Page 115 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 1-4

My lips twitch. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.

I look away. Confident or not, she’s still a threat. I want her to see firsthand how I reassure investors that Drakos Development will not only continue after my father’s death, but will flourish.

I do a quick visual sweep of the room. The chandeliers catch the afternoon sunlight filtering in. The massive windows on the far side offer views of the impossibly green grass, soaring palm trees and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Elegance. Prestige. Wealth. Everything my share of the company embodies.

Selecting the grand ballroom of The Royal for the conference was a good choice. Not only is the Malibu seaside hotel renowned for its opulence, but it was my first success when I ordered the North American branch to break into the hospitality industry. My father called me a foolish bastard.

Literally and figuratively.

I included a bottle of Rémy Martin cognac with the first year’s earnings and occupancy report. The handwritten note suggested he pour himself a glass before reading. The old ass never replied, but I didn’t need him to. I’d made my point.

Now, with him gone, Rafe and I can finally take the company beyond the selfishness and scandals my father flowed to taint his legacy in his final years.

No longer his legacy.I smile.Ours.

Thankfully, Michail wants no part of it. After doing a quick read-up on his company, Sullivan Security, it’s clear he has no need for the billions generated every year by our company. He has plenty of his own.

I spare a glance at Rafe standing just to my right. He returns my gaze. Nods. I face the audience, mentally burying my deep-rooted hatred for the man who sired me, and speak.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is with profound sadness and yet immense pride that my brother and I stand before you today.”

Liar.When Rafe called to tell me the news, I released a pent-up breath. Then I smiled. I kept on smiling as I poured myself a cognac and toasted to his demise. There are plenty who would be shocked by my callousness. Accuse me of being heartless or cold.

They’re right. My heart was ripped out twenty-four years ago when my mother died, alone and poor, while my father lived like a king just a few miles away.

I rattle off the speech written for me by someone in Drakos’s public relations department. It’s drivel, with sappy lines honoring my sire’s accomplishments and supposed testimonies from people who knew him. My fingers tighten on the podium every time I say his name.

Anapnéo.I fill my lungs with a deep breath, then slowly release it as I force myself to find a place of calm. This is a minor detour. Right now, my focus needs to be the future of Drakos Development North America.

A future without Lucifer.

With that thought to comfort me, I focus on the microphone.

“Our father’s legacy will live on through the continued expansion of Drakos Development.”

I finish the maudlin portion of the speech and dive into why I’m really here: my division’s growing list of projects along America’s West Coast. A buzz whips through the room, feeding my confidence and my ego as I share the three properties I’m most proud of. The three that will mark the beginning of a new era.

“The Serpentine, luxury condos on Catalina Island. The Cooper Industrial Park next to the Port of Los Angeles. The renovation of the Edgware Warehouse Complex in Seattle.”

I recite the names and locations from memory as I sweep my gaze over the hotel’s grand ballroom. Concept drawings flash on flat screens placed around the room. Appreciative murmurs ripple over the crowd.

My eyes flicker back to the woman leaning against the pillar. Her arms are still crossed, one leg crossed over the other. A casual pose to go with that casual smirk.

But something’s changed in the last ten minutes. Her body is no longer relaxed but tight, her shoulders tense beneath her blazer, her pointed chin slightly lifted. Despite her petite stature and huge eyes, she looks anything but innocent. She’s been dragging Drakos Development through the mud for years. It’s gratifying to see her riled up.

I incline my head in her direction. A deliberate provocation. Instead of glaring or flouncing off, one corner of her mouth curves up. Awareness pricks my skin. I don’t like it. Or her. I prefer women soft, warm and willing. Not hard, stubborn, prideful creatures like Juliette Grey.

I face the audience and smile. “Questions?”

Hands shoot up. I answer most of them myself, deferring to Rafe on a couple about our European and Asian markets. The energy in the room is palpable. It fuels me as I smile, laugh and converse with reporters, local legislators and community members.

And then I see it.Herhand, slowly easing up, her fingertips waving at me. My first inclination is to ignore her, which annoys the hell out of me. I don’t run from a fight. I haven’t since I was four. I’m not about to now.

“Miss Grey.”

The conversations subside. Most everyone in here knows Juliette. She’s made quite the name for herself, appearing on major news networks, podcasts and videos to discuss the results of her investigative reports. She’ll disappear for months at a time, only to reappear with a jaw-dropping report on embezzlement, money laundering, fraud, or—my father’s specialty—bribery. She’s cost companies billions in fines and lost revenue.

Not mine. Not this time.

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