Wendy Etherington - Sizzle in the City

At this, even Victoria seemed intrigued.

Apparently, Shelby was staring desperation right in the eye, since the Robin Hood plan suddenly sounded like a viable option.

Victoria drummed her manicured fingernails on the table. “We’ve got one other problem.”

“What’s that?” Shelby asked, tensing.

“Robin Hood was a myth,” Victoria said.

Calla cleared her throat. “Well, yes. That’s a small wrinkle.”

Shelby resisted the urge to drown herself in her latte.

“MR. BANFIELD, YOUR brother is on line one.”

Trevor glanced up from the financial report he’d been reading to see his assistant filling his office doorway.

Hands planted on her ample hips, Florence Windemere scowled. “He’s very insistent.”

“I’ll bet.”

Max was, no doubt, caught in yet another mess of his own making. Who else could he call?

“Did he flirt with you again?” he asked Florence.

“Cheeky, that’s what he is. Unprofessional, too.”

Trevor smiled slightly at the flushed indignation of the woman who’d been his childhood governess after Max had gone off to boarding school at age eight—the year of their parents’ divorce. “So was I at one time.”

She drew herself to her full five-foot, one-inch height. “You were simply energetic, maybe a bit precocious and certainly a child. He’s a grown man.”

“He appears to be anyway.”

Florence gave him a sage smile. “There comes a time, my boy, when you have to push the baby bird from the nest.”

“Would you have given up on me?”

“He’s not you.”

“Which I, for one, am thankful. He is my brother, however.”

“Older brother,” Florence reminded him significantly as she retreated from the room.

Trevor understood her implication—the older sibling should be wiser, looking out for the younger. Somehow, almost right from the beginning, his family had been turned backward. And they’d all been paying for that quirk of fate ever since.

Bracing himself, Trevor lifted the phone receiver.

“Know anything about the hotel business?” Max asked him casually.

Way too casually.

Recalling the time Max had asked him about the hot-air-balloon business, only to have his ever-ambitious brother ignore his advice and buy four used ones with the ridiculous dream of them bobbing over and around the skyscrapers of Manhattan and/or Paris, Trevor knew he had to nip this blossoming idea in the bud. “It’s volatile, labor intensive, multifaceted and in no way, shape or form an industry you should be involved in.”

“Ah.” Long pause. “Uh … okay. What’d ya think of that Jets game on Sunday?”

Trevor got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And not just because the Jets played football and it was the middle of April.

“What’ve you done?” he asked Max.

“Me?” he asked with affronted innocence that was well practiced and generally effective. “Not a thing. Though I did have a spicy dinner with a hottie from Venezuela last night. Maybe she’s got a sister, you could come with us next time.”

Max the Pimping Earl. Lovely. “I can get my own dates, thank you. Did you take Ms. Venezuela to a hotel?”

“No. My apartment.”

“Did you eat in a hotel restaurant last night?”

“Uh, well—Hmm … Let me think.”

He shared genes with this man. It was terrifying.

And since Trevor didn’t have time to wait for the how-can-I-save-my-ass Max thought process to play out, he prompted, “Where did you have dinner?”

“I can’t quite remember the name,” Max said faintly. “It might have been a color.”

“What color?”

“Hmm … red, maybe yellow.”

“Where were you?”

“The Theatre District?”

“You’re not sure?”

“I was half-pissed. We had drinks before at the top-floor lounge.”

The Theatre District was clogged full of hotels. But a hotel with a restaurant whose name was a color—red, maybe yellow—and had a bar on its roof?

“Golden.”

Max coughed.

It was mostly a tourist place, but the hotel had endured for more than fifty years and the lounge had its moments being hip and interesting, depending on the nostalgic whims of the NYC elite.

“Oh, damn. That’s my other line. Gotta go.” Max hung up abruptly but not unexpectedly.

Having flown into New York that afternoon from San Francisco, Trevor had grabbed newspapers at the airport, but other than glancing at the headlines in the cab, and answering a few pending emails on his phone, he hadn’t delved further.

Max, at least in this country, was not front-page news.

An internet search on Max yielded thousands of hits on an article titled “Financial Finagling” in the New York Tattletale. The author’s name was Peeps Galloway.

Talk about cheeky.

“Financial guru?” he muttered aloud as he read. “Since when?”

He had to shut his eyes when he reached the part about The Crown Jewel. Bloody hell, Max owned a hotel.

Clearly, their mother’s most recent husband was gullible as well as rich, as their father had indeed cut off his oldest son financially.

At least publicly.

Trevor forced himself to read the rest, wincing when he read his father’s title. He’d probably be getting a call from his secretary by tomorrow. Maybe even the old man himself. The heir apparent had indeed slithered away from several sticky situations, and yet again, it would no doubt be Trevor’s responsibility to shove the mess under the rug.

He’d officially become his family’s janitor.

Being the second son of the Earl of Westmore—who was related, by some convoluted and ancient way, to George III of England—Trevor had always known he’d have to make his way in the world. Nothing was going to be handed to him.

His brother would one day be the earl, and Trevor was largely superfluous. Like an insurance policy.

Frankly, Trevor had been relieved by his sibling’s departure for boarding school and had blossomed under Florence’s watchful, caring eye, even as Max fell in with a group of arrogant, troublesome boys who thought their future titles made them invulnerable.

The divorce hit him harder than you was a good excuse he got for his brother’s behavior. He worshipped your mother and doesn’t know how to cope without her. Or, Max has the pressure of the title on his shoulders.

During those days Trevor had resented being metaphorically shoved in a drawer and forgotten about, so he’d dreamed of becoming a teacher, then a poet, then a rock star. Thanks to Florence, he eventually learned to play to his advantages—athletic skill, a fair amount of charm, a strong dose of good sense and a trust fund to get virtually any venture started.

So, as his father mourned the loss of his marriage and Max had taken advantage of his distraction, Trevor had decided he’d run his own business. He’d be in control. He’d escape family obligations.

Not so fast, my boy.

Even after he’d left for America in his early twenties, he’d been dragged into Max’s troubles. He made excuses. He’d reasoned with his brother. Apparently, no one else could. When his business became financially successful, he’d bailed out Max of several money crises.

Trevor had always understood his actions reflected on the rest of his family, on the ancestry to which he was forever linked by blood. Max loved parties, women and being important.

There were whispers that Trevor was the better successor to the title. That Max would never grow up. Yet, unless the line of succession was somehow eradicated, they were stuck.

Max was more like their mother—flighty and unpredictable. But while she was kind and generous, Max was inherently selfish. He expected others to pick him up when he fell down. Even at an early age, he managed to blame the crayons on the wall or the snags in the tapestries on his “energetic” little brother.