Emma Darcy - The Billionaire's New Year Gift

Plus he worked in his father’s business. As the Chief Financial Officer. And he was totally into status. He and his wife—he’d married last year—had built a six-thousand-square-foot home on Bainbridge Island. Now who needed six thousand square feet?

“And how you expect to meet anyone suitable working in the kind of place you do,” her mother droned on, “is beyond me. If you’d only stop being so stubborn and—”

“I told you, Mom,” P.J. interrupted. “I have no interest in meeting someone suitable …or in getting married. And I’m tired of people harassing me.”

Her mother sniffed. “As your mother, I feel I have a perfect right to—”

“No, Mom,” P.J. interrupted again, “you don’t have a right to continually berate me about getting married. I have a right to make my own choices.”

“Yes, well, if your choices were sensible…”

P.J. sighed. What was the use? Her mother would never change. “Tell you what, Mom. If I meet someone suitable , you’ll be the first to know. Okay? And in the meantime, let’s just drop the subject. Otherwise, I’m going to just leave Dad’s gift here and take off.” So saying, she got to her feet.

“Oh, Paige, sit down,” her mother said. She sighed dramatically. “Fine. I won’t say another word.” She made a motion as if she was turning a key to lock her mouth. “Happy now?”

P.J. grinned. “That’s two words, Mom.”

Their laughter broke the tension, and for the remainder of the afternoon, no more was said about P.J. or her personal life.

Monday turned out to be Alex’s busiest day at the HuntCom Distribution Center since he’d begun the job. There was barely time to breathe, let alone take a break. And lunch consisted of a sandwich gobbled in ten minutes. He was in the middle of filling a large order for an office supply store in Portland when his cell phone vibrated.

“Dammit,” he muttered. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was J.T. He almost let the call go to voice mail, then decided it must be important because J.T. rarely called him.

Alex pressed the talk button. “Hang on.” Moving away from the noise of a nearby forklift, he said, “There must be a problem if you’re calling me at work.”

“‘Work’ is eighty miles north of here,” J.T. said. “What you’re doing is…what are you doing, anyway?”

Alex laughed. “Filling orders.”

“Right. Look, there’s no problem. I just need to talk to you. I’m over at the expansion site.”

“You’re in Jansen?”

“Yes. I just finished a site inspection with the construction foreman. Which warehouse are you in?”

Alex lowered his voice. “Don’t come over here. If somebody recognizes you, they might recognize me. I get off at four. Meet me at my place at four-thirty.”

“Where’s that?”

Alex gave J.T. directions. “Don’t be surprised by the place. It’s not what you’re used to,” he said in warning. That was an understatement, he thought after they’d hung up. He’d seen Gray’s place in town and he figured J.T. and Justin probably lived in places just as luxurious when they happened to be in the city—which wasn’t often. That was one of the reasons Alex hadn’t seen either place—the other being that unfortunately, he and his half-brothers weren’t close, something Alex was beginning to hope might change one of these days.

On the dot of four-thirty, a knock sounded at Alex’s front door. He opened it and smiled at J.T. The brothers weren’t close, yet there was a bond that couldn’t be denied.

“Hey,” J.T. said, stepping in.

“Hey, J.T.”

J.T. glanced around. “When Gray said you’d taken a job at the warehouse as a cover for this bride thing, he didn’t mention that you’d moved in with the masses.”

Alex laughed. “When in Rome …”

“In Rome, they at least live with some color.” J.T’s thoughtful frown moved from the breakfast bar that separated the small kitchen from the living area. He took in the beige sofa, nondescript coffee table and black leather recliner, which formed what there was of Alex’s seating area. “You could seriously use some art here,” he observed. “Did the furniture come with the place?”

Alex shook his head. “I bought it at a discount store. If anyone from the plant comes over, I don’t want them to suspect anything.”

“Any luck there? Meeting an appropriate woman, I mean?”

Alex gave a guarded shrug. “I’ve only been there three weeks,” he said evasively. He wasn’t ready to talk about P.J.

“Then you’ve spotted a prospect?”

“It’s too soon to tell. I don’t have much of a liquor supply,” he added, not bothering to be subtle about the change of subject. Alex wasn’t ready to talk about P.J. to anyone. “About all I can offer you is a beer.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Do you want one?”

J.T. grinned. “Let me guess. You bought it on sale, $3.99 for a twelve-pack.”

Alex smiled sheepishly. “There are a few things I still splurge on. I have Beck’s or Black Sheep.”

“Surprise me.”

“So,” Alex said as he swung open the refrigerator door. “Why’d you want to see me?”

“I need some advice.”

Alex turned from the refrigerator, a bottle in each hand and one eyebrow arched. “From me?” He couldn’t remember the last time one of his brothers wanted his advice.

From where he remained on the other side of the bar, J.T. frowned. “You’re the only person I know who knows anything about fund-raisers.”

“What makes you think I know about fund-raisers?”

“Hell, Alex. You go to them all the time. And you have to raise money for the foundation somehow.”

“That shows how little we know about what each of us does,” Alex informed him. “You’re right about one thing. I’ve attended a lot of fund-raisers for different charities or organizations, but the Harrison Hunt Foundation doesn’t raise money that way.” He popped off the caps with a bottle opener and held a bottle out for J.T. “We use the interest from Harry’s money to fund our causes.” And occasionally they accepted donations from other parties, but that wasn’t relevant, so there was no point in bringing it up. “What is it you want to know about them?”

“The short version is that I want to help someone raise some money.”

“And the long version?”

J.T. tipped up his bottle and drank. Alex wondered if he wanted to buy time before answering, because there was something about his expression that seemed wary.

“This bride-hunt thing,” J.T. finally said. “Because of Harry’s rules, I can’t just write a check. Or,” he added with a half-smile, “go to my brother and ask the foundation to do it. If I did that, I’m afraid she’d figure out the money had something to do with me.” The smile died. “If she did, I could tell her I just happened to know someone with connections, but I don’t want to raise any red flags.”

Curious now, Alex rounded the counter and pulled out a bar stool. Motioning for J.T. to take the other, he said, “You’ve found a potential wife?”

J.T. frowned. “How’d you get that from what I just told you?”

“You’re talking about helping a woman. You said you can’t because of Harry’s rules. I’m not the math genius in the family, but it’s pretty much one plus one, J.T.”

“I’ve found a woman with the potential to be a wife,” J.T. said. He hesitated. “But the woman I want to help is her assistant. Her grandmother lives in this home that’s going to have to close if the director can’t come up with about fifty grand.”

Both of Alex’s eyebrows lifted this time. “That’s not the kind of money you can raise selling calendars. You need an event, and a corporation or two to underwrite it. Like I said, we don’t organize fund-raisers, but I know people who do.”