the St. Francis and was slipping off her high heels when there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Delivery for Miss Drake,” came a male voice from the other side.

  At nearly twelve o’clock at night?

  She frowned. But her inquisitive nature couldn’t resist. She peered through the peephole to find a uniformed employee patiently waiting for her—cap, gloves, name tag, and all. Official looking enough, yet she kept her purse in hand, where her 9mm was concealed, as she pulled back the security latch, flipped the lock, and opened the door.

  “My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. “The front desk alerted me that you’d arrived back at the hotel.” He handed over a formal white envelope and added, “This is for you. Have a nice evening.”

  He turned to go, but she hastily said, “Wait.” And tucked the packet under her arm so that she could retrieve a tip from her clutch.

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” the deliveryman told her as she fished out the cash. “The gratuity has been taken care of.” He whirled around in his polished shoes and marched down the hallway toward the bank of elevators.

  Scarlet closed the door and engaged the dead bolt. She set her handbag on the entryway table and then eyed the envelope with her name elegantly scrawled across it in thick black ink.

  Excitement rippled through her over a secret missive as the clock inched toward midnight.

  Her love of intrigue was genetic. Her grandmother, who’d raised her in the wine country of River Cross, California, after Scarlet’s parents had died, was an international best-selling mystery writer. Scarlet’s parents had been super-sleuths themselves, her father for a global law firm and her mother for a private investigator here in San Fran.

  She missed them dearly but was grateful for the traits they’d passed on to her and felt equally blessed to have had her gran look after her.

  Scarlet crossed to the desk, where she’d spied a silver-plated letter opener when she’d unpacked her clothes earlier. She’d had to make a reservation at the St. Francis overlooking Union Square, rather than the Crestmont—where Vandenberg was residing this evening—because that particular hotel was booked several months in advance, amidst its grand opening. And she did not possess the same influence as the real estate mogul to score a room.

  Though Scarlet’s home in River Cross was little more than an hour away, she’d planned to stay in the city, not knowing how late it would be if she eventually met up with the elusive Michael Vandenberg or whether she’d need to hop on another plane to try to catch him elsewhere.

  One of her best friends, wine heiress Jewel Catalano, had gotten her assistant at Catalano Enterprises to strike up a conversation with Vandenberg’s assistant, and that had gone a long way in aiding Scarlet’s attempt to pin down precisely where Vandenberg was supposed to be tonight and when, so that she could finally say she’d had a successful trip chasing the shadowy man who fascinated her beyond all belief.

  And who would land her a hefty bonus if she could prove he had, indeed, pilfered the paintings from his father’s estate—or served as an accomplice to the larceny. All verifying that the claim submitted years ago had been under fraudulent terms.

  Her excitement escalated as she slid the tip of the opener behind the flap and then extracted a note card in heavy stock that had one short line of text centered in the middle, in the same script and glossy ink that matched the front of the packet.

  Let’s make it a date. Michael

  Flames instantly blazed over her skin.

  Okay, perhaps she was a bit too attracted to him. Definitely a bad thing in all capacities.

  The man was so very far out of her league—a woman who hadn’t had sex in longer than she cared to admit. Not to mention, he was well out of her tax bracket. By a lot.

  And then there was that tedious little matter of her suspecting he was the mastermind behind a crime that had never been solved. Not a single piece from that entire missing collection had ever hit an auction house or black market or was listed as a private sale.

  So if the artwork had never been fenced, the thief or thieves wouldn’t have gained monetarily beyond that insurance check, or a portion thereof, for felonious services rendered.

  Which led Scarlet to believe that the expensive collection was still being enjoyed by the owners who’d also pocketed the claim money. Those paintings had to be on display, under lock and key, somewhere on the Vandenberg estate. She was convinced of it.

  Scarlet’s gut told her Michael might be involved in the scam because of the coincidental timing of the deposit into one of his accounts. And the fact that his father, Mitcham Vandenberg, was a notorious miser.

  From what she’d gleaned with the help of her research-hound other BFF, Bayli Styles, Michael had required substantial capital for his first major investment at the age of twenty-four. His father had not provided it. But the 5 million had conveniently appeared in Michael’s account precisely when he’d needed it the most—and that cash flow had helped to launch his career and his own personal empire.

  It was all a cut-and-dried scenario in her mind … if she could just get a glimpse inside the Vandenberg estate or discern where else that collection might be stashed. The FBI had closed the case with no solid leads. The insurance company had settled.

  But the voice of reason in Scarlet’s head told her that two and two had already been put together. And now it was just a matter of producing proof that her conspiracy theory was dead on the money. Literally.

  Getting closer to Michael Vandenberg was her key to unraveling this case.

  So while it went against her better judgement to fall down this new rabbit hole he was digging—again, because Scarlet was much too taken by his dark, rakish looks and seductive voice—she was willing to play along. It just might yield more clues for her to investigate, more pieces of the puzzle to help her see the big picture and solve this mystery.

  As she contemplated this, the landline on the desk rang.

  She snatched the receiver and said, “This is Scarlet Drake.”

  “Good evening, Miss Drake. This is the valet. A car has just arrived for you.”

  Her stomach flipped in sheer titillation, mostly related to the golden nugget she’d managed to crack open because she hadn’t given up after numerous failed attempts to confront Vandenberg.

  She said, “I’ll be down in five.” Then she hung up the phone and hurried to the clo
set.

  The prospect of a clandestine evening had her pulling out a black long-sleeved dress with a reasonable hemline. She paired it with knee-high black leather boots and a trench coat. She pulled the sash tight at her waist and then slipped her cell, ID, pepper spray, and AMEX card into a slim purse that she draped across her torso.

  After securing her weapon in the safe, she left her room and found the driver waiting for her under the porte cochere.

  He greeted her as he opened the door of the town car.

  “Thank you.” Scarlet slid into the backseat, feeling a heady rush from the covert turn of events. When the driver climbed behind the wheel, Scarlet asked, “Where are we going?”

  He provided an address that she sent to both Jewel and Bayli via text. She might be an eager beaver when it came to a mysterious meet up, but she also knew to take precautionary measures.

  She would concede that it wasn’t the smartest thing to get personally involved with Michael Vandenberg. But as she’d contended earlier, one of her best strategies was to get close enough to him that she could find a way into the mansion and snoop around.

  And this just might be her foot in the door.

  God, her juices were flowing as things heated up!

  She could barely sit still in her seat as the car traversed the city, up and down the hilly terrain to the edge of North Beach, not far from where Scarlet and the girls had rented their first flat when they’d started at San Francisco State University together ten years ago.

  Scarlet loved this part of the city. A silvery-gray haze rolled over the wharf and ribboned through the tall buildings. The soulful sounds of foghorns drifted from the bay. The clanging of the bell on the Powell-Mason cable car echoed down the corridor of restaurants and bars, and the sidewalks were riddled with late-night diners and partygoers. The energetic vibe mixed with the scent of garlic and created an inviting, invigorating ambience.

  When they reached their destination, the car double-parked alongside a brick building. The driver rounded the front of the vehicle to open Scarlet’s door again.

  He told her, “Downstairs.” Then he drove off, likely per Vandenberg’s instructions.

  Scarlet stared at the building she recognized, with steps leading up to the doors. It was a nightclub. But she’d never known of there being an establishment downstairs. In fact … she couldn’t even find the downstairs.

  Her gaze roved the brick wall. No railing or steps to access an underground unit.

  She strolled around the corner and continued down the alley, keeping her mind clear to listen for noises surrounding her, any footsteps that might follow.

  Her pulse picked up as she walked farther along the narrow passage. Yet there was still no visible entry.

  Her extreme curiosity gave way to frustration that Vandenberg had given her the slip again.

  He wasn’t helping her to buy into his self-proclaimed innocence.

  Scarlet was just about to turn around and head back to the corner where she could catch a cab to the St. Francis when she spotted a shiny black door. It was at street level, so that didn’t seem right. But what the hell?

  She walked toward it, slid back the heavy metal latch, and yanked the door open. A hard-driving beat suddenly filled the alley. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. There was a single bare bulb blazing in the tapered entryway, which led to a black wrought-iron spiral staircase descending into the bowels of the facility.

  Scarlet shot off another text to her friends, to give her exact location.

  She then made her way down to a lower level with maybe a ten-foot ceiling and a long stainless-steel bar that was lined with patrons and shots of tequila. Sapphire and silver strobe lights bounced off the tables and stools. The music was loud with a quick tempo and reverberated within her.

  A petite chestnut-haired twentysomething greeted her. “May I take your coat?” she asked over the wail of electric guitars and animated conversations, offering Scarlet a claim ticket.

  She divested herself of the trench coat but kept her purse strapped across her body and tucked the perforated piece of paper inside.

  Scanning the throng of people, she searched for Michael, knowing he’d stand out even in a dense crowd. But she didn’t catch sight of him as she wove through the conglomeration, heading toward the bar. She wedged herself between a burly sort and a lean-muscled guy and then further surveyed the scene.

  The inner sanctum gave way to a break in the wall so that the club flowed into a larger space, mostly occupied by an enormous dance floor that was edged by tables, sofas, and chairs.

  This back portion spanned two stories, with black iron catwalks suspended from chains overhead. The walkways were fused together in a crisscross shape, creating a huge X above the dance floor, and several women in skimpy lingerie and high heels gyrated and whirled about to the music, Coyote Ugly style. Voluminous tresses flew about as their heads whipped this way and that. It was like walking onto a 1980s MTV video set. Or being front row at a rock ’n’ roll Victoria’s Secret show.

  “Buy you a drink?” the burly one asked Scarlet.

  “Thanks, but I’ll get my own.” She caught the attention of the bartender and ordered a martini. “Dirty it up, will you?”

  “You got it.”

  While he made her cocktail, Scarlet’s gaze returned to the dance floor. Then she eyed the perimeter, finally catching a tall, wide shadow on the move. He stealthily worked his way through the crowd toward her, shifting out of the inky fringes so that the flashes of light fell on him.

  Scarlet’s heart nearly stopped.

  This was not a version of Michael Vandenberg she’d ever expected to see.

  He’d ditched the designer suit and neatly styled hair. Instead, he was dressed all in black—leather jacket, V-necked T-shirt, jeans, and boots. His short onyx hair was tousled, sticking on end in places.

  The breath escaped her body in one long stream.

  Hell-o, Big Bad Wolf.

  An ultra-sexy, riveting Big Bad Wolf.

  And that did not bode well for her.

  Scarlet vaguely heard the bartender behind her serve her drink and tell her how much she owed. She barely heard anything beyond the thumping of her heart.

  Her nipples were instantly hard again. Her panties damp.

  And Michael hadn’t even reached her yet.

  He did, however, stare directly at her, his gaze locking with hers. Heat blazed in his eyes and a cocky expression crossed his captivating face as she gaped.

  Warning signals went off in the back of her head, a million red flags unfurling and catching a stiff breeze.

  He was a double threat—wildly arousing and quite possibly a villain.

  Not exactly the type of man a smart woman would be creaming over at midnight in a nondescript club she didn’t even know the name of.

  As he approached her, he extracted folded bills from his front pocket and peeled off a fifty. He reached around her, his gaze unwavering, and slapped the cash on the bar. “For the lady’s drink. And I’ll have a Bombay Sapphire martini.”

  “Right away, Mr. Vandenberg.”

  “So you’re a regular?” Scarlet asked him, shocked her words didn’t slide from her mouth on a pool of drool.

  “You’ve surpassed your allotted questions, Miss Drake.”

  “I’m not interrogating you at the moment,” she told him. “I thought this was a date.”

  He gave her another roguish grin. “Nice to see you can take off your investigator’s hat for the evening.” His lids dipped a tad, as did his voice. “Hope that’s not all you’re willing to take off.”

  Her inner walls clenched. But she teasingly said, “Don’t push your luck. And you may as well call me Scarlet. Or I will start quizzing you about the art collection.”

  He stared deeper into her eyes, his raw intensity searing her insides, turning her blood molten. “I promise I didn’t steal those paintings. I want you to believe me.”

  She debated this for several
suspended seconds. Considering who he was—affluent and powerful—she told him, “You don’t care if I believe you or not. Like you said, you can’t be prosecuted at this point. And if you lost a civil suit, compensatory damages would be chump change to you. Had you been caught red-handed before you’d made your own fortune that would have been a different story. But it’s currently not a detrimental situation to you financially. Just a hit to your reputation if you actually are guilty.”

  “My reputation would survive. I don’t see Martha Stewart’s empire crumbling. So why pursue an investigation?”

  “It’s the principle of the matter.”

  His grin widened. “Gorgeous and ethical. You’ll completely do me in.” He winked. “Drink your martini.” His head inclined toward the bar.

  Scarlet tore her gaze from his and reached for her glass just as the bartender delivered Michael’s cocktail. He and Scarlet clinked rims and she sipped.

  Then she asked, “Seriously, how does everyone know who you are? I’m sure they don’t all read the Wall Street Journal.”

  “I’m the new landlord here. I closed on the building last week.”

  “Figures,” she murmured into her martini. Then said, “I didn’t even know this place existed. Took a while to find the entrance.”

  “That’s on purpose, I’m told. A bit secretive for a more exclusive crowd.”

  “I’m sure you enjoy the eye candy.” She hitched her chin toward the catwalks.

  His gaze didn’t follow. “I’m more interested in what’s standing in front of me.”

  Despite his attention being on her, he must have caught a movement in his peripheral vision, because he gently shifted her toward the wall a second before someone bumped into the burly guy and sent his drink sloshing over the sides.

  “Oh!” Scarlet would have been wearing the cocktail and perhaps hers as well if Michael hadn’t carefully pressed her up against the bricks, her backside absorbing the cold stone, her front flaming as he crowded her, his body shielding hers.

  “Thanks for the save,” she said, breathless.

  “Just trying to spare the dress.”

  “I think we’re safe now.” She hoped he’d take the hint and step away.