Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2)

C
OVER DESIGN
: Love N. Books

EDITING: Valorie Clifton

PROOFREADING: Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

T
he preview
you read at the end of ROYAL was the beginning of my original draft of BACHELOR, which was supposed to be Delilah’s story. About halfway through writing that draft, I decided to scrap it because the story just wasn’t working. I was bored writing it, which means you’d be bored reading it.

S
o here it is
: BACHELOR v2.0.

W
hich
, along the way,
morphed from Delilah’s story to Derek’s
. I hope that’s okay. Delilah’s story (FILTHY) will be next! Releasing June 2016.

A
nyway
, I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it.

x
oxo
,

Winter

I
, Derek Rosewood, am never going to marry.

E
ver
. Again.

F
resh
off the heels of a bitter divorce, there are only three things I give a sh*t about: my daughter, my career, and my bachelorhood.

A
n attorney
by trade and happily married to my job, I save the drama for the courtroom and keep women at an arm’s length. Their fragile, sequined hearts are safer that way. And besides, I’m not in any condition to offer them the love and attention they so foolishly seek from me.

B
elieve me
, I’m not what they need. Not after what I’ve been through.

I
t’s not
until I’m assigned as conservator of the estate for an aloof, enigmatic heiress that I find my professional—and personal—boundaries pushed to the wayside. We’re all wrong for each other. Emotionally unavailable. Bitter. Jaded. And I’m supposed to look out for her best interests. Protect her.

B
ut
this
wasn’t supposed
to happen. And for that reason, I plead the fifth.

D
erek

“
S
he’s not taking
visitors today.” A woman with thin red lips and a raven bun smooths her hand down the front of her dress and straightens her spine. “You’ll have to come back another time.”

She attempts to shut the door before I can object, but I block it with the polished toe of my black Oxford.

“I’m her court-appointed conservator.” I retrieve a business card from an interior breast pocket, white with Rosewood and Rosewood’s logo across the top. “Attorney Derek Rosewood. She’s expecting me.”

The woman purses her lips, apprehensively taking the card from my hand. Her sharp stare moves between the embossed logo and my face.

“She’s indisposed.” The woman hands the card back like I’m some vacuum peddler. “Please phone before you stop by next time.”

“My secretary called. Yesterday. Spoke with a Thomas Gambrel, house manager.” I glance up at the monstrosity of an estate house. The mouth of the front entry threatens to swallow me whole. “I was told to stop by at two o’clock.”

I lift my wrist, pulling my suit jacket sleeve back to show her the face of my timepiece.

“Three minutes early,” I say. “But I’m more than willing to wait if Ms. Randall needs more time to make herself presentable.”

I keep a neutral face, a self-assured posture, and my opinions to myself. No one knows how long this guardianship will last, but if I’m to check on Serena Randall on a regular basis, it’s imperative that I’m on good terms with her staff. The last thing Rosewood and Rosewood, LLP needs are frivolous rumors tarnishing our good name. Too many attorneys have seen their careers crumble to pieces because their egos got the best of them in difficult moments.

I choose my battles. Always have. Always will.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.” I inject a bit of lightness into my tone, hoping to break down this foolish defensiveness she has going on. I’m simply here to protect the estate and Ms. Randall.

The woman pauses, taking a sip of a breath and then releasing it all at once. “Eudora Darcy.”

She steps back and raises her chin.

“All right. Come inside and wait in the parlor. I’ll see what I can do.” Eudora swings the heavy door wide and motions for me to step in. She doesn’t try to hide her displeasure, but I don’t let it bother me. Besides, it takes a lot more than a smug look on a sour, wrinkled face to spoil my mood.

I remove my hat and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. It’s a postcard-worthy April day outside. Oaks are budding. Robins are singing. Tulips are in bloom. It’s a goddamned Disney movie.

But in here, I can barely see past my outstretched hand.

Dust and dankness fills my lungs and tickles my nose, and I stifle a cough. From what I’ve gathered, this is a centuries-old family estate, and Serena’s parents are requiring that she take up residence here for the duration of the financial conservatorship.

“Wait in there, please.” Eudora points to a room with shadowed outlines of furniture before taking a few steps and clicking on a small lamp. “I’ll do my best to send Ms. Randall out shortly.”

With folded hands, she drifts away, her shoes silently padding along the marble floors.

And so I wait.

A minute passes, then another, then ten more. I retrieve my phone and squint at the bright screen in the dark room. One pathetic bar. I try and send a text to my legal secretary regarding a stack of files I left on my desk this morning. The text fails twice but goes through the third time.

My phone dings as incoming texts fill my screen all at once. Within seconds, my thumb hovers over two topless selfies from some woman I hooked up with a week ago. What is it with women thinking a topless selfie fixes everything? I haven’t called her for a reason. And that reason is because our little rendezvous meant nothing. It was fun but now I’m over it. I could have sworn I made myself perfectly clear when she was choking on my cock for the third time that night. I don’t do repeats. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do the whole boyfriend thing.

For fuck’s sake, have a little respect for yourself, Amanda.

I delete her photos and spot a copy of
Great Expectations
lying on the coffee table. Judging by the cover, I’m willing to bet it’s a first edition. The thing is probably a hundred and fifty years old, and the Randalls have it sitting out like some coffee table book they picked up at Barnes and Noble.

Belcourt Manor is in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Rixton Falls and Manhattan and definitely off the beaten path. Surrounded by lush, green thickets and groves of majestic oaks, its heyday was certainly in a bygone era.

Despite looking like the kind of place Jay Gatsby could’ve thrown a ridiculously amazing party, I can’t imagine this is the sort of place a twenty-something heiress would want to spend her days. But to each their own.

“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Rosewood?” Eudora returns. “Ms. Randall has had a change of heart. She’ll be down shortly.”

“What does the lady of the house drink?” I tuck my phone into my pocket, clearing my throat.

Eudora’s lips button and smirk before her face washes in a void expression. “I suppose it depends on the time of day. At this hour, she takes her tea. Would you like yours hot or iced?”

“Iced. Thank you.”

She disappears, and I scan the parlor. The faint light the lamp gives off is enough to highlight the thick tapestries covering the two-story window behind the sofa, and a gilded mirror covers the wall behind me. My hand skims along the sofa beneath my thighs. Crushed velvet. Soft as fur.

Growing bored and slightly annoyed at trying to see through all this darkness, I rise and move toward the window, yanking the tapestry to the side. The room floods with light and specks of dust, sending a quick sear to my eyes. I squint, shielding my eyes with my hand, and turn back toward the doorway.

And then the first thing I see is her hair.

Golden red. Lustrous.

“That tapestry is an Auclair. Sixteenth century. It’s called
Hunt of Pegasus
. But by all means, please, put your hands
all over it
.” Her voice slices through the thickened air.

And then I see her eyes.

Bluest blue. Lit from within.

“Serena.” I move toward her, my hand extended as I struggle to breathe at the sight of her. “Derek Rosewood. Your conservator. Pleasure to meet you.”

“My
financial
conservator,” she corrects me. Our hands meet, and hers are delicate, unworked. “I don’t need a minder. In fact, I don’t need a financial minder either, but apparently, you make a string of bad decisions, and the next thing you know, your father is cutting you off and sentencing you to life in this dungeon and your stepmother is ringing her attorney on speed dial.”

“Shall we?” I point toward the sofa and let her take a seat first.

Eudora appears from around the corner, placing a small tray on the coffee table before us. A steaming porcelain tea kettle and a sachet of tea rest on one end, and a glass of iced tea in a crystal chalice rest on the other.

“Sugar?” Serena’s eyes meet mine.

“Please.”

She lifts one lump with a tiny spoon and deposits it in my glass, giving it a quick stir. When she’s finished, she clinks the spoon on the rim three times and places it to the side before handing me the glass.

I watch as she prepares her drink with slow, deliberate movements, like she has all the time in the world.

And I suppose she does.

“Mm.” She brings the teacup to her mouth, taking in a careful sip, and I realize I have yet to touch mine. “This sofa once belonged to Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor. She was a family friend of my great-grandparents. You know, King Edward the eighth abdicated his throne for her. Which is insane. And romantic.”

“I think I heard that once. Yes,” I lie. I know zero about British royal history, but I can bullshit with the best of them.

“The Queen Mother hated Wallis. Drama knows no social status.”

“Or some people are drawn to it. Moths to flames. Can’t help themselves.”

Serena rolls her deep-set eyes.

“Do you know why I’m telling you these things, Derek?” she asks, blue eyes alert and eyebrows raised.

Her pink lips are pulled into a half-smirk, and I can’t help but feel as if she’s two steps ahead of me, testing me, feeling me out. I can’t imagine growing up with this kind of wealth and privilege, but I can imagine what it might do to a person.

Regardless, I can’t read this girl to save my life. She’s spinning a web of intrigue, and I’m completely drawn in. Most of the time, I can figure someone out in under two minutes. A few words, some body language observations—you tend to uncover an agenda or modus operandi.

But Serena’s not so simple.

“I have no idea, Serena.” I mirror her in tone and posture. She’s particularly guarded, and I need to soften her if I can.

“Because I’m bored.” She rises and exhales, running a hand down the front of the silky lavender robe that wraps her lithe body. “When you live in social isolation in a damn museum, you become a vat of useless knowledge.”

And apparently, intensely bitter.

“And
you’re
not helping anything.” Her blue eyes snap into mine.

“Me?” I try not to laugh. Instead, I remind myself that she’s not of sound mind. If she were, I wouldn’t be here.

“Just staring at me like that.” Her perfect nose wrinkles, and she releases the faintest little sigh before taking another sip of tea. “Staring is rude, Derek Rosewood.”

“I’m not staring.”

“But you are. You should’ve seen the way your mouth hung when you saw me standing here a minute ago.”

She’s a beautiful woman. Deeply attractive. Blindingly so. Looking at her is like staring into the sun. If I stare too long, I won’t be able to see anything else. From head to toe, she’s exquisite. I’ll give her that. But this conceit is knocking all of that down a few levels. Vanity isn’t a good look on anyone.

“What are you talking about?” I rise, but I don’t go to her.

“You were staring at me like I’m some . . . crazy person.” Serena’s eyes fall to the thickly piled rug at our feet.

And then I understand.

This isn’t about her beauty at all.

She tucks a smooth, shiny red wave behind her ear. Her hair is deeply parted, and the full side hangs over her shoulder. The coppery red plays off her pale purple robe, and the warm afternoon sun makes her milky complexion glow.

“Serena.” I clear my throat, moving two steps closer. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t know you. Not yet, anyway. I’m just here to do my job. I’m here to protect your assets and see to it that your funds are appropriately allocated until the conservatorship is over. That’s all. I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to be intrusive or invading. I want you to be comfortable.
You
are my priority.”

Her blue eyes lift to mine, and her expression softens. Serena’s heart-shaped lips relax, but only for a split second.

“Forgive me for calling bullshit on . . . all of that.” This woman has sass, and she’s not afraid to use it. I can respect the hell out of that. She tucks one hand beneath the opposite elbow and stares out the window, looking like she could use a drink and a cigarette. “You’re on my father’s payroll. And you work for
her
.”

“Her?”

“My
wicked
stepmother.” Her pretty blue eyes roll, and her voice is tinged with unconcealed annoyance. “The
incomparable
Veronica Kensington-Randall.”

The name sounds familiar, and I’m sure I skimmed over it when my father dropped the conservator assignment in my lap this morning, but as far as working for anyone, it’s not like that.

“I don’t know her,” I say. “Serena, I work for
you
. No one but
you
. The judge appointed a conservator to your estate. Rosewood and Rosewood was chosen as a non-biased solution. And here I am.”

“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?”

“Not at all.” I lie. Sort of. I have no fucking clue what to think of this woman, but I’m completely absorbed into everything about her. The way she talks. Her fluid body movements. Her flair for dramatic eyebrow arches and the way she unabashedly jumps to conclusions and refuses to apologize.

She has my full attention, be it good or bad.

“Veronica has the entire world convinced I’m crazy. I can’t set foot in Manhattan now. None of my friends have so much as sent a single well-wish. Not that I’m unwell, but you know.”

“With friends like that . . .”

She whips her gaze to me, letting it drip down to my lapel, slow, like honey, before rising again. “You sure you’ve never heard of Veronica?”

“Never.”

Serena blows a light breath, her pink lips pulled up at the side as if she’s amused. “What rock have you been living under?”

She glides back to the sofa once belonging to some woman whose name now escapes me, and she floats down, wrapping her hands around her teacup. I take the spot next to her, slowly, gingerly.

“My priorities don’t involve keeping up on the
who’s who
. The lifestyles of the rich and famous aren’t of any interest to me. No offense.”

“None taken. And why would they be?” She smiles a fleeting smile, an unexpected hint of compassion in her tone. “Glitz and glamour is nothing but a façade. Our lives are incredibly mundane, and we spend a tragic amount of money trying to prove we’re some kind of special.”

She laughs. Once.

“Do you think you’re special, Mr. Rosewood?” she asks.

“I don’t think I’m qualified to make that judgment.” I run my palm down my thin, black tie. “I can tell you who’s special to me, but I can’t tell you if I,
myself
, am special. That’s not for me to decide.”

“Wise man.” She sips from her teacup, staring ahead.

A gardener with a large pair of sheers clips away at the overgrown boxwood bush in front of the parlor’s picture window, shaping it and paying close attention to the edges. We watch in silence until he moves along, the bush trimmed into a faultless rectangle by the time he’s finished.