Beach House Beauty

Prologue

Rhys

Three Years Ago

Well, look what the cat dragged in, Brantley Calloway says as I step out onto his back patio. He lifts a beer in mock salute, a shit-eating grin on his face. Dressed in gray chino shorts and a red polo, he’s the picture of modish relaxation. A rarity for him. He’s usually in five-thousand-dollar suits and expensive Italian leather shoes, lines of stress etched around his blue eyes. I was beginning to think you stood us up.

Got held up at work, I say, propping a shoulder up against the glass door as I scan the backyard. There are two dozen people scattered around the elegant pool, all dressed in equally elegant swimwear, all chatting and laughing. Aside from Brant’s wife, Marnie, and his business partner, Jack Hale, I don’t know any of them. I’m not surprised. Brant and I are from two different worlds.

My family is wealthy, but not like this. Brant is a whole different level of affluent. He lives in a sprawling eleven-thousand square-foot mansion on Lake Washington. The backyard is an oasis of indulgent luxury, with colorful gardens, an Olympic-sized pool carved from natural rock, tennis courts, a pool house, a guest house, and a killer view of the lake.

I paid a king’s ransom for a two-story Craftsman in West Seattle twelve years ago. It’s small, but it’s mine. It’s worth twice what I paid for it now, but I’m not giving it up easy. I’m a homicide detective. The pay is garbage. Luckily, I’ve made some good investments over the years, and working security for Brant on days off has been a nice little bonus. I’m not hurting for cash. I’m not in a hurry to spend it either. I prefer to live modestly and make my own way in life.

I’m guessing everyone else at this little barbeque throws money around like it’s nothing. Brant keeps expensive company. He doesn’t like any of them much, at least not that I can tell. They seem to be more Marnie’s friends than his. In the year I’ve worked for him, he’s always kept them at a polite distance. He welcomes them into his home, but he doesn’t trust them. He doesn’t seem to trust much of anyone but me and Jack.

The only people in the world with more trust issues than cops are billionaires. Maybe that’s why Brant and I get along so well. We’re both suspicious of everyone under the sun.

Working another case? he asks, flipping steaks on the grill.

Always, I grunt in response. We had a triple homicide two days ago. I’ve been working my ass off trying to run the suspect to ground. He finally turned himself in at midnight last night. Confessed everything. Where’s the beer?

Brant points the spatula toward the fridge behind him.

I push away from the door, headed in that direction. You’re burning the meat, I observe, peeking in at the charred steaks on my way past. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to grill a steak?

Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to shit talk the man cooking your food and signing your checks? he retorts, side-eyeing me. Raven won’t eat it if it’s still mooing at her.

She’s here? I ask with interest, reaching into the outdoor fridge for a beer. Since I met him, Brantley has talked nonstop about his daughter, but I’ve never set eyes on the kid. She lives in New York with her mom and has been busy with school. Brant usually flies back to New York once a month to spend time with her instead of dragging her across the country.

He’s a good man. Most men in his position couldn’t give two shits about family. It’s all about the bottom dollar. That isn’t Brant. His family comes first, even if it means business takes a backseat. Hell, he moved his entire company across the country for Marnie when he married her four years ago. He wanted her happy, and Seattle was her home.

Yeah, she’ll be here for a few weeks before she heads to Boston, he says. She wants time to get familiar with the city before classes start.

Ah, shit. I forgot Raven graduated last month. She starts college at Berklee this fall. She’s a voice major. Brant was proud as hell when she got accepted early admission. He says she sings like an angel. Even Marnie says she’s good. That’s a ringing endorsement from a woman who doesn’t leave her own world often enough to notice anyone else exists most of the time.

Marnie isn’t a bad woman. She’s just self-absorbed and shallow. Then again, when you’re the heiress to a literal gold mine, I guess you can be. Her family owns the oldest mining company left in the United States. Owned. Her parents died when she was younger, leaving everything to her. But Brant is crazy about her, and she’s crazy about Brant, so I mind the business that pays me.

I’m curious about Raven, though. From the way Brant talks about her, she’s the exact opposite of her stepmother. There isn’t a shallow or self-absorbed bone in her body. Her life revolves around music and volunteering for a music program in NYC. She graduated at the top of her class, never gets into trouble, and is an all-around good girl.

Either she’s the most well-adjusted billionaire’s kid on the planet, or she’s one hell of an actress. Call me cynical, but my money is on the latter. No one grows up in the lap of luxury without a few demons. When you can have whatever you want, and the whole world caters to your every whim, you leave a few skeletons in your wake. I’ve seen it far too often to believe any different.

This city is overrun with spoiled rich kids who think the rules don’t apply to them. I’ll bet my left nut Raven’s the same way. She may have Brant fooled, but he hasn’t spent the last fifteen years in uniform. I was cleaning up the messes of rich kids long before I started working homicide. Hell, I grew up with the blood of one running through my veins. My mother has been a spoiled brat her whole life. Everyone in her vicinity has suffered for it, my baby sister the most.

I don’t tell Brant any of that, though. His kid is his business.

She should be down soon, Brant says as I pop the top on my bottle and take a pull. She and Marnie had a…disagreement about her swimsuit. His expression tightens, displeasure pulling his lips down at the corners. I had to intervene.

My gaze flickers to Marnie. I’m not sure how she has a leg to stand on regarding what Raven wears when she’s dressed like she is. Her suit consists of a few tiny gold triangles held together by several even smaller strings. It leaves nothing to the imagination. Not that she seems to mind how every man in attendance looks at her. Jack’s ogling her tits so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t given himself an aneurysm. Marnie’s relishing in the attention where she holds court beside the pool. But that’s not my business either, so I keep my mouth shut and take another drink.

I’m taking Raven out on the boat tomorrow. Are you free? Brant asks.

Where are you headed?

She wants to see the whales. He smiles indulgently. I figured I’d take her on a cruise around the islands, see if we can’t find a pod for her. Marnie has a meeting, so it’ll just be the two of us.

I open my mouth to agree, only for movement at the door to catch my attention. A tall, raven-haired beauty steps outside, her arms wrapped around her curvy body, her cheeks stained pink.

My breath gets lodged in my throat, every thought in my head vanishing. Christ Almighty. She has legs for days. And curves sweet enough to make my cock ache. Her all-black, two-piece suit is modest compared to what most women here are wearing, but it looks indecent on her full figure anyway. Her breasts nearly spill from the scalloped top, the creamy swells making my mouth water. The high waist leaves a tantalizing strip of her pale stomach visible. It’s clear she’s not entirely comfortable in the suit, but she looks gorgeous.

She’s beautiful in a timeless way, fresh-faced and innocent. Her big blue eyes and pouty lips are straight out of the old black and white movies my sister loves. She’s captivating, enchanting. I can’t pull my eyes away from her. Unlike most of the women here, she isn’t reed thin but big and beautiful. Her stomach isn’t flat but round, her hips and thighs wide. She’s the kind of woman you sink into and take your time with. The kind you ride bare just because you can’t fucking resist.

The blood in my veins heats like metal in a forge at the thought, desire screaming through me. I don’t know who she is, but I decide immediately that she will be mine. There is no other option. It’s been years since I was last with anyone. Hell, it’s been months since I got myself off. But I need this woman beneath me more than I need my next breath. I need to know what she looks like with those dark curls spread across my bed and those thick thighs wrapped around my head.

I take a step in her direction.

There she is, Brant says.

I whip my head in his direction, unsure what he’s talking about or who. Marnie? His kid? His boat? I stopped listening as soon as the mystery woman appeared on the patio.

Come here, baby girl, he calls. I want you to meet someone.

My mystery girl turns toward us in slow motion, a sweet smile overtaking her face.

Ah, fuck.

My stomach knots up, my balls churning.

There’s no way this is his kid. This woman isn’t a girl or anything remotely close to it. She’s a full-fledged goddess sent down from Mount Olympus.

Hi, dad, she says, moving in our direction. Her hips sway with every step. And that voice. Christ. If she sings half as sweet as she speaks, she really does sing like a fucking angel.

I tip my beer back, draining the bottle.

Her gaze shifts to me as Brant gives her a one-armed hug. Those big blue eyes widen almost comically when they lock on my face, her pouty lips parting slightly. Jesus Christ. I want to slip my dick between them while she stares at me like that.

Raven, this is Rhys Flannery, Brant says as we stare at each other in complete silence. Rhys, this is my baby girl, Raven.

Hi, Rhys, she whispers, looking up at me through the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. A blush stains her cheeks, her tits shuddering as she says my name. It’s really nice to meet you.

Brant moves back to the grill.

Raven, I growl, cursing God and all His saints for putting this sweet little thing in front of me and making her utterly untouchable at the same time. I may be an asshole, but there are some lines even I won’t cross. She’s my best friend’s daughter, the light of his life. I can’t—won’t—put my hands on her. But God, I want to.

Um, my dad says you’re a detective? That must be interesting, she says, her gaze eating me up. I don’t have to ask to know she likes what she sees. It’s written all over her face. She wears the truth like she does her innocence, right there for the whole world to see.

Brant hasn’t seen it yet. He’s busy flipping steaks. But any minute now, he’s going to look up again. He’s going to see how she’s looking at me, and he’s going to know that his baby girl has a thing for me. I have to shut it down now. I owe him that much.

Forgive me, songbird, I think regretfully, wishing like hell she was anyone else. If she were, I’d answer any question she wanted