Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)
Blood Brothers #1
Manda Mellett
Contents
Published 2016 by Trish Haill Associates
Copyright © 2016 by Manda Mellett
Book and Cover Design by Lia Rees at
Free Your Words
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Three Years Ago
Oh shit! Not again, please. Rubbing my hand across my face, I notice she must have undone the top two buttons of her uniform blouse before leaving the galley. I’m left in no doubt about her intentions as she approaches me with a seductive smile, and that gleam in her eyes I can’t fail to recognise. Being no stranger to such situations, I rapidly assess her predictable proposal in the time it takes for her to reach me and have my well-rehearsed response ready, but I wait and let the scene play out before speaking. As she leans forwards, making sure she’s providing me with an eyeful of her artificially enlarged breasts, I smell her freshly applied perfume. Whispering the expected words discreetly into my ear, she confirms her intentions by waving towards the bedroom at the far end of the plane. Suppressing my exasperated sigh, I take her hand and plant a kiss on the back, letting her down gently with a smile.
“Thank you, sweetheart, but I’m just fine here.”
My rejection wasn’t unexpected and she takes it in her stride, with a cheeky smile as she walks away.
Lifting an eyebrow, I smirk at Jon Tharpe, who’s seated further down the aisle of the Kassis family jet. He grins back, raising his glass in acknowledgement of the blatant offer that I’d just turned down. I’m not tempted. I don’t, as they say, shit on my own doorstep, and fucking an employee would certainly fall into that category. As she walks away, presumably to get on with her flight attendant stuff, I tilt my head and nod, indicating the seat opposite me. Jon accepts the invitation.
“Not in the mood, Nijad?” Jon chuckles as he sits down.
He’s as much friend as bodyguard – no, more than that, he’s another brother to me. A blood brother. We may not share the same heritage, but I owe him my life, and he owes me his fortune. There’s little formality between us.
Wryly I remind him, “It’s the family jet. She probably thinks fucking her employers is a clause in her job description.”
He grimaces, and then sniggers. “So you’re worried you might not measure up to your brothers?”
My expression gives his comment the contempt it deserves, and then I add dryly, “My father uses the plane the most.”
Jon snorts, not at the best of times as he has just taken a mouthful of beer. I bark a laugh at his predicament then relax back, enjoying the luxury of the private jet. I’m the spare part of the triumvirate of sons whose father is Emir Rushdi, the absolute ruler of the small Arab state of Amahad. My status, being akin to a prince, makes me one of the richest men in the world, with more money than I can spend in one lifetime, and little to do but play the role of a typical playboy sheikh with no real purpose in life. Oh, of course, I don’t get away with it that easily; I have to fight for my independence. The family keep dragging me back, trying to involve me in the business of running the country. But I am not the heir designate, nor the second option, unless my eldest brother gets himself assassinated or run over by the proverbial bus, so my opinion counts for little, and they give me nothing tangible by way of responsibility. Two weeks in Amahad were enough for me. Just like my brother Jasim I find the country stifling, with its outdated traditions and laws, and live for the moment I can escape. Though right at this moment I’m not particularly looking forward to landing in Paris either.
“So, Ni, Chantelle. What the fuck you going to do about her?”
Was it the sudden scowl on my face that alerted him to the direction of my thoughts, or is Jon so attuned to me that he can read my mind? Whatever, he’d hit the nail right on the head with his question. Turning my head I gaze out of the window, taking a moment to gather my thoughts before formulating a response.
At the bottom of it, of course, is the big question about how I’d come to lose my bloody mind just before I left for Amahad two weeks ago? I pride myself on my control, so what on earth had compelled me, the very epitome of a fuck-’em-and-leave-’em guy, to suggest to a woman that she could stay at my apartment? At the time it seemed simpler than arguing. Her case that she needed a place to stay while seeking a new home I found less persuasive than the fact that she literally had me by the balls at that moment. Hmm. I had most definitely been thinking with the wrong part of my body, the one her mouth was hovering over, and then swallowing deep into her throat. She’s certainly got some skill in that area, there’s no denying that. But being three thousand miles away has helped me realise that being able to give good head isn’t a good enough reason for me to give her house room, nor have I any desire to be with her 24/7. So here I am, heading back to Paris with mixed feelings about arriving. This time, there would be someone waiting for me. Shit!
“Fuck knows why I agreed to her staying.” I’m shaking my head in sheer bewilderment as I give my belated reply.
Jon’s brow creases. “I’ve done some security checks. She’s not got a criminal record and there’s not much substance in her background. I couldn’t find anything of immediate concern.”
“Huh! There’s not much substance to her at all!”
I know that’s a bit cruel, but Jon’s met her, so the fact I’ve elicited yet another snort from him doesn’t surprise me.
“Jasim didn’t seem too impressed with the idea?”
I’m well aware Jon had been party to the conversation, and though posed as a question it’s really an observation. And he’s absolutely right; my brother had flown off the handle when he heard about Chantelle, and he had every right to do so. Although, as the co-owner of an exclusive BDSM club in London, Jasim lives mainly in England, we share the apartment in Paris, making it our joint French base. I’d left Amahad having promised she’d be on her way pretty damn quick. I’d not appreciated the accusation I’d been led around by my dick, especially as I couldn’t deny that’s exactly what happened. Jasim also queried why, recently, I’ve been acting impulsively, making bad decisions and exhibiting a lack of control. I’d been subjected to a right earbashing from him, pointing out the shortcomings of my behaviour. Sometimes it sucks being the youngest brother; your elders, even if only by eighteen months, automatically tend to think they’re your betters!
I stare out of the window again, my mind getting back to the current issue of Chantelle. She knows this is just a temporary arrangement, and while I’m her current fucking partner nothing serious could come of it, even if I was madly in love with her. The emir envisages me ending up with a wife with blue blood running through her veins and, even if I wanted her to, dear Chantelle really won’t come up to scratch. I have to admit she looks the part, and can hang off my arm well enough at the events I’m compelled to attend as an unofficial ambassador for Amahad. But she’s not got a lot going on up top, and while, at first, her ignorance and inability to understand even simple current affairs seemed amusing, it grows old fast. Even the few days we’ve spent living in close proximity have had me tearing my hair out at times. I mean, who lives in Paris without knowing who the fucking president of France is?
I realise my mood has made me nasty. What Chantelle
has
got going for her is the spectacular body of a catwalk model, a suppleness top gymnasts would envy, and stamina that matches my own – and, of course, not forgetting the aforesaid talent for sucking cock. I shift in my seat, now uncomfortable as my thoughts start descending in the obvious direction. Maybe coming back to Europe isn’t such a bad thing after all. I chuckle, imagining her reaction when I turn up unexpectedly a day early. One thing I can bank on, Chantelle is always ready and willing for what, numerous women have told me, are my talented attentions.
“So he’s not pursuing charges against you?” Jon again breaks the silence, referring to the telephone call I’d received shortly before boarding the plane.
His voice makes me start, and I take a second to come to grips with his sudden change of subject. My brow furrows as I get myself up to speed. “Bastard can’t afford it. He’s got his reputation to think of.”
Jon shakes his head, his expression thoughtful. “I can understand why you reacted that way, Nijad. Fuck, anyone would have done. But you went too far …” His voice trails off.
I have to agree, but there were mitigating circumstances as I now remind him. “He was a wannabe Dom, Jon. He ignored his sub’s safeword – not once, but three times! He was using a fucking whip! One of the lash marks needed fucking stitches, it was so deep. She’ll have the scars for life!”
The incident in Jasim’s club had been shocking. Yes, the culprit had to be pulled away from the woman, but it should have stopped there, with the appropriate punishment of his membership revoked. But I’d been the one first on the scene and I did a lot more than snatch the whip from his hands. His lawyers described it as a vicious attack, and even I had to agree with that description.
“There was no permanent injury.” If I sound like that was something I regretted, it’s just unfortunate.
“You’re lucky St John-Davies cares more for his rep than any revenge.” Jon lifts one leg, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “I thought you had more control than that, Ni. You should have left Jasim to deal with it in the normal way. You’re lucky you got away with it.”
I have to agree. Ethan St John-Davies, the man with the pompous attitude to match his pretentious name, didn’t want either the circumstances or the rationale for my actions to be discussed in open court.
“He’s accepted my apology.” Though the gist of the email I’d received that morning was welcome, because it let me off the hook, I can’t help gritting my teeth, letting Jon know just how much it cost me to make even that small act of contrition. I doubt St John-Davies had apologised to the woman.
“I know it must stick in your gut. I can understand why you got so fucking mad, but you let your fists run away with you. Is anything the matter, Ni? Anything I can help with?”