Friendship on Fire Page 2

  Noah released a low, bullet-like curse word.

  “Rumor has it that he needs cash again.”

  “Okay, let me assimilate this. I’ll call you back in a few.”

  Noah sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, allowing anger and disappointment to flow through him. Ten years ago he’d taken the man he called Dad, a man he adored and whom he thought loved him, to court. After his mom’s death he discovered that the marriage that he’d thought was so perfect had been pure BS. The only father he’d ever known, the man he placed on a pedestal was, he discovered, a serial cheater and a spendthrift.

  Stopping Ethan from liquidating the last of Lockwood family assets, passed down through generations of Lockwoods to his mom—a legacy important enough to his mom for her to persuade both their biological dad and then their stepdad to take her maiden name—meant hiring expensive legal talent.

  Noah ran his hand over his eyes, remembering those bleak months between his mother’s death and the court judgment awarding the Lockwood boys the waterfront marina and the East Boston boatyard and Ethan the Lockwood Country Club, which included their house, the club facilities, the shops and the land around it. Ethan was also awarded the contents of the house and the many millions in her bank accounts. All of which, so he’d heard, he’d managed to blow. On wine, women and song.

  Fighting for his and his brothers’ inheritance had been tough, but he’d been gutted by the knowledge that everything he knew about his mom and Ethan, the facade of happiness they’d presented to the world, had been a sham. A lie, an illusion. By cheating on his mom and choosing money over them, Ethan had proved that he’d never loved any of them.

  Why hadn’t he seen it, realized that his dad was actually a bastard, that every “I love you” and “I’m proud of you” had been a flat-out lie? Faced with proof of his father’s deceit, he’d decided that love was an emotion he couldn’t trust, that marriage was a sham, that people, especially the ones who professed to love him, couldn’t be trusted.

  And Morgan’s actions had cemented those conclusions.

  The year it all fell apart, he’d spent the Christmas season with Morgan and her parents. Needing something to dull the pain after her parents retired for the night, he’d tucked into Ivan Blake’s very expensive whiskey and dimly recalled Morgan prattling on about marriage and a commitment. Since he’d been blitzed and because she’d had her hand in his pants, he couldn’t remember what was discussed...

  The following day—feeling very un-Christmassy on Christmas morning thanks to a hangover from hell—he’d found himself accepting congratulations on their engagement. He’d tried to explain that it was a mistake, wanted to tell everyone that he had no intention of getting married, but Morgan had looked so damn happy and his head had been on the point of exploding. His goal had been to get through the day and when he had Morgan on her own, he’d backtrack, let her down gently and break up with her as he’d intended to do for weeks. He’d had enough on his plate without dealing with a needy and demanding girlfriend.

  Yet somehow, Ivan Blake had discerned his feet were frozen blocks of ice thanks to his sudden engagement to his high-maintenance daughter. Ivan had pulled him into his study, told him that Morgan was bipolar and that she was mentally fragile. Being a protective dad, he’d done his research and knew Noah was a sailor, one of the best amateurs in the country. He also knew Noah wanted to turn pro and needed a team to sail with, preferably to lead.

  Ivan had been very well-informed; he’d known of Noah’s shortage of cash, his sponsorship offers and that there were many companies wanting to be associated with the hottest sailing talent of his generation.

  Ivan had known Noah didn’t want to marry Morgan...

  He’d said as much and that statement was followed by a hell of an offer. Noah would receive a ridiculous amount of money to sail a yacht of his choice on the pro circuit. But the offer had come with a hell of a proviso...

  All Noah had to do was stay engaged to Morgan for two years, and Ivan would triple his highest sponsorship offer. Noah’s instant reaction had been to refuse but, damn...three times his nearest offer? That was a hell of a lot of cash to reject. It would be an engagement in name only, Ivan had told him, a way for Morgan to save face while he worked on getting her mentally healthy. Noah would be out of the country sailing and he only needed to send a few emails and make a couple of satellite telephone calls a month.

  Oh, and Ivan had added that he had to stay away from Jules Brogan. Morgan felt threatened by his lifelong friendship with Jules and it caused her extreme distress and was a barrier to her getting well.

  A week later he’d forgotten that proviso when he kissed the hell out of Jules on New Year’s Eve...the kiss he kept reliving in his dreams.

  Not going there, not thinking about that. Besides, thinking about Jules and Morgan wasn’t helping him with this current problem: Ethan was selling his mom’s house, his childhood home and the land that had been in his family for over a hundred and fifty years. That house had been the home of many generations of Lockwoods, and he’d be damned if he’d see it leave the family’s hands. His grandfather had built the country club and was its founding member. His mom had been CEO of the club and estate, had kept a watchful eye on the housing development, limiting the estate to only seventy houses to retain the wide-open spaces.

  Think, Noah, there’s something you’re missing.

  Noah tapped his phone against his thigh, recalling the terms of the court settlement. Yeah, that’s what had been bugging him...

  He hit Redial on his phone and Eli answered. “In terms of the court settlement, Ethan has to give us the opportunity to buy the trust before he can put it on the open market.”

  “I don’t remember that proviso,” Eli said.

  “If he wants to sell, he has to give us three months to buy the property. He also has to sell it to us at twenty percent below the market value.”

  Noah heard Eli’s surprised whistle. “That’s a hell of a clause.”

  “We had an expensive lawyer and I think it’s one Ethan has accidentally on purpose forgotten.”

  “Then I’ll contact our lawyer to enforce the terms of the settlement. But, No, even if we do get the opportunity to buy the trust—”

  “We will get the opportunity,” Noah corrected.

  “—the asking price is enormous, even with the discount. It’s a historic, exceptional house on a massive tract of land. Not to mention the club, the buildings, the facilities. The golf course. We’re talking massive money. More than Ben and I can swing.”

  Noah considered this for a moment. “We’d have to mortgage it.”

  “The price to us should be around a hundred million,” Eli said, his tone skeptical.

  “We’d need to raise twenty percent.” Under normal circumstances he would never be making a financial decision without a hell of a lot more due diligence. At the very least, he’d know whether the trust generated enough funds to cover the mortgage. He didn’t care. This was Lockwood Estate and it was his responsibility to keep it in the family.

  “Ben and I recently purchased a fifty-foot catamaran which we are restoring and that’s sucked up our savings. We’ll be finishing it up in a month or two and then we’ll have to wait a few weeks to sell it. Even if it does sell quickly, the profit won’t cover our share of the twenty-million deposit. Do you have twenty mil?”

  “Not lying around. I invested in that new marina at the Boston waterfront with Levi. I’ll sell my apartment in London, it’s in a sought-after area and it should move quickly. I’ll also sell my share in a business I own in Italy. My partner will buy me out. That would raise eight million.”

  “Okay. Twelve to go. Ben and I have about a million each sitting in investments we can liquefy.”

  Thank God his brothers were on board with this plan, that saving Lockwood Estate meant as much to them as it did to him. He couldn���t do it without them. Noah ran through his assets. “I have three mil invested. That leaves seven. Crap.”

  Noah was silent for a long minute before speaking. “So, basically we’re screwed.”

  Damn, his head was currently being invaded by little men with very loud jackhammers.

  Eli cleared his throat. “Not necessarily. I heard that Paris Barrow wants to commission a luxury yacht and is upset because she has to wait six to ten months to get it designed. If you can put aside your distaste for designing those inelegant floating McMansions as you call them, I could set up a meeting.”

  “What’s the budget?”

  “From what I heard, about sixty million. What are your design fees? Ten percent of the price? That’s six mil and I’m sure we can scrounge up another million between us. Somehow.”

  Noah thought for a moment. He had various projects in the works but none that would provide a big enough paycheck to secure the house. Designing a superyacht would. At the very least he had to try. Noah gripped the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb and stepped off the cliff. “Set up a meeting with your client’s friend. Let’s see where it goes.”

  “She’s a megawealthy Boston grande dame, and designing for her would mean coming back home,” Eli said softly.

  Yeah, he got that. “I know.”

  Noah disconnected the call and stared down at his bare feet. He was both excited and terrified to be returning to the city he’d been avoiding for the past ten years. Boston meant facing his past, but it also meant reconnecting and spending time with Levi, Eli and Ben, DJ, and Darby.

  And Callie. God, he’d missed her so much.

  But Boston was synonymous with Jules, the only person whom he’d ever let under his protective shell. His best friend until he’d mucked it all up by kissing her, ignoring her, remaining engaged to a woman she intensely disliked and then dropping out of her life.

  She still hadn’t forgiven him and he doubted that she ever would.

  Jules...

  Jules frowned at the for-sale sign that had appeared on the lawn of Lockwood House and swung into the driveway of her childhood home—and her new digs—and slammed on the brakes when she noticed a matte black Ducati parked in her usual space next to the detached garage. Swearing, she guided her car into the tiny space next to it and cursed her brother for parking what had to be his latest toy in her space.

  Jules looked at the for-sale sign again. She was surprised that the Lockwood boys would let the house go out of their family but, as she well knew, maintaining a residence the size of the houses on this estate cost an arm and a leg and a few internal organs. Jules shoved her fist into the space beneath her rib cage to ease the burn. She’d spent as much time in that house as she had her own, sneaking in and out of Noah’s bedroom. But that was back in the days when they were still friends, before he’d met Morgan and before he’d spoiled everything by kissing her senseless.

  It had been a hell of a kiss and that was part of the problem. If it had been a run-of-the-mill, meh kiss, she could brush it aside, but it was still—aargh!—the kiss she measured all other kisses against. Passionate, sweet, tender, hot.

  Pity it came courtesy of her onetime best friend and an all-around jerk.

  Jules used her key to let herself into the empty house. It was still early, just past eight in the morning, but her siblings would’ve left for work hours ago. Thanks to efficient workmen and an easy client, her Napa Valley project had gone off without a hitch and as a result, she’d finished two weeks early, which was unexpectedly wonderful. Since winning Boston’s Most Exciting Interior Designer award five months ago, she’d been running from one project to another, constantly in demand. For the next few days, maybe a week, she could take it a little easier: sleep later, go home earlier, catch her breath. Chill.

  God, she so needed to chill, to de-stress and to rest her overworked mind and body. Despite her business-class seat, she was stiff from her late-night cross-country flight. Jules pulled herself up the wooden stairs, instinctively missing the squeaky floorboards that used to tell a wide-awake parent, or curious sibling, she was taking an unauthorized leave from the house.

  Parking her rolling suitcase outside her closed bedroom door, and knowing the house was empty, Jules headed for the family bathroom at the end of the hall, pulling her grubby silk T-shirt from her pants and up and over her head. Opening the door to the bathroom, she tossed the shirt toward the laundry hamper in the corner and stepped into the bathroom.

  Hot steam slapped her in the face. A second later she registered the heavy and familiar beat of the powerful shower in the corner of the room. Whipping around and expecting to see Darby or DJ, her mouth fell open at the—God, let’s call it what it was—vision standing in the glass enclosure.

  Six feet four inches of tanned skin gliding over defined muscles, hair slicked off an angles-and-planes face, brown eyes flecked with gold. A wide chest, lightly dusted with blond hair and a hard, ridged stomach. Sexy hip muscles that drew the eye down to a thatch of darker hair and a, frankly, impressive package. A package that was growing with every breath he took.

  Noah...

  God, Noah was back and he was standing in her shower looking like Michelangelo’s David on a very, very good day.

  Jules lifted her eyes to his face and the desire in his gaze caused her breath to hitch and all the moisture in her mouth to disappear. Jules swallowed, willed her feet to move but they remained glued to the tiled floor. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All she wanted to do was touch. Since that was out of the question—God, she hadn’t seen him in ten years, she couldn’t just jump him!—she just looked, allowing her eyes to feast.

  Noah. God. In her bathroom. Naked.

  Without dropping his eyes from hers, Noah switched off the water and pushed his hair off his face. Opening the door to the shower cubicle, he stepped out onto the mat and placed his hands on his narrow hips. Jules dropped her gaze and, yep, much bigger than before. Strong, hard...

  Were either of them ever going to speak, to turn away, to break this crazy, passion-saturated atmosphere? What was wrong with them?

  Jules was trying to talk her feet into moving when Noah stepped up to her and placed a wet hand on her cheek, his thumb sliding across her lower lip. He smelled of soap and shampoo and hot, aroused male. Lust, as hot and thick as warm molasses, slid into her veins and pooled between her legs. Keeping her hands at her sides, she looked up at Noah, conscious of his erection brushing the bare skin above the waistband of her pants, her nipples stretching the fabric of her lace bra.

  Noah just stared at her, the gold flecks in his eyes bright with desire, and then his mouth, that sexy, sexy mouth, dropped onto hers. His hands slid over her bare waist and down her butt, pulling her into his wet, hard body. Jules gasped as his tongue flicked between the seam of her lips and she opened up with no thought of resistance.

  It was an exaggerated version of the kiss they’d shared so long ago. This was a kiss on steroids, bold, hotter and wetter than before. Noah’s arms were stronger, his mouth more demanding, his intent clear. His hand moved across her skin with confidence and control, settling on her right breast. He pulled down the cup of her bra, and then her breast was pressed into his palm, skin on skin. She whimpered and Noah growled, his thumb teasing her nipple with rough, sexy strokes.

  Jules lifted her hands to touch him, wanting to feel those ridges of his stomach on her fingertips, wrap her hand around his—

  Holy crap! What the hell? Jules jerked away from him, lifting her hands up when he stepped toward her, intent on picking up where they left off.

  Jules slapped her open hand against his still-wet chest and pushed him back. Furious now, she glared up at him. “What the hell, Lockwood? You do not walk back into my life and start kissing me without a damn word! Did you really think that we would end up naked on the bathroom floor?”

  “I’m already naked.” Noah looked down at her flushed chest, her pointed nipples and her wet-from-his-kiss mouth. “And, yeah, it definitely looked and felt like we were heading in that direction.”

  Jules opened her mouth to blast him and, flummoxed, couldn’t find the words. “I—You—Crap!”

  Noah reached behind her for a towel and slowly, oh, so slowly, wrapped it around his hips. He had the balls to smile and Jules wanted to slap him silly. “So, how much does it suck to know that the attraction hasn’t faded?”

  Jules glared at him, muttered a low curse and turned on her heel and walked toward the open door.

  “Jules?”

  Jules took her time turning around. “What?”

  Noah grinned, his big arms folded across his chest. “Hi. Good to see you.”

  Jules did her goldfish impression again and, shaking her head, headed to her bedroom. Had that really happened? Was she hallucinating? Jules looked down and saw that the fabric of her bra was wet, water droplets covered her shoulders and ran down her stomach.

  Nope, she wasn’t dreaming the sexiest dream ever. Noah was back and this was her life.

  * * *

  So this was her punishment for finishing a project early?

  Unfair, Universe. Because all she wanted to do was catch a plane back to Napa Valley and Jules hunted for a reason to return to the project she’d just wrapped up. Jules ran through her mental checklist and, dammit, she’d definitely covered all her bases. The workmanship was exemplary, the client was ecstatic and his check was in the bank. There wasn’t the smallest reason to haul her butt out of this house and fly back to California.

  Balls!

  After three months in California she’d desperately wanted to come home, to unpack the boxes stacked against the wall and to catch up with Darby and DJ, her best friends but also her business partners. Darby, her twin, was Winston and Brogan’s architect. Jules was the interior designer, and DJ managed the business end of their design and decor company. She spoke to both of them numerous times a day but she wanted to hug them, to be a part of their early-morning meetings instead of Skyping in, to share an icy bottle of wine at the end of the day.

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