Page 1 of Three Suave Billionaires and a Fake Chauffeur

Chapter One

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Lucy

I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on my purse. I'd double-checked and then double-checked my double-check—yes, I'm a mess—to make sure the little bottle I'd put into my purse was still inside.

As if it could grow legs while I wasn't looking, crawl out of my purse, skip the country, and start a completely new life as a recycled plastic fork.

Ugh. What am I doing? How did I get here? Oh, right. The giant of a scary man with the mustache, who'd forced himself through my door, then with a gun as long as his arm, pointed it at my face with a gleeful smile.

And all I could think of was, man, I'd just cleaned the carpet on the floor of my apartment. Clearly, that had been my fear talking.

Okay, get a grip, Lucy Applegate. You can do this; you just need to... do it and be done with it.

I raise my hand and ring the doorbell. A few seconds later, a man with the same brown eyes as me and the same dark hair opens the door.

"Lucy?" my brother, Dean, says around what can only be a mouthful of his signature BLT, his supper of choice since forever. His eyebrows shoot up so high they're at risk of blending with his hairline as he questions my presence at his door when we'd just had dinner the night before to celebrate his new job.

Ugh, I was so happy back then, drinking sweet and fancy cocktails and eating my weight in desserts. Not a care in the world. Everything perfect.

My dream to open a bed and breakfast finally came to fruition when the owner, Mr. Berni agreed to an astronomically low sum for the purchase of his very, very run-down property out in the country. It was going to take me months to clean the garden alone, and then there was still the six-bedroom farm-style house itself that required an enormous amount of TLC.

I'd planned to do all the heavy lifting myself, mostly because I didn't have the money to hire anyone. But that was my dream, and when I envisioned the finished product, the driveway was repaired and flanked with an array of warm and colorful flowers, the clapboard siding had a fresh coat of paint in a pastel blue, the shutters too, and the porch restored to its former glory and graced with rocking chairs and pretty little lanterns.

And inside, the hardwood floors would be polished to within an inch of their life, each bedroom cozied up with quilts and cushions and scented with lavender, and the porcelain of the claw-foot bathtubs in each of the bathrooms, gleaming and inviting.

Not to mention the dining room, where I would finally hang that ornate chandelier I got for next to nothing at a yard sale once. But more than anything, I could see the wooden sign at the entrance of the driveway, gently swaying in a cool breeze, that read, "Lucy's B&B." It was supposed to be perfect.

Then just when everything was going right, the universe sent me the scary man with the mustache and that created the kind of havoc I'm not equipped to handle. Not now or ever. But there's no way out for me now. And now I have to do something terrible.

"Dean," I gush, laughing as an alternative to crying, which is what the situation actually in full force demanded.

My baby brother is truly all grown up now. I can easily match his height in heels, even though his muscles add more weight to his frame than mine.

I really should get to the gym and toughen up a little, the erratic thought pops into my brain. Although, why is it that whenever I'm in a stressful situation my first thought is, "Oh, I should have worked out more so I could be stronger, both mentally and physically, then I could knock out all my problems with one strong-willed punch." Then I promise myself to go to the gym, except I solve said problem by making it ten times worse, and then it just kind of gives up on me altogether, and I forget my vow to be stronger entirely.

But now is not the time for fickle thinking, I scold myself again. I have a job to do.

But first, I need to hug my brother. Without thinking, I charge him with a hug so extremely enthusiastic and just a little desperate—okay, a lot, a lot desperate. Throwing all my weight at him—which I'm sure is at least ten pounds heavier considering the sweet treats I'd devoured at our dinner the night before—that he actually loses his balance and reels backward. It's only then I realize he's been carrying a cup of hot chocolate in his left hand.

Gravity abandons him; he goes teetering, using all his might to stay upright while not dousing me in his hot beverage, but fate is also against us.

He slides on the rug under his feet. My feet leave the floor, but I'm still hanging onto him for dear life. He goes down, trying to hold his mug up into the air, but the liquid sloshes out nonetheless over both of us. He then somehow tries to break his fall with his free hand but then also hits his head on the side of the coffee table as he goes down.

Yes, the force of my desperate hug sent us careening from the front door of his very small apartment, straight into his living room, taking the rug with us, and crashing into the coffee table for a spectacular finish.

"Oh my god," I cry, struggling to get off him and onto my knees, while my brother just lies there, flat on his back, his arms outstretched and one of his hands still holding onto the mug that says, 'Studs Drink Coffee' even though he hates the taste of coffee.

I crawl toward him.

"Dean? Oh my god, Dean? Wake up."

His eyes flicker open, and he looks dazed as heck, but he's awake.

"I think my head's bleeding," he says, staring up at the ceiling. No. No. No. I check, and freaking hell, he's right. I have to get him to the ER. Right now.

But oh no, I'm not done. He'd already fallen awkwardly to begin with, and the wrist of the hand he used to break his fall looked a little funny, so what do I do?