The Bravo Billionaire

It was not Jonas’s intention to become comfortable. “Ambrose. What’s this about?”

Instead of answering, Ambrose said mildly, “Right this way.” He herded Jonas around the corner and down another wide hallway. Jonas allowed himself to be led, though he disliked having his questions evaded almost as much as he disliked being made to wait.

And this was not the first time Ambrose had refused to give him answers on this subject. Last Friday, when the lawyer had called to set up this meeting, he would only say that it concerned Blythe’s will. Before her death, Blythe had asked Ambrose to invite Jonas to his offices. Certain issues required discussion.

“What issues?” Jonas had demanded.

“Monday, Jonas. My office. Two o’clock?”

Jonas had tried to get the lawyer to simply come out to the house or drop in at Bravo, Incorporated. Ambrose had held firm. He’d said that Blythe had felt that a neutral setting would be better for everyone.

“Why a neutral setting?”

“I’ll explain it all on Monday.”

“Ambrose. Who the hell is everyone?”

But Ambrose wouldn’t say. “Please forgive me, Jonas. You’ll have all the information you need on Monday. At my office.”

Jonas had let the lawyer off the hook. After all, the man was only doing his job, following his client’s wishes—the client being Jonas’s exasperating mother, in this case. Who could say what Blythe Bravo had gotten up to in those last grim weeks before her death?

“All right, Ambrose. Monday. Two in the afternoon.” He’d ended the call.

So now it was Monday. It was 2:04 p.m.

And some answers had better be forthcoming.

“Here we are,” Ambrose said cheerfully, stopping before another pair of carved double doors. A bronze plaque on the wall to the left of the doors read, West Conference. Ambrose slid adroitly around Jonas and opened one of the doors. “After you.”

Jonas didn’t see the kennel keeper until he’d stepped over the threshold.

She was sitting all the way down at the end of the table, in one of the twelve high-backed cordovan leather swivel chairs, her back to the west wall, which consisted of one huge pane of glare-treated glass. Beyond the glass lay Century City in all its smoggy splendor, high-rises shimmering beneath the August sun.

The kennel keeper, whose name was Emma Lynn Hewitt, wore a snug-fitting jacket the color of orange sherbet. If she had a shirt on under the jacket, Jonas couldn’t see it. He could, however, see a tempting swell of cleavage. Her silky pale blond hair curled, soft and shiny and unrestrained, around her very pretty face. It wasn’t long, that hair, only chin-length, but still, it always managed to look just a little mussed, a little wild. Though the conference table blocked his view, he knew without having to look that her tight, short skirt would be as orange as her jacket. And that her shoes would have very high heels and open toes.

By all rights, Emma Lynn Hewitt should have looked cheap. But somehow, she didn’t. Somehow, she managed to look…sweet. Sweet and way too damn sexy. She also came across as if she meant business. He didn’t know how she did that, though he suspected it had to be in the way she held herself—chin high, slim shoulders back.

Just another of Blythe’s strays, he reminded himself, a little nobody from a bend-in-the-road town in Texas. As it had turned out, his mother’s investment in the woman’s dog grooming and boarding enterprise had been a profitable one, so he couldn’t fault the perky Texan on that count. Still, he had always disliked her.

Though he effortlessly schooled his face to betray nothing, Jonas noted a certain raw feeling in his gut—as if someone had taken a cheese grater to it. He was thinking the obvious: What in hell is she doing here? But he didn’t speak the question aloud. It would have been bad strategy, was too likely to betray his dismay. The Bravo Billionaire, as any dedicated tabloid reader would avidly tell you, did not experience feeble emotions like dismay.

There was a blue folder in front of the kennel keeper. And one in front of each of the two chairs to her left and to her right. Her folder was open. She’d apparently been reading the contents while she waited for him and for Ambrose. Judging by the strange, rather stricken look on her face, what she had read must have surprised—even shocked—her.

The cheese grater sawed another layer off the lining of Jonas’s stomach. He realized he no longer felt the urge to ask what she was doing here.

No. All at once, he didn’t even want to know.

Ambrose said, “Jonas. You’ve met Ms. Hewitt?”

“I have.”

The woman started to stand, then appeared to think better of the move and kept her pretty little butt in the chair. She swallowed. And nodded.

He nodded back.

“Have a seat.” Ambrose had him on the move again, ushering him down the long table toward the chair—and the folder—to the right of Emma Hewitt.

Jonas sat. Ambrose crossed behind the kennel keeper and took the chair to her left.

Once settled in his chair, Ambrose opened the folder on the table in front of him and then reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of half glasses. “Ahem. Jonas.” He put on the glasses. “Before she died, your mother made a few changes to her will. She asked that I call you and Ms. Hewitt in together to discuss them.”

Jonas sat very still.

Peering over the tops of his glasses, Ambrose gestured at Jonas’s folder, which Jonas had not yet allowed himself to touch. “If you’ll just read the sections I’ve highlighted, I’m sure Blythe’s wishes will be made clear to you. And of course, I’ll be right here to answer any questions you might have.”

“I see,” said Jonas.

The kennel keeper said nothing. She was a splash of hot orange in his side vision.

“Please,” Ambrose urged. “Have a look.”

What damn choice did he have? Jonas opened the folder and began to read.

A quick scan of the highlighted passages and he had the picture.

Once he understood his mother’s insane intention, he closed the folder and said, very quietly, “All right. I’ve read it.”

“Good.” Ambrose glanced at the dog groomer. “Ms. Hewitt? Have you looked through your copy?”

She nodded.

“Well,” said Ambrose. “As I said, please feel free to ask any—”

“Wait a minute,” said Jonas. Ambrose waited. “I think we need to make certain we’re all in agreement as to exactly what it says here.”

Ambrose announced, “An excellent idea.” Then he fell silent—as if he expected Jonas to explain the will that he had prepared.

Not a chance. Jonas said nothing. And the dog groomer from Texas kept her mouth shut, as well.

Ambrose realized the task had fallen to him. “Well,” he said. “Ahem. As you can both see, the issue here is custody—the custody of the child, Amanda Eloise Bravo.”

Ambrose laid it all out for them.

“The will now requires that you, Jonas, must marry Ms. Hewitt here—and cohabit with her at a location of her choosing—for one year. During that year, you and Ms. Hewitt are to have joint physical and legal custody of your adopted sister. At the end of that year, should either you or Ms. Hewitt choose to divorce, then full custody of Amanda will be yours, Jonas. However, if you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt within three weeks of your mother’s death—and to remain married to her for one full year—then custody goes to Ms. Hewitt.”

Ambrose paused to remove his reading glasses. He took a snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lenses of the glasses. He did all this while looking at Jonas, a look that managed to be both regretful and unwavering. “And should you try to contest the will, all legal expenses incurred by Ms. Hewitt in fighting your suit will be paid by your mother’s estate.”

Ambrose put his handkerchief back in his pocket. He folded his glasses and set them on top of his folder. “That’s about it,” he said with a grim smile.