Lucky Stars

Chapter One Expectations and Disaster

Belle

There came a knock at the door.

Belle Abbot jumped like a frightened cat and whirled away from her reflection in the mirror.

She knew who was there.

She stared at the door thinking not for the first time she did not have a good feeling about that night.

She felt both a strange, thrilling expectation and a not so strange fear of disaster.

This combination of feelings was very weird.

The former, she had no idea its cause.

The latter, she knew was Miles.

She should have never agreed to come there.

She knew it, she just knew it. She should have never let him talk her into it.

It was too soon.

They’d only been dating a month which was way too soon for her to meet his mother.

And it was definitely way too soon for her to spend the weekend at the family’s ancestral castle in order to attend his mother’s posh annual birthday bash which would be a veritable crush of the rich and famous.

Belle was not comfortable in a crush of people. She’d definitely not be comfortable in a crush of the rich and famous.

She walked on leaded feet across the huge expanse of her richly appointed bedroom to the door. She was forty-five minutes late to join the party downstairs and she wondered what Miles’s reaction would be to her tardiness.

She was late partially because it took her forever to do her hair.

She was also late because she was purposefully dillydallying in an effort to delay her arrival at the festivities and hysterically considering feigning a headache, or a fast-acting and incapacitating stomach flu.

She pulled open the heavy door.

She was right. There stood Miles Bennett.

He looked, she noticed instantly, very good in his formal attire.

This wasn’t the first time she realised how good he looked. Indeed, it wasn’t something you could miss.

However, she’d thought he’d looked good before she’d ever met him, considering he was famous because he and his family were extortionately wealthy.

She’d seen his pictures in magazines since she was a young, romantically-minded girl and he was a teen. She (and undoubtedly many other girls around the globe) watched him growing up tall, strong, lean and handsome, living a jet-set lifestyle. The kind of lifestyle that always captivated the press and young, romantically-minded girls. Therefore, the press covered his life regularly and with a great deal of devoted attention. The same devotion that young girls who grew to be young women who grew to be just women without the young attached followed it.

He was blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered and had a slim but muscled body that he held with an attractive ease.

Though there was something in his eyes that worried Belle. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something she didn’t think she liked.

Those eyes did a sweep of her and she watched as they grew hungry not in an entirely good way. In what Belle thought was a somewhat greedy way, a way that put her on edge.

Then he muttered, “Jesus.”

Belle wasn’t certain about his odd response.

She looked down at herself anxiously and asked, “Do I look okay?” before her eyes lifted back to his.

His gaze moved from her chest to her face and he grinned. That look that made her uncomfortable left his face. Another look, a look that made her think maybe she was being a bit crazy, a look filled with warmth and affection, replaced it.

His hand came out and he teasingly flicked the ruffle at her neck.

“Is it one of yours?” he asked.

He meant her dress and he didn’t mean to ask if she owned it because, obviously, she did.

She had a small shop in St. Ives which sold, almost exclusively, a line of clothing creations that she designed and made. She also sold a few friends’ jewellery collections and other bits and bobs when the mood struck her, which was often.

The shop had been somewhat hand-to-mouth until the recent extraordinary events that rocked her life. Now, she had to employ two seamstresses to help her keep on top of stock, and her used-to-be very unusual, personalised orders had quadrupled.

“Yes,” she replied to Miles.

Her dress was knee length and form-fitting. It was a beautiful crêpe de chine she’d found that she’d fallen in love with instantly and bought yards of it even though the cost was astronomical. It was the colour of blush, that was neither peach nor pink nor cream but an elegant mixture of the three. The back was high. It was sleeveless but there was a deep slash from the throat to the empire waist at her midriff. This was made demure by a delicate, two-inch, complementary blush-coloured chiffon ruffle running the length of the slash and around her neck. Nevertheless, it showed the skin of her chest provocatively. She’d paired it with high-heeled pumps that were about three shades darker than the dress (on the pink side). The shoes had peek-a-boo toes that had a small rosette which flattered the shoes and drew attention to her French-pedicured toenails.

“Gorgeous,” Miles murmured and Belle had to steel herself against that word which he used often in regards to her, even calling her that as an endearment.

She considered any endearments in a month long relationship way too early but she never said anything, but she had to admit it kind of gave her the creeps.

It was a word her ex-husband, Calvin, had used to describe her and, just as Miles, Calvin had used it as a sweet nothing. Sometimes even saying it when he felt repentant, wiping away the blood from her lip, pressing the ice to her eye after he’d use his fists on her.

“We should join the party, Belle. Mum’s asking after you,” Miles told her, pulling her out of her thoughts and taking her elbow, forcing her forward, closing the door to her room behind them.

Belle had met Joy Bennett, Miles’s mother, that afternoon when they’d arrived at the family castle, called Chy An Als Point. An imposing, rambling, stone structure with an uneven roofline, some of it built hundreds upon hundreds of years before on a jagged Cornish cliff. The winds blew the waters of the sea so they smashed against the rocks at the castle’s base, giving the already daunting castle a strangely unsettling atmosphere.

You couldn’t say the castle was beautiful. The many different styles of its construction, as it was added onto century after century, clashed weirdly at the same time they managed to mingle.

You could say it was spectacular, almost like a living entity, powerful, magnificent and impenetrable, perched for centuries on its cliff.

Regardless of the fact that it was slightly spooky, Belle loved it.

Upon meeting Miles’s Mum, Joy, Belle liked her without reservation. She was a lovely woman, tall and svelte, sharing the colouring of Miles. She was open, friendly, welcoming and kind, if a bit dramatic but, considering Belle’s mother and grandmother, Belle was used to more than a bit of drama.

Joy was also, Belle found (to her surprise), wary of her son. This was something she tried to hide but Belle, her senses attuned to the strangeness she felt from Miles, read it and worried about it.

Then again, Belle worried about everything.

Belle was, unfortunately, a worrier.

Still, Joy loved him. That was obvious, and she was affectionate toward him. But when her eyes drifted between Miles and Belle, Belle saw the backs of them grow uneasy.

This did not aid in Belle’s indecision about how she felt about Miles Bennett.

Not one bit.

Belle walked beside Miles down the thick carpet runner that ran the length of the stone-floored hall. He’d tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow in a way she thought was a tad too possessive but also wondered if her caution had more to do with the lessons she’d learned from Calvin and less to do with the reality of Miles.

She’d only dated two men since divorcing Calvin. She found she couldn’t open up to either and realised she was not yet ready to move forward in life romantically.

She should, she knew, be more like her mother and grandmother. Both of them had been handed by God an overabundance of outspokenness, outgoingness and outrageousness. They also had the capacity to plunge themselves, both feet first, eyes open, into cold, shark-infested waters if there was even the slightest possibility that there might be something rich and rewarding to come of this endeavour.

Since she was a little girl, Belle had thought that God had been so generous to her grandmother and mother, He’d not had enough to hand out when Belle came along.

Therefore Belle Abbot had lost out on these qualities and all her life had been timid, apprehensive and never took an uncalculated risk.

Never.

It was safe to repeat that point… never.

“It’s too bad your brother couldn’t make it to your mother’s birthday party,” Belle remarked as they made it to the top of a carpet-runnered stone stairwell that she and Miles and four other people could easily walk down, side by side.

Miles’s brother, James Bennett was equally, if not more, famous as Miles.

He was also, in looks, the exact opposite.

Miles looked like his mother.

James Bennett looked like his now-deceased father.

Black-haired with startlingly green eyes rimmed with long, black lashes, James Bennett (if the pictures were true) was taller than Miles. He was also lean and broad-shouldered but his muscles were more powerful. And, if Miles held his body with a casual ease, James held his with a fierce command.

James, in the many photos Belle had seen of him (and there were many), was more intense, more masculine, his features bolder and stronger, while Miles’s still held a hint of boyishness.

James, being elder, (arguably) more attractive and standing to (and unfortunately, three years ago, upon his father’s untimely death, actually doing it) inherit the castle, had much more attention on him his whole life.

He, however, had not gone into the family banking business but instead started his own business. He did something complicated Belle didn’t understand and did it very, very well making him far, far richer and increasing the already oppressive attention he had from the media.

He had, however, also inherited the role of CEO of the vast banking conglomerate that extended throughout the European Union and the Americas that the Bennett family had owned for years.

Now he did both, reportedly with great success even if his attention to these two undertakings was rather shocking since only one would tax even the best of men.

This served only to increase public interest.

The fact that he and Miles routinely dated and often had rather public but usually short-lived (though frequently stormy), relationships with every glamorous, beautiful and available model, actress and debutante, squiring them to art openings, charity functions and exclusive restaurants, made it all the worse.

“Oh, he’s here,” Miles said and Belle nearly missed a step when Miles made this casual statement.

“He’s here?” Belle breathed, unhappy about this news.

Miles had told her James couldn’t attend because of some business in Slovakia or Bosnia or some country ending in “ia”.

She was already incredibly nervous about the evening. She didn’t need another reason to be nervous. And James Bennett was the kind of man who could make even the most beautiful, sophisticated, accomplished, confident person nervous.

And Belle was none of those.

“Oh yes, he’s here. Arrived as a surprise for Mum a little over an hour ago.” Miles looked down at her and smiled. This smile, Belle saw, was not warm and affectionate.

It was strangely…

She stared up at him…

Triumphant.

As if someone had called Miles and told him that he’d won the Nobel Prize for simply existing.

This was so weird it also didn’t make Belle happy.

In fact, it kind of freaked her out.

They made it to the bottom of the stairs and before Belle could process her emotion she heard her name cried.

And it was cried loudly.

She took her eyes from Miles and looked across him to see Joy heading, or more accurately described as charging their way.

She was wearing a deep burgundy dress with long sleeves and gathered cross-draping. To Belle’s experienced eye, the dress was complicated and stunning.

“I love your hair!” Joy exclaimed when she arrived at Belle and Miles. She leaned in and gave Belle a cheek touch and air kiss, her hands curling on Belle’s forearms. She leaned back and cried, “And your dress!” She said no more, her tone and emphasis were enough to say that words simply did not describe.

Belle fought the urge to touch her hair nervously. She’d pulled it back softly from her face and fixed it in a loose chignon at the side of her nape. It took about twenty tries to get it right but she’d finally done it.

Except one, long, thick tendril that curled down the side of her neck, which would not, no matter what Belle tried to do (and she’d tried everything), stay fixed in the knot.

“Thank you,” Belle whispered, her gaze moving to the guests in the vast hall, of which there were a fair few standing about, all of their eyes on her.

After the events of eight months ago, she’d become somewhat accustomed to eyes on her.

That didn’t mean she liked it and it always made her feel awkward.

Or, more awkward than she normally felt.

Joy linked her arm through Belle’s and announced, “Let’s get you a drink, shall we?”

Joy pulled Belle away from Miles and toward the fantastic drawing room which was decorated in whites, creams, yellows and golds. Miles had given her the full tour of the castle that afternoon. It had taken more than an hour mainly because Belle was enthralled that any family could actually live in such historical splendour but also because it was huge.

It boggled the mind.

Or, at least, it boggled Belle’s mind.

Though, Belle had to admit, her mind was not difficult to boggle.

The drawing room had even more people and Belle felt her body grow tight as, upon their entry, many of their eyes moved to her.

Joy didn’t seem to notice and leaned close to Belle, not as if they’d met only hours before but as if they were bosom buddies and had been for decades. “Miles delivered your present to me while you were getting ready. I love it, Belle. Thank you.”

Belle turned her head to Joy at these genuine and heartfelt words and she smiled.

She didn’t know if she should give a woman she’d never met a present but considering she was attending her party and dating her son she figured it would be bad manners if she didn’t do something.

It took fifteen calls to her grandmother, mother and a variety of friends before Belle chose a piece of jewellery from her shop. Hammered silver that was cut sharply in places, rolled stylishly in others and liberally sprinkled with freshwater pearls, it had a unique style and Belle thought it was lovely.

Still, what did you get the woman who had or could have everything?

Clearly, Belle hadn’t done a bad job of it.

“I’m pleased you like it,” Belle murmured, sounding as pleased as she was and Joy squeezed her arm.

“I don’t like it, I love it. It’s unusual, beautiful and very thoughtful,” Joy replied.

For the first time since she arrived at the castle, Belle felt unmitigated happiness and her smile deepened.

They stopped at a small bar set up for the party with a variety of glasses and bottles of liquor with buckets of ice. It was attended by a dark-jacketed, bow-tied bartender.

“Two champagnes please,” Miles ordered, coming to stand behind Belle and she felt his hand move to rest at the small of her back.

She looked over her shoulder at Miles and tried to hide her annoyance.

He did that all the time, ordered for her. And it wasn’t like he knew her preferences because he barely knew her. He just said things like “You have to try this,” or “This is the best thing they make,” and then he’d order it for her without allowing her to say a word.

She actually didn’t want the meals he ordered her and at that moment she also didn’t want champagne.

With her nerves, she needed at the very least vodka. If she had the courage of her grandmother and mother, she would have ordered a shot of tequila (or three).

Champagne wasn’t even in her top five.

She sighed and let it go.

One thing she learned from Calvin was to pick her battles.

And she was not going to have words over champagne.

The bartender held out the glass to her but Miles leaned in and took it, moving it the scant inch between the bartender’s hand and Belle’s as if Belle was above doing such common things as accepting a glass of champagne from a lowly servant.

This act so surprised and irritated her, she very nearly said something.

Of course, she did not.

Instead, she clenched her teeth a moment before she lifted the glass and sipped.

“Oh there’s Adele!” Joy cried suddenly, glancing across the room. “I must go say hello.” She turned to Belle. “Now that you have refreshments, I can leave you to it.” Her eyes moved upwards to her son. “Now Miles, don’t let Belle get drunk and dance on any tables,” she ordered and the very idea of Belle “Meek and Mild” Abbot dancing on a table made Belle burst out laughing.

When she’d controlled her hilarity and her gaze focussed on Joy, the woman’s blue eyes were studying Belle and they were shining with an odd, soft light.

Then she leaned toward Belle and whispered. “You should do that more often, darling.”

Then without another word, she was gone, melting into the crowd.

Miles moved her away from the bar so others could order drinks and Belle braced because she was certain she was going to have to start mingling.

Belle hated to mingle. She had no talent for small talk and found the effort gruelling.

They did not, however, sift into the crowd. Instead, Miles’s hand at her waist curled her body toward his and then in so they were hips-to-hips and belly-to-belly.

Startled, Belle looked up at him.

Firstly, they were too close, loverly close. It wasn’t seemly and, furthermore, they weren’t lovers.

Secondly, they’d shared some kisses but she hadn’t even let Miles get to second base and he’d tried on every date they shared, even the first one. She was uncomfortable with this casual but extreme closeness which gave the wrong message.

They certainly were not at a point in their relationship where he would hold her that close in public.

In fact, Belle wasn’t entirely certain there ever would be a time in any relationship where she’d allow a man to hold her that close in public.

Not before Calvin.

Not during Calvin (not that he was that way inclined, fortunately).

Not after Calvin.

She put her hand to his bicep and leaned against his arm, tipping her head back to look at him.

She opened her mouth to ask him to move away when she felt it.

A trill shot up her spine causing the small hairs at the hairline of her neck to rise and she felt her belly dip right before it warmed.

Of its own accord, her head turned to the side, her eyes moved instinctively and locked on a man across the room.

He was an unbelievably handsome, green-eyed man who stood straight and tall, his body, even at rest, clearly at his command and his gaze was riveted on her.

Belle’s knees went weak, heat hit her cheeks and her fingers clutched Miles’s arm as she looked upon the indecently attractive James Bennett, in the flesh, for the very first time.

Jack

Jack was listening to Yasmin talk as he took a sip of champagne before the crowds parted and he saw her wearing a blush-coloured dress and pink shoes. Both dress and shoes were feminine and unbelievably sexy in a way they hinted tantalisingly at the charms of the woman wearing them rather than brazenly displaying them.

He was struck by the sight of her. Struck enough for his body to go completely still, his hand holding the glass arrested in its descent from his lips.

Then it hit him who she was.

In the last eight months he’d seen her pictures dozens of times, maybe even scores of times in the media.

Belle Abbot, “The Tiny Dynamo”, “The Great American Heroine” and half a dozen other nicknames the press had given her when, eight months ago, she’d witnessed an accident in front of her while driving down the road. A bus carrying school children coming back from an outing had flipped over a bridge into icy waters.

She’d stopped her car, torn out and dove into the freezing sea to save the lives of seven schoolchildren and the bus driver who she’d plunged after, again and again, to pull from the bus.

Two children had swum free themselves, two children had drowned. Both drown victims Belle had pulled from the watery wreckage and one she was still giving CPR when the paramedics finally arrived.

This was all caught on other onlookers’ phones, both in photos and video. They did not help Belle Abbot. No. Instead they sold their photos far and wide. Photos of her dripping wet, diving, breaking the surface with a child’s arm wrapped around her neck, dragging the child behind her, kicking toward the shore.

The press had made a meal of her, as they would because the story was, frankly, astounding.

They hadn’t, however, as the months passed, lost their interest.

Mainly because, when Belle Abbot wasn’t cold, wet and saving lives, she was exceptionally pretty.

Not beautiful, her nose was too pert, her skin was peaches and cream, she was not petite but also not tall.

But she was uncommonly pretty with shining, unbelievably thick, dark blonde hair streaked with honeyed highlights. Her body was perfectly proportioned and lusciously curvaceous. Lastly, she had a classic, elegant style, a bearing that was nearly regal and she was way too photogenic for her own good.

Further, she was an enigma. In a time when instant celebrity was coveted to the point of obsession, she didn’t speak to the press. She didn’t sell her story. She didn’t do television interviews. She didn’t pay any attention to the media at all. She kept her eyes averted, head bowed and went about her daily life as if she hadn’t committed an act of selfless altruism. An act which had already, without Belle Abbot’s input or approval, been made into a television movie.

Her head turned and her grey eyes hit him and Jack felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his gut.

He was wrong.

Perhaps she wasn’t as photogenic as he thought.

In the photos, she was not beautiful.

But in the flesh, she was a knockout.

It struck Jack that she was with a man, a man who was holding her close and Jack’s eyes moved to the man.

They did this as Yasmin breathed, “I don’t believe it.”

When Jack saw his brother Miles holding Belle Abbot, his still body went rock-solid.

He felt Yasmin’s hand clutch his forearm as Miles turned to look at what had caught Belle’s attention.

Jack watched as Miles’s face took on an expression Jack knew very well. Indeed, Jack had seen it time and again for as long as he could remember.

It was the look Miles got every time Miles engaged him in a competition which happened often between the two brothers. Over the years Jack had vigorously participated, until recently, after their father died (but even before) when Miles’s obsessive competitive streak had turned to unhealthy compulsion.

The look on Miles’s face was filled with triumph.

Jack knew at that moment that Miles was not with Belle Abbot because she was graceful, stylish and extraordinarily sexy.

He was with her to rub Jack’s nose in it.

“Jack, is Miles with Belle Abbot, The Tiny Dynamo?” Yasmin whispered.

“Yes,” Jack’s deep voice clipped tersely.

“My God.” Yasmin was still whispering, this time in shocked horror as Jack watched Miles break away from Belle but he held her close to his side as he guided them their way. “He’s going to eat her alive,” Yasmin finished.

Her words were Jack’s thoughts precisely.

Jack didn’t move as Miles and Belle walked the short distance. Only his eyes cut to Belle who was looking at Yasmin then she looked away not even sparing Jack a glance.

“Jack!” Miles greeted him with a handshake even though this was rude. Any gentleman knew he should greet Yasmin first.

However, he wouldn’t have called Belle’s attention immediately to Jack if he had demonstrated good manners.

And called it he did. Jack watched as her head moved and she lifted her eyes to him.

Fifteen feet away, Jack thought she was a knockout.

Two feet away, her stormy grey eyes on his, she was phenomenal.

“Belle, I’d like you to meet my brother, James Bennett. And his girlfriend, Yasmin Delacourt,” Miles introduced them.

She lifted her hand for him to shake rather than her cheek for him to kiss.

For some reason this irritated Jack to an irrational extreme. Such an extreme, it brought him to the point of action.

Therefore, when his hand closed around hers, it did it powerfully and he used it to pull her closer to his body. Taken by surprise, she came up to her toes then over, moving toward him and lifting her hand at the last minute, bracing herself by resting the champagne glass she held against his arm.

He put his other hand, which also still held his glass, to her waist and he bent his head. He brushed his lips against her cheek at the same time he smelled her subtle, complex perfume. Instead of releasing her and letting her pull away, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.

“Belle,” he murmured.

“James,” she murmured back, her eyes caught on his for the briefest second before they moved over his shoulder, her hand tugging at his, her body tense and trying to move away.

“Jack,” he corrected, his hand in hers pulling her closer, his other hand curving slightly around her back so she was, effectively, in the circle of his arm. Their hands held between their bodies, her breasts nearly, but not quite, close enough to brush his chest.

Her remarkable eyes skittered back to his.

“I beg your pardon?” she whispered.

“My friends call me Jack,” he told her softly.

Her eyes grew slightly wider and her mouth parted deliciously when she breathed, “Oh.”

His eyes locked on her lips.

With an intensity that startled him, Jack felt the urge to kiss her. This urge was so intense, his hands on her actually tensed as if to pull her closer just as she leaned in slightly. His gaze moved to hers and he saw she was also staring at his mouth, her face soft, her eyelids heavy, her desire to be kissed was written on her features in unconcealed temptation.

Good fucking God, he thought right before she was pulled away by Miles and Jack lost hold of her.

Miles positioned her firmly and pointedly at his side.

This sudden movement surprised her and her head came up, her expression cleared of desire and she looked charmingly cross for a moment before she was able to control it.

This almost made Jack laugh, however the scheming yet annoyed look Jack caught on Miles’s face wiped away all thoughts of laughter.

Belle’s head turned to Yasmin and she smiled a small smile before she pulled away from Miles to kiss Yasmin’s cheek.

“Yasmin,” she mumbled.

“I’m not Jack’s girlfriend, you know,” Yasmin announced, apropos of nothing, instead of greeting Belle in return.

“You’re not?” Belle asked, her voice quiet.

Yasmin’s eyes were moving between Jack, Belle and Miles and Jack saw they were scheming as well but in an entirely different way.

“Yasmin,” Jack muttered with a warning note in his voice but Yasmin, as usual, ignored it and talked over him.

“We were, ages and ages ago. Now we’re just friends. Close friends but just friends. We’ve been friends for years. But we’re only friends,” Yasmin made herself perfectly clear and Jack felt Miles’s displeasure without having to look at him.

“So, you’re friends?” Belle mumbled her dry question and Jack chuckled.

As he did so, he saw her eyes on him held a hint of shocked pleasure before they quickly moved away.

“Yes,” Yasmin replied, amusement in her voice, her eyes on Belle. “By the way, Joy showed me the brooch you gave her. It’s stunning.”

Belle and Jack both looked at Yasmin.

“What brooch?” Jack asked.

“Joy told me that the girl Miles brought with him, Belle, obviously,” she nodded her head at Belle and then carried on, “bought her a brooch for her birthday. Very unusual, very gorgeous. I want one,” Yasmin replied throwing a smile toward Belle as Jack’s eyes moved to her as well.

She was, again, looking anywhere but him.

“You bought Mum a brooch?” he asked her and her eyes went to his ear.

“Yes,” she replied.

“It’s fantastic,” Miles put in, pulling Belle closer to his side and Jack watched her body grow visibly tense. “It’s from her shop in St. Ives.”

“I’ll have to visit your shop,” Yasmin told her.

Belle looked relieved to have an opportunity to move her gaze to Yasmin whom she gave a nod and another small smile. “I’d like that.”

“She made her dress,” Miles declared and Jack watched a becoming flush creep into Belle’s cheek as Miles went on. “The one she’s wearing tonight.”

“Miles,” she whispered, clearly embarrassed and equally clearly wanting him to shut up.

Miles ignored her and kept talking. “She designs clothes.” Miles’s eyes moved to Jack and his hand not wrapped around Belle’s waist came across his body. Holding his champagne glass, he flicked the ruffle at her collarbone with an extended finger. “Sexy little number, isn’t it?” he asked Jack.

“Miles!” Belle hissed with now obvious embarrassment as her body went solid.

“It’s lovely,” Jack murmured, wondering how angry his mother would be if he did physical injury to his brother at her birthday party before turning the conversation off Belle’s more than just lovely dress to something else. “Are you spending the weekend?”

Belle’s eyes came to his and he thought he saw a hint of gratitude at his change of topic before they moved swiftly away.

“Yes,” Miles stated, curling Belle possessively closer, his head bending in an openly intimate way toward hers, both actions gave his words more meaning. “We’re staying until Monday.”

His insinuation was not lost on anyone and Belle’s cheeks flamed.

“Joy tells me you’re in separate bedrooms,” Yasmin remarked, boldly calling Miles out on his nonverbal lie. Jack would have laughed but Belle’s eyes flew to Yasmin and she looked mortified.

She turned into Miles and tipped her head back. “You know,” she said softly but somewhat desperately. “I think I need to go fix my lipstick.”

It was clear she was desperate to escape.

Clear to everyone but Miles.

“Your lips are perfect, gorgeous,” Miles replied and Jack watched as something crossed her face. Even in profile he could see it and it looked like she flinched as if she’d been struck.

Jack found her look both stirring and upsetting.

He didn’t have time to try and understand this reaction, Yasmin moved forward.

“Yes, her lips are perfect, Miles. But mine aren’t,” Yasmin declared and linked an arm through Belle’s, forcibly moving her away from Miles before she continued. “Now, as you men know, we ladies have to visit the little girl’s room in pairs so I’m claiming Belle as my second. We’ll be back.”

Before anyone could say a word, Yasmin led Belle from the room.

Belle, Jack noted, didn’t look back.

Both Miles and Jack watched them leave.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Miles asked Jack, his eyes still on the door the women had walked through.

Jack clenched his teeth as anger surged inside him.

In a low, displeased voice, Jack demanded, “Give it up, Miles.”

Slowly, Miles’s head turned and he looked at his brother.

Jack saw a sly look in Miles’s eyes, a look that Jack also knew very well as he’d seen it countless times. It was the look Miles assumed when he knew he was going to lose (which was frequently) and decided to do whatever he had to do to win no matter how devious or underhanded it needed to be.

“Give it up?” Miles repeated, his face changing to false innocence.

“Yes, give it up,” Jack returned. “Play your games on the pitch, in the board room and with women who know the score. Belle Abbot clearly doesn’t know the score. Fucking with that woman’s head, Miles, is lower than you’ve ever sunk. And you’ve sunk pretty damned low.”

Jack watched the red creep up his brother’s neck, signalling his anger.

He leaned toward Jack and clipped, “I saw the way you were with her. You’re not asking me to give it up for Belle’s sake. You’re asking me to step aside because you want a crack at her.”

Jack’s first response to his brother referring to anyone having “a crack” at Belle was the nearly overwhelming desire to put his fist in his face.

With effort, he quelled this desire and realised what Miles said was both right and wrong.

Jack Bennett did, indeed, want “a crack” at Belle Abbot.

Actually, when it came to Belle Abbot, Jack found he wanted a number of things.

He wanted to see if he could break through her obvious, nearly crippling shyness and get her to respond to him. He wanted to hear her soft, sweet voice utter more than a few words. He wanted to teach her to look in his eyes not at his ear. He wanted to see what would happen to her timidity when he kissed her. He wanted to know if what he read behind her stormy eyes and if the promise of her tempting body proved true when he had her naked underneath him.

And he decided instantly he was going to do all of those things.

Every last one.

What he would not do was break her in order to do it.

Something which Miles would not hesitate to do.

Therefore, he had no other choice really.

Thinking of Belle’s lips parting on her soft “oh”, Jack wouldn’t have even considered another choice.

But knowing his brother, he definitely had no choice.

And, his decision made, his eyes focussed on Miles, Miles read what was in Jack’s eyes and then Jack watched his brother smile.

Then Miles’s eyes began to burn with an unhealthy fire that made Jack’s gut get tight and his brother whispered hungrily, “You’re on.”