And yet, Barron had found a way to rip it all out from under him.
“I have to admit, when I received the phone call to attend this mysterious gathering, I wasn’t expecting a family reunion,” the second man, Kenan Rhodes, drawled, eyebrows arched over the distinctive blue-gray eyes they all shared. Farrell eyes. “But I have to agree with Achilles, is it?” At the giant’s nod, Kenan shrugged a suit jacket–covered shoulder. “I have a position with my family’s business. A good one. And leaving it would be like turning my back on them. What would be my incentive to do that? I didn’t know Barron Farrell personally, but I am aware of his reputation. And no offense, but I have no reason to give him my loyalty.”
Cain stared at the two strangers, and though the will had announced them as brothers, he felt no pull toward them. No familial connection. Hell, except for the eyes, none of them would be mistaken for family.
Kenan, with his light brown skin, close-cropped dark hair and neat goatee, was biracial. Though they all shared tall, muscular frames, Cain and Kenan were wide-shouldered and lean, while Achilles boasted a broad, powerful build that wouldn’t be out of place on a football defensive line. Add in the shoulder-length, nearly black, curly hair, beard and tawny skin and he rounded out the most diverse family tree since Brad and Angelina’s children.
Still... That Cain’s father had cheated on his mother didn’t shock him. His infidelity hadn’t been a secret in their house. What astonished him was that Barron had fathered not one, but two illegitimate children. Barron might not have cared where he stuck his dick but the thought that he would leave the fate of his company to the whims of men he hadn’t known? Cain couldn’t line that up with the controlling bastard his father had been.
But then, apparently Barron had been aware of his sons all the time. And he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge their existence until it benefited him. Until he could shift and maneuver all three of them like pawns on a chessboard.
Nowthatcoincided with the Barron Farrell Cain knew.
“I don’t expect your loyalty, and I’m not asking for it,” Cain stated. His flat tone belied the anger and yes, fear, roiling in his veins. “Both of you are right—you have your lives. But today, mine just changed forever. Not only did I find out I have two brothers I never knew existed, but everything I’ve—”suffered for“—worked for is suddenly not in my control but in the hands of strangers who, as you put it, don’t owe me a damn thing. Yes, you can walk away, and nothing changes for you. For me, though?Everything changes.I don’t have the option of walking away.”
Panic welled up in him. “I don’t have—”
A legacy. Control. Power. A voice.
His teeth snapped shut, grinding together, trapping those betraying words inside him. Trapping the plea that would inevitably follow.
Had his father resented him this much—hated him this much—that even from the grave he relished the thought of Cain humiliating himself to beg these strangers to help him? To save him?
Yes. Yes, he had.
The swift and concise answer rebounded against Cain’s skull and everything he’d ever felt for his father—rage, grief, confusion, bitterness and God help him, love—swirled in his chest like a tornado.
“Fuck this,” he growled, stalking across the room and wrenching the heavy library door open to storm out. Air. He needed air that wasn’t tainted by his desperation and helplessness. By his weakness.
Almost immediately the incongruous sounds of gaiety slapped him as he stepped into the hallway. Right. The reception. How screwed up was it that the circus in the library had temporarily made him forget that over a hundred people congregated in the great room and formal dining room to mourn his father? He snorted. Mourn, hell. From the loud chatter, bright laughter and clink of glassware, he couldn’t tell if they were all there to celebrate his life—or his death.
Exhaling, Cain pivoted sharply and strode toward the rear of the house, in the opposite direction of his “guests.” In his current mood, he wasn’t good company and he damn sure didn’t feel like fielding condolences.
At least Barron was in a better place.
If one could call hell a better place.
Two
Devon Cole frowned at the wall of shrubbery in front of her, two thoughts prevalent in her mind.
One, how in the world did the gardener manage to keep the leaves so green and lush in the middle of October? A special fertilizer? A new pesticide? The blood of virgins?
And two, if she waited a few seconds longer, would David Bowie dressed as the Goblin King appear wearing his eyebrow-raising buff breeches and Tina Turner hair?
They were both fair questions considering she stood outside in a garden with high, labyrinthine hedges that formed cozy nooks and convenient, romantic hiding places. Who would’ve thought such a beautiful, magical place could exist behind a cold mausoleum of a mansion? Unless this was where the owner banished those who displeased him to be devoured by a voracious minotaur?
Oh, and a third thought... She peered down into the flute of red wine she clasped in her hand. Should this third glass of cabernet sauvignon be her last? When a person started wondering about garden tips, David Bowie’s codpiece and Greek mythology in the space of ten seconds, laying off the booze might be wise.
Sighing, she stared down into her glass. She’d only briefly met Barron Farrell a few times at the social events her father had browbeaten her into attending, but still... The dead deserved respect. If not for Barron, then at least for the son he’d left behind.
Her belly clenched as an image of Cain Farrell coalesced in her mind. She’d never encountered Barron Farrell’s son and heir before today; not surprising since she tried to avoid the galas, charity events and dinner parties her father so loved.
Closing her eyes, she sank to one of the marble benches dotting the cool, shadowed corners of the garden. She’d attended the crowded, solemn funeral at the ornate Catholic church, but only at the graveside ceremony had she captured her first view of Cain Farrell. Even from several rows back, it hadn’t been hard to spot him. Not when he towered above most of the people there.
Even unsmiling and stoic, he’d been...beautiful. A lean, angular face with slashing cheekbones, almost brutally perfect lines, a carnal yet hard mouth and a stark, uncompromising jaw. His black, slim-fitting, ruthlessly tailored suit had molded to wide shoulders, broad chest, slim waist and long, muscular legs. A king. He reminded her of a king who bore authority as his birthright, but who’d have no issue with throwing on armor and hefting a sword and shield to fight beside his men. Commanding, formidable, and merciless when warranted. Matter of fact, the only thing soft about him had been the thick, dark waves combed back from his face and curling around his ears and the collar of his jacket. Yet, instead of gentling his imposing, arrogant beauty, those incongruously soft strands only emphasized the blunt, raw strength of his facial features, especially the hint of cruelty in the sensual curves of his mouth...
Shame threaded through her.
