The Bravo Billionaire

“Ms. Rimmer has developed into a major, major talent.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

His every move was so purposeful, so sure and so determined.

His body was so strong and hard and big. Everything he did, he did better than anyone else.

He had a law degree from Stanford, and a business degree from one of those snooty eastern colleges. He’d shot a charging rhino, wrestled alligators. He’d made love to the most beautiful women in the world, taken his father’s millions and turned them into billions.

And once, long, long ago, he had been six years old. A little boy. A boy who woke up in the middle of the night and went into his baby brother’s room.

Where he had been found the next morning, out cold on the floor, a large bloody bruise on the left side of his head.

And the baby—vanished. Forever…

“Famed for her deliciously different characters, Ms. Rimmer keeps the…love sizzling hot.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

THE NINE-MONTH MARRIAGE

—Cash Bravo and Abby Heller

MARRIAGE BY NECESSITY

—Nate Bravo and Megan kane

PRACTICALLY MARRIED

—Zach Bravo and Tess DeMarley

MARRIED BY ACCIDENT

—Melinda Bravo and Cole Yuma

THE MILLIONAIRE SHE MARRIED

—Jenna Bravo and Mack McGarrity

THE M.D. SHE HAD TO MARRY

—Lacey Bravo and Logan Severance

THE MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

—Marsh Bravo and Tory Winningham

And watch for…

MARRIAGE: OVERBOARD

—Gwen Bravo McMillan and Rafe McMillan

(Weekly serial at www.eHarlequin.com)

THE MARRIAGE CONSPIRACY

—Dekker (Smith) Bravo and Joleen Tilly

(Coming in October only from Silhouette Special Edition)

The Bravo Billionaire

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I can hardly believe it. This book, The Bravo Billionaire, marks the eighth in my series of stories about the Bravo family. The first seven books, as you may know, appeared in the Silhouette Special Edition line. I started out thinking I was going to write only three Bravo books—the stories of three cousins: Cash, Nate and Zach.

So much for what I started out thinking. Your response to the Bravos has been so enthusiastic, how could I help but write more Bravo tales?

With The Bravo Billionaire, I had a great time creating a new branch—the L.A. branch—of the Bravo family. They are fabulously wealthy, and they live in a huge hilltop Bel Air mansion called Angel’s Crest. The hero, Jonas, is the man who has everything—except love, family and companionship. He swears he doesn’t want those things. But that’s before his mother’s will forces him into close contact with Emma Lynn Hewitt. Emma, a west Texas dog groomer with a heart as big as her home state, is determined to make of Jonas a kinder, gentler, better man….

I do hope you enjoy this bigger-than-ever Bravo tale.

All my very best,

For Steve,

always.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 1

Jonas Bravo did not like to wait.

Make no mistake. He knew how to wait. He was actually quite good at waiting—when he considered the wait worth it, when it would mean a fat return on an iffy investment, or a plum contract in his pocket.

He could wait and he had waited. But he refused to wait unnecessarily, when waiting, as he saw it, would get him nowhere.

People who made Jonas wait unnecessarily never did it more than once. Because the famous Bravo Billionaire had ways of showing his displeasure. He could do it with a look, with a certain inner stillness—a look and a stillness that made the object of his displeasure wonder just what kinds of scary, crazy things Jonas Bravo might do if pushed too far. They all knew the stories about him, about what he and his family had been through when he was a child, and the wild things he’d done during the earlier years of his manhood. So they wondered—and they worried.

And they didn’t displease him again.

Apparently, the receptionist at McAllister, Quinn and Associates, Attorneys at Law, had been warned not to make Jonas wait. Young, faultlessly groomed and predictably gorgeous, she glanced up when he got off the elevator, which opened about ten yards from her desk. Her stunning china-blue eyes went round as dinner plates as she regarded him across the expanse of parquet floor and good Oriental rugs.

She bounced to her feet. “Mr. Bravo. This way. Mr. McAllister is waiting for you.” She bustled to the big elaborately carved double doors that led to the inner sanctum and quickly pulled one of the doors wide. Jonas gave her a curt nod and went through, heading down the wide wood-paneled hallway toward Ambrose McAllister’s corner office.

The receptionist rushed along in his wake. “Um, Mr. Bravo. Mr. McAllister asked me to show you to the—”

Jonas froze her in her tracks with a sharp backward glance. “I can find my own way.”

“Oh. Well. Of course, whatever you—”

“Thanks.” He didn’t have to look behind him again to know that she had returned to the reception area where she belonged. He passed a few secretaries’ nooks. Ambrose’s minions looked up, muttered swift, respectful, Hello, Mr. Bravos and went back to what they were supposed to be doing.

Ambrose’s door opened just before Jonas reached it. The lawyer who had handled the personal legal affairs of the Los Angeles Bravos for over three decades didn’t miss a beat.

“Jonas. Here you are.” Ambrose took Jonas’s hand and shook it. Though he was well into his seventies now, Ambrose McAllister’s handshake remained firm and his bearing proud. “So good to see you.” Silver brows drew together in a perfectly orchestrated expression of concern—real concern, in this case, Jonas knew. Ambrose honestly cared for the members of the Bravo family and had become something of a family friend over the years. But he was a lawyer, and a damn good one. Good lawyers knew how to manufacture appropriate expressions on demand.

“How are you?” Ambrose asked.

“Fine.”

Ambrose shook his head sadly. “I know I already said this at the funeral, but Blythe is missed. Greatly.”

Jonas dipped his head in acknowledgement of the lawyer’s sympathetic words. Since the death of his mother, Blythe Hamilton Bravo, seven days before, Jonas had heard a lot of condolences and he’d done a lot of nodding in acknowledgement.

“And how is that beautiful little sister of yours?”

“Mandy’s doing well.”

Jonas’s sister, Amanda, had been adopted by his mother two years ago. At the time of the adoption, Jonas had been furious at Blythe. The way he saw it then, she had no business taking on an infant at an age when most women were well into their grandmothering years.

But Jonas’s fury had not lasted. How could it? Mandy was…special. She had the knack for melting even the hardest of hearts. Jonas still wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but somehow, the sprite had managed to break down even his considerable defenses. Within a month of the baby’s coming into their lives, Jonas had accepted his fate. He loved his little sister and he would do anything for her.

Ambrose leaned closer and spoke more confidentially. “You know, don’t you, that if there is anything I can do, not only as your family’s attorney, but as a—”

“I do know, Ambrose. And I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Damn it.” Ambrose lowered his voice even further.

“She was too young. Only sixty…” Blythe had died of a particularly virulent form of leukemia. It had struck suddenly and killed her within two months of the original diagnosis. “I know it must be difficult, for both you and the child.”

“Honestly Ambrose, we’re managing.”

The lines of concern between the silver brows deepened—and then relaxed. “Well. I’m glad to hear it.” Ambrose clapped Jonas on the arm and let go of his hand. “Let’s move on to the West Conference Room, shall we? We’ll be more comfortable there.”

It was not Jonas’s intention to become comfortable. “Ambrose. What’s this about?”

Instead of answering, Ambrose said mildly, “Right this way.” He herded Jonas around the corner and down another wide hallway. Jonas allowed himself to be led, though he disliked having his questions evaded almost as much as he disliked being made to wait.

And this was not the first time Ambrose had refused to give him answers on this subject. Last Friday, when the lawyer had called to set up this meeting, he would only say that it concerned Blythe’s will. Before her death, Blythe had asked Ambrose to invite Jonas to his offices. Certain issues required discussion.

“What issues?” Jonas had demanded.

“Monday, Jonas. My office. Two o’clock?”

Jonas had tried to get the lawyer to simply come out to the house or drop in at Bravo, Incorporated. Ambrose had held firm. He’d said that Blythe had felt that a neutral setting would be better for everyone.

“Why a neutral setting?”

“I’ll explain it all on Monday.”

“Ambrose. Who the hell is everyone?”

But Ambrose wouldn’t say. “Please forgive me, Jonas. You’ll have all the information you need on Monday. At my office.”

Jonas had let the lawyer off the hook. After all, the man was only doing his job, following his client’s wishes—the client being Jonas’s exasperating mother, in this case. Who could say what Blythe Bravo had gotten up to in those last grim weeks before her death?

“All right, Ambrose. Monday. Two in the afternoon.” He’d ended the call.

So now it was Monday. It was 2:04 p.m.

And some answers had better be forthcoming.

“Here we are,” Ambrose said cheerfully, stopping before another pair of carved double doors. A bronze plaque on the wall to the left of the doors read, West Conference. Ambrose slid adroitly around Jonas and opened one of the doors. “After you.”

Jonas didn’t see the kennel keeper until he’d stepped over the threshold.

She was sitting all the way down at the end of the table, in one of the twelve high-backed cordovan leather swivel chairs, her back to the west wall, which consisted of one huge pane of glare-treated glass. Beyond the glass lay Century City in all its smoggy splendor, high-rises shimmering beneath the August sun.

The kennel keeper, whose name was Emma Lynn Hewitt, wore a snug-fitting jacket the color of orange sherbet. If she had a shirt on under the jacket, Jonas couldn’t see it. He could, however, see a tempting swell of cleavage. Her silky pale blond hair curled, soft and shiny and unrestrained, around her very pretty face. It wasn’t long, that hair, only chin-length, but still, it always managed to look just a little mussed, a little wild. Though the conference table blocked his view, he knew without having to look that her tight, short skirt would be as orange as her jacket. And that her shoes would have very high heels and open toes.

By all rights, Emma Lynn Hewitt should have looked cheap. But somehow, she didn’t. Somehow, she managed to look…sweet. Sweet and way too damn sexy. She also came across as if she meant business. He didn’t know how she did that, though he suspected it had to be in the way she held herself—chin high, slim shoulders back.

Just another of Blythe’s strays, he reminded himself, a little nobody from a bend-in-the-road town in Texas. As it had turned out, his mother’s investment in the woman’s dog grooming and boarding enterprise had been a profitable one, so he couldn’t fault the perky Texan on that count. Still, he had always disliked her.

Though he effortlessly schooled his face to betray nothing, Jonas noted a certain raw feeling in his gut—as if someone had taken a cheese grater to it. He was thinking the obvious: What in hell is she doing here? But he didn’t speak the question aloud. It would have been bad strategy, was too likely to betray his dismay. The Bravo Billionaire, as any dedicated tabloid reader would avidly tell you, did not experience feeble emotions like dismay.

There was a blue folder in front of the kennel keeper. And one in front of each of the two chairs to her left and to her right. Her folder was open. She’d apparently been reading the contents while she waited for him and for Ambrose. Judging by the strange, rather stricken look on her face, what she had read must have surprised—even shocked—her.

The cheese grater sawed another layer off the lining of Jonas’s stomach. He realized he no longer felt the urge to ask what she was doing here.

No. All at once, he didn’t even want to know.

Ambrose said, “Jonas. You’ve met Ms. Hewitt?”

“I have.”

The woman started to stand, then appeared to think better of the move and kept her pretty little butt in the chair. She swallowed. And nodded.

He nodded back.

“Have a seat.” Ambrose had him on the move again, ushering him down the long table toward the chair—and the folder—to the right of Emma Hewitt.

Jonas sat. Ambrose crossed behind the kennel keeper and took the chair to her left.

Once settled in his chair, Ambrose opened the folder on the table in front of him and then reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of half glasses. “Ahem. Jonas.” He put on the glasses. “Before she died, your mother made a few changes to her will. She asked that I call you and Ms. Hewitt in together to discuss them.”

Jonas sat very still.

Peering over the tops of his glasses, Ambrose gestured at Jonas’s folder, which Jonas had not yet allowed himself to touch. “If you’ll just read the sections I’ve highlighted, I’m sure Blythe’s wishes will be made clear to you. And of course, I’ll be right here to answer any questions you might have.”

“I see,” said Jonas.

The kennel keeper said nothing. She was a splash of hot orange in his side vision.

“Please,” Ambrose urged. “Have a look.”

What damn choice did he have? Jonas opened the folder and began to read.

A quick scan of the highlighted passages and he had the picture.

Once he understood his mother’s insane intention, he closed the folder and said, very quietly, “All right. I’ve read it.”

“Good.” Ambrose glanced at the dog groomer. “Ms. Hewitt? Have you looked through your copy?”

She nodded.

“Well,” said Ambrose. “As I said, please feel free to ask any—”

“Wait a minute,” said Jonas. Ambrose waited. “I think we need to make certain we’re all in agreement as to exactly what it says here.”

Ambrose announced, “An excellent idea.” Then he fell silent—as if he expected Jonas to explain the will that he had prepared.

Not a chance. Jonas said nothing. And the dog groomer from Texas kept her mouth shut, as well.

Ambrose realized the task had fallen to him. “Well,” he said. “Ahem. As you can both see, the issue here is custody—the custody of the child, Amanda Eloise Bravo.”

Ambrose laid it all out for them.

“The will now requires that you, Jonas, must marry Ms. Hewitt here—and cohabit with her at a location of her choosing—for one year. During that year, you and Ms. Hewitt are to have joint physical and legal custody of your adopted sister. At the end of that year, should either you or Ms. Hewitt choose to divorce, then full custody of Amanda will be yours, Jonas. However, if you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt within three weeks of your mother’s death—and to remain married to her for one full year—then custody goes to Ms. Hewitt.”

Ambrose paused to remove his reading glasses. He took a snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lenses of the glasses. He did all this while looking at Jonas, a look that managed to be both regretful and unwavering. “And should you try to contest the will, all legal expenses incurred by Ms. Hewitt in fighting your suit will be paid by your mother’s estate.”

Ambrose put his handkerchief back in his pocket. He folded his glasses and set them on top of his folder. “That’s about it,” he said with a grim smile.

Jonas stared at the lawyer. He kept his face composed, but he was thinking that he would really enjoy breaking something. Yes. He’d very much like to rip something in two.

Blythe’s death had caused him far more pain than he would ever admit. And the pain—which he knew to be grief—had taken him completely by surprise. He was thirty-six years old, after all, and had believed himself immune to grief since well before his tenth birthday. Apparently, he had believed wrong. Because deep in his most secret heart, he missed his harebrained mother terribly.

And somehow, the fact that he’d ended up missing her so damn much made this ridiculous alteration to her will all the more infuriating. She’d set this whole thing up and then managed to die without dropping him so much as a hint as to what he was in for.

“I do have a question,” said Jonas.

Ambrose lifted those silver eyebrows.

Jonas hit him with it. “Did my mother honestly imagine that paying Ms. Hewitt’s legal expenses would keep me from taking this issue to court?”

Ambrose put on his most solemn expression. “I can’t say what your mother imagined. But I hope you realize that the will before you is perfectly legal and binding. If you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt within the next two weeks, you could very well lose custody of your sister.”

“I could. But I won’t.”

Ambrose looked suddenly weary. “Jonas. Who can ever be truly certain of any outcome when it comes to the vagaries of our legal system? I’m only saying that if you fail to abide by the terms your mother has set out here, the possibility is quite good that when the matter comes before a judge, Mandy will go to Ms. Hewitt.”

Jonas waved an impatient hand. “Look, Ambrose. We both know that my mother spent a number of years in one of L.A.’s finest psychiatric hospitals. I could put up a valid argument for mental incompetence.”

Ambrose’s expression had become downright reproachful. “You could, but I think you know that that kind of an argument would be unlikely to hold up under scrutiny. Your mother’s clinical depression occurred three decades ago. Two of the doctors who attended her then are still living. At your mother’s request, I contacted both of them and each assured me he would be willing to testify that she completely recovered from her condition. And she never relapsed. She was…eccentric, perhaps. But she was also in full command of her faculties when she set out these changes to her will.”

Jonas gave the lawyer his coldest stare. “I suppose you’ll attest to that.”

Ambrose did not waver. “I certainly will. Jonas, I promise you, I did discuss this at length with Blythe.”

“Did you make any effort to talk her out of it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. But she wouldn’t be swayed. She insisted that she wanted these changes in the will. She said she honestly felt they were for the best—for Mandy. And for you.”

Jonas said nothing for a full count of ten. When he did speak, he was pleased to find that none of the rage shimmering through him could be heard in his voice. “All right. So you’re saying you believe these changes are going to stand up in court.”

“Yes.”

“And my mother’s estate provides the funds so that Ms. Hewitt here can make certain they do.”

“Exactly,” said the lawyer, still regretful—and still firm. “Jonas, I’m sorry, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it once more. If you fail to marry Ms. Hewitt, your sister could very well end up in her custody.”

Jonas allowed the corners of his mouth to lift in a humorless smile. “That is, assuming Ms. Hewitt is willing to become Mandy’s guardian.”

“Well, yes,” the lawyer allowed, looking slightly uncomfortable at that suggestion. “And I did point that out to Blythe. If Ms. Hewitt is unwilling, then these changes become meaningless.”

If Ms. Hewitt is unwilling…

The words seemed to ricochet tauntingly in Jonas’s brain.

Of course, Ms. Hewitt was willing. His mother wouldn’t have done this without Ms. Hewitt’s consent and active participation—would she?

She did it without mine, he thought, and then shoved the idea into the back of his consciousness.

Miss Hewitt was willing. She had to be. She’d seen her chance to catch herself a rich husband and she’d jumped at it.

Jonas turned his head just enough to give the woman in orange a withering stare. She stared right back, defiant, but a little too pale—as if she were every bit as surprised by this news as he.

Fat chance. The bitch probably dreamed up the whole insane scheme and kept after his mother on her damn deathbed until she agreed to it.

Blythe had always wanted the one son she had left to marry and give her a few grandchildren to spoil. But Jonas had made it poignantly clear to her that he never would. A man’s family, he had learned at a very young age, provided big opportunities for incalculable loss.

No, thank you. He ran his own life and he answered to no one and he couldn’t lose what he didn’t have. And he was…content. He liked his life just as it was and saw no reason to change it.

But evidently, his mother had decided to give him a reason.

She’d known his one weakness, the weakness she herself had created by adopting the sprite. His weakness was Mandy. And Blythe had used Mandy—just as this dog groomer from Texas had used her.

“Ambrose,” Jonas said. “Thank you for answering my questions. Now, I have a few things to say to Ms. Hewitt. Leave us.”

Ambrose hesitated. Jonas knew why. The lawyer thought it unwise to leave the little Texan alone with him right then. After all, one could never be sure what the Bravo Billionaire might do when provoked.

In the past, when he’d been younger and less disciplined and his people did not do what he asked them to do, Jonas sometimes threw things. Expensive, very breakable things always worked best. Things that shattered satisfyingly on impact. Once, he’d thrown a Ming vase through a stained-glass window. And on another occasion, he’d tossed a Tiffany bowl at a marble fireplace. He had also, during what he thought of as his Great White Hunter phase—a short phase, really, though the scandal sheets liked to make much of it—stood his ground to bring down a charging rhinoceros. Beyond the rhino, the rumor mill had it that he’d wrestled alligators and won, and that he’d gone at a grizzly bear with only a hunting knife for a weapon.

He never denied such rumors. Why should he? Being considered fearless and unpredictable had always worked in his favor.

“Ambrose,” he said, making a warning of the name.

The lawyer shifted nervously in his chair and turned his worried gaze on the dog groomer. “Er, Ms. Hewitt. Perhaps you have some questions?”

And, right then, for the first time since Jonas had entered the room, the dog groomer spoke.

“It’s all right, Mr. McAllister.” Her voice was a honeyed Texas drawl. It crept along Jonas’s nerve endings, setting off little flares of annoying heat right below the surface of his skin. He found himself staring at the tiny mole, low down on her right cheek, midway between her pert nose and her soft lips.