Joan Johnston - Invincible

“Mind if I look?” She didn’t wait for permission, just picked up the discarded paper, straightened it out for a second time and began to read.

Max grimaced, knowing what was coming.

She gasped and turned to stare at him. “The Duchess of Blackthorne is your mother?”

He met her gaze and shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t try using those innocent baby blues on me,” she said sharply. “Your mother’s not just famous, Max. She’s infamous.”

Which was why he never mentioned the connection. “So?”

“So? So?” she repeated incredulously.

Max knew exactly what was running through her mind. He’d lived through some of it and heard stories all his life about the rest. Seventeen-year-old Lady Isabella’s fairy-tale romance and rocky marriage to twenty-nine-year-old American banking heir Bull Benedict had been tabloid fodder for years.

First, Bella had stolen Bull away from her twenty-one-year-old second cousin, Lady Regina Delaford, daughter of the Marquess of Tenby, whom Bull had been courting. To add insult to injury, Bull and Bella had married barely a month after they’d met. The poverty-stricken duchess had even agreed to sign a prenuptial agreement to prove she wasn’t marrying the banking heir for his billions.

Eyebrows rose at the birth of their first child a mere eight months later. The public gasped each time Bella showed up at some charity function wearing the priceless jewels—each with a legend attached—that Bull had given to his wife during their marriage: rubies, pearls, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds.

Last, but not least, the public had devoured news of Bull and Bella’s antagonistic separation after twenty-five years of marriage. Gossip said Bull hadn’t divorced his wife because after twenty-five years of marriage, the prenup became null and void, and Bella could lay claim to as much as the English courts decided to give her of Bull’s tremendous fortune.

Even though they were separated, they continued to show up at the same charity, political and business functions in England, Europe and America, providing more delicious tidbits for the gossips.

As though to goad her husband, Bella never failed to wear one of the fabulous jewels Bull had given her during their marriage as a sign of his enduring love—when she walked in on the arm of another man.

“Are you going to America for Mother’s Day?” Veronica asked as she crossed to him.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

She pressed her abdomen against his as she slid her arms around his neck. She played with the straight black hair at his nape, sending a shiver down his spine.

It seemed his seduction of the reporter was back on track.

Max leaned forward to kiss the beautiful woman in his arms but hesitated when she whispered, “I can’t believe I’m kissing the Duchess of Blackthorne’s son.”

He lifted his head and stared down at her with the cynicism he always felt when someone seemed awed by who he was. Or rather, who his mother was. No one knew the real Max Benedict.

Except K. She’d known exactly who he was.

And rejected you.

The boy. She’d rejected the boy. He was a man now. Would K see that if she got to know him again? Would she be able to love him again? Did he want her to love him again? The thought was dizzying. Intriguing. And terrifying. He’d simply have to be sure this time, if it came to it, that he was the one doing the rejecting.

Even K—Agent Lassiter—had believed the carefully cultivated common belief that he was a care-for-nothing playboy, a reckless rogue who’d learned his hedonism from Bull and Bella in their heyday. Despite what K might think of his behavior, the deception made him a very good spy.

Not that he worked all the time. Or even every time the CIA—or some other American governmental organization identifying itself with capital letters—asked. But he was a valuable asset.

As he’d pointed out to K, by virtue of his pedigree, he had access to the very wealthy, which included drug czars and their sons and daughters, and munitions dealers and their sons and daughters, and of course, wealthy Arab potentates who might be funding terrorist activities and their sons, if not their daughters.

It was amazing how much information was dropped over a drink after a game of polo. Or during one of his seductions.

The sad thing was, Max hadn’t wanted information from Veronica Granville. He’d simply liked the way she looked. He’d liked how bright she was, how witty she’d been at the bar where they’d crossed paths. He’d hoped for some good sex, along with some intelligent company.

Now she had stars in her eyes, put there by his mother’s infamy. From now on, he would question whether her interest in him wasn’t really interest in getting closer to his mother.

But he wasn’t going to turn down the sex just because it might come with a few strings attached.

“Max,” she whispered in his ear. “If you go to America, will you take me with you?”

“We can talk about that later,” he said, used to negotiations where he promised nothing but the promise of something that might be offered in the future. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

Max captured her mouth with his as he pulled her close. She rubbed herself against him like a cat drunk on catnip. He felt a little sad when he realized he didn’t trust her enthusiastic response.

He cleared his mind and focused on sensations. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The sweet taste of her mouth. The heat that surged through his veins, causing almost instant rock-hard arousal. The throbbing need he would soon slake inside her hot, wet, willing body.

Insidious thoughts crept back in. Of K lecturing him on how lucky he was to have a mother. And how if she still had a mother, she’d treasure every day she had with her. He’d argued that his situation was different. That the duchess hadn’t been a mother for many years. Just like K’s mother, when Bella had left his father, she’d left her children, as well.

So why, after all these years, had the duchess invited him to spend Mother’s Day at The Seasons? He had boy hood memories of holidays spent there with his brothers and his four male cousins, Nash, Ben, Carter and Rhett, Foster’s sons with his first wife, Abigail.

When Foster had divorced Abby, they’d divided their four sons between them. Foster got Ben and Carter. Abby got Nash and Rhett. Both parents had remarried and had more kids. Max and his brothers hadn’t been back to The Seasons since his parents had separated ten years ago. So what was his mother’s invitation all about?

“Max? Is something wrong?”

Max realized he’d stopped kissing Veronica and was once again staring out the window over her shoulder.

Damn you, Mother. You’re worse than K. Why can’t you stay the hell out of my life!

Max let go of the reporter and took a step back. “I’m sorry, Veronica. Maybe we can do this another time.”

“What?”

He could see she was annoyed. He didn’t blame her. He was more than a little annoyed himself at the distraction K—and his mother’s telegram—had created.

“I’ll drive you back to London.” He was glad now he’d decided to make the hour drive south on the M20 motorway from London, rather than taking the train with Veronica from Victoria Station.

Her hands shot to her hips. “I thought we were going to spend the weekend here, Max. Why the sudden change in plans?”

She would have done better kissing him again, Max reflected. He didn’t have much tolerance for female indignation. Although, he supposed she had a right to be upset.

She narrowed her eyes and said, “It’s that telegram, isn’t it? Is something going on with the duchess? I could use a scoop, Max. What do you know? Or think you know?”