Red Hot Rival Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Red Hot Rival

  Bree

  Luke

  Also by Cat Carmine

  Bigshot Boss: Trent’s Story

  Filthy Fiance: Jace’s Story

  About the Author

  Red Hot Rival

  The Whittaker Brothers Book #3

  Cat Carmine

  Join Cat’s mailing list to get a free copy of her book The Boss’s Orders!

  Copyright © 2017 by Cat Carmine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Red Hot Rival

  1. Bree

  2. Luke

  3. Bree

  4. Bree

  5. Luke

  6. Bree

  7. Luke

  8. Bree

  9. Luke

  10. Bree

  11. Luke

  12. Bree

  13. Luke

  14. Bree

  15. Bree

  16. Luke

  17. Bree

  18. Bree

  19. Luke

  20. Bree

  21. Bree

  22. Luke

  23. Bree

  24. Luke

  25. Bree

  26. Luke

  27. Bree

  28. Luke

  29. Bree

  30. Bree

  31. Luke

  32. Bree

  33. Luke

  34. Bree

  35. Bree

  36. Bree

  37. Epilogue

  Also by Cat Carmine

  Bigshot Boss: Trent’s Story

  Filthy Fiance: Jace’s Story

  About the Author

  Red Hot Rival

  I might be bad for business … but I’m oh so good at everything else.

  When it comes to women, I like to play the field.

  And why not? I’m good-looking, rich, and run a billion dollar business.

  So my one-night-stand with that gorgeous redhead should’ve barely been a blip on my radar.

  Instead, she’s all I can think about.

  Her luscious curves. Her scent. Her taste.

  I need more of her.

  I need all of her.

  And then I find out who she is —

  Head of my company’s biggest competitor … and the one woman I can’t have.

  I’ve never had to choose between business and pleasure before.

  Then again, I’ve also never met a woman like Bree before.

  She’s not the type to back down from some stiff competition…

  But she doesn’t know I’m in it to win it.

  The competition’s heating up …

  In fact, it’s about to get red hot.

  1

  Bree

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I stare down into the white porcelain bowl of the toilet. Through the clear water, my emerald earring sparkles.

  “Fuck,” I breathe in irritation. I so don’t have time for this right now. I was supposed to be at the hotel a half hour ago, except it took me more than twice that long to finally settle on the perfect dress. You think it’s hard for the average woman to decide what to wear? Try being a clothing designer.

  I sigh as I take off the vintage cuff bracelet I’m wearing and lay it on the edge of the vanity, then take a deep breath, reach down and plunge my hand down into the toilet. Of course, the earring starts to slip further down the chute, forcing me to really get my hand all up in there. I close my eyes and pray it won’t slip completely out of my grasp, until I finally feel my fingers brush against the tiny bit of metal.

  I pull it out triumphantly, and then immediately turn on the hot water tap so that I can rinse it off.

  After I’m done, I scrub my hands and then stare down at the earring. The glinting green stone is pretty, but do I really want to go to this thing knowing I’m wearing toilet earrings? This is the first event I’ll be going to in Dad’s stead, and I’m already nervous enough. I don’t need to spend the whole night thinking about the fact that I’m wearing … well, toilet earrings.

  I set the errant earring aside — possibly to sterilize later — and take the other one out from my ear. I start rooting around through the pile of jewelry that’s spread out on the vanity, looking for something that will match the green dress I finally decided on wearing. I spot a dangly gold and pearl earring that I’ve always been fond of, and hold it up, inspecting the look in the bathroom mirror.

  My red hair is pulled back in a sophisticated twist, even though I normally wear it down. The earring actually looks nice, hanging down and highlighting my surprisingly long and graceful neck.

  About the only part of me that might be considered graceful, I might add. The rest of me is thick and decidedly inelegant. Curvy, I might say on a good day. Irish potato-eating genes, I think on the bad days.

  At least the green dress I’m wearing is cut to accentuate my good parts — a low-cut top, nipped at the waist, and with a flared skirt that hits just at the knees. It’s perfectly vintage and perfectly me.

  Though I guess it should be, given that I designed it.

  I think longingly about my sewing machine, tucked away on my father’s dining room table and slowly getting covered in a thick layer of dust. I’ve barely had time to touch it since I’ve been back in Chicago, and my hands itch for the feel of fabric under my fingertips, the whir of the machine in my ears, and the pedal vibrating under my foot.

  There’s no time for that though. Not right now, anyway. Maybe not ever again.

  I gently put in the earring and start hunting around for its match. The rings and brooches and earrings and bobbles are all blending together, spilling over the vanity and even onto the back of the toilet tank, which is how I ended up tossing my favorite gemstone stud into the commode. I really need to get myself a jewelry box or something, I think, adding yet another item to my ever-growing to-do list.

  Of course, it isn’t just my jewelry collection that’s in disarray — my stuff is spewed all over Dad’s brownstone right now, and between his furniture addiction and my clothing addiction, I feel like I’m living in an episode of Hoarders. I just haven’t had the time, or the willpower, to start going through any of it yet.

  I haven’t gotten much of anything done lately — my whole life feels like I’m just focused on keeping my head above water. I haven’t even gone through Dad’s paperwork yet — the huge envelope the lawyer gave me is still on the desk in his office, gathering dust.

  I finally find the matching gold and pearl earring and slip it into my earlobe. I stand back and scrutinize the effect.

  Well, no one will ever accuse me of being a bombshell, but I think I look pretty darn okay.

  I wish I knew what to expect from this event though. All Rich had been able to tell me was that it was an anniversary party for Design Times, a design magazine that we’re always trying to get more coverage in. They had this party every year, to commemorate the day of their launch, and it was one Dad had faithfully attended every year and one that he’d apparently cursed about every time it came up on the calendar. Which didn’t leave me very optimistic about how much fun I was in for this evening.

  I add a slick of lipstick — a shimmery coppery red — and call it done. I make my way back to the bedroom and scramble to find the little vintage clutch I’d planned on taking with me, looking at the time on the bedside clock and cursing again as I rummage around the room. I’m staying in Dad’s guest room, even though it’s half the size of the master, I can’t quite
bring myself to sleep in his bedroom, because to me it’s still his. So instead I keep that door closed and try not to think too much about it.

  I finally find the clutch under a pile of discarded dresses and then realize I have no idea where I left my phone. Dammit.

  My footsteps echo through the brownstone as I hunt, throwing stuff from one pile to another and trying to keep one eye on the time. I end up finding the phone in the office, on the desk next to Dad’s reading glasses. I had poured myself a glass of wine earlier with the full intention of finally going through the package from Dad’s lawyer, but I’d spotted the glasses and they’d sent me into another crying jag.

  I snatch my phone up off the desk, ignoring the black-framed reading glasses, and throw it into the clutch. At which point I realize I’ve somehow managed to misplace my lipstick in the last five minutes. Gah!

  I start retracing my steps, knowing full well that every minute I spend looking for this stupid lipstick is making me more and more late for this stupid party.

  I stop mid-search and catch my breath. I can live without the lipstick. No more procrastinating. Time to go.

  I grab my phone and hit the number that’s now programmed into my contacts. It rings just once before his deep voice answers.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Hi Clifford,” I say awkwardly. “It’s Bree?”

  I can almost hear the chuckle in his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Right,” I say, blushing. “I guess you have call display.”

  “Yes. But you’re also the only one who has this number.”

  “Right,” I say again, dumbly. I still haven’t gotten used to this whole ‘having a driver’ thing. Clifford had worked for Dad, and he’d offered to stay on with me for as long as I wanted. I had decided to keep him for at least awhile — I felt super uncomfortable having my own driver, but with everything else going on, the last thing I wanted to do was leave poor Clifford without a job. Not after he’d worked for Dad so loyally for so many years.

  “Are you ready, ma’am?” Clifford prods gently.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Yes, sorry. Could you meet me around front?”

  “Of course.”

  Two minutes later, I’m climbing into the backseat of the ivory-colored Lincoln town car. Clifford gently closes the door behind me before getting into the driver’s seat.

  The privacy partition is down because I still feel weird about closing it, and, as always, I spend most of the drive trying to make awkward chitchat with Clifford. It goes about as well as it usually does — Clifford might as well be British for how tight-lipped and austere he is, though I’m pretty sure I detect a hint of a Boston accent in there.

  “How’s your wife?” I ask, as we drive along Lakeshore.

  “Very good, thank you.”

  “Great. And Emmaline?” Emmaline is his new granddaughter, and about the only topic I’ve found so far that is pretty much guaranteed to crack his stiff exterior.

  Sure enough, his face spreads into a grin. “As perfect as a ruby red rose,” he says proudly. “And whip-smart already. She’s touching her toes now and I swear, hand to God, that she’s actually counting them. Four months old and can already count to ten.”

  I fight back a grin at the thought of an infant counting her own toes, but Clifford’s smile is so genuine and proud that I just nod. “She’s lucky to have you as a grandfather.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m the lucky one. I get to be her Pop-Pop.”

  It gets harder to fight back the grin, and I turn to look out the window. His words make me think of my own father, though, and how excited he would have been to get to be a grandfather some day. Only instead of settling down and starting a family, his only daughter — that would be me — ran off to Paris to start a fashion company.

  The thought sets off a fresh wave of tears. I’ve cried so many tears this month that you’d think my body would be entirely depleted, but somehow I always manage to dredge up a few more. I try to wipe them away discreetly, but I can feel Clifford’s eyes on me in the rear view mirror. Thankfully he says nothing, and for once I’m grateful for his stoicism.

  I dig my phone out of my clutch. I’d give anything to be able to talk to Margaux right now, but it’s the middle of the night in Paris. I settle for firing her off a quick text.

  Off to a stupid fancy person party. Wish you could be my +1.

  I let my phone fall into my lap and watch the Chicago streets roll by. Finally we pull up in front of the Grand Windsor Hotel. Clifford hops out of the driver’s seat and comes around to the back, opening up the door for me so that I can slip out of the car.

  “You might as well head home,” I tell him, glancing down at the time on my phone before I drop it back into my clutch. It’s already past nine, and I’ve likely got to put in a good couple of hours of mingling before I can call it a night. “I’ll just get a cab home.”

  Clifford looks horrified, as if I’d just suggested I would ask a stranger to cart me home in a wheelbarrow.

  “I’m happy to wait,” he sputters politely, but I shake my head, smiling.

  “Really, Clifford. It’s fine. It’s Friday night. You should be spending time with your family. Your wife probably doesn’t even remember what you look like.”

  Clifford still looks put out by my suggestion but I shake my head firmly. “I won’t be calling you,” I tell him, pretending to be stern. “Go. Shoo!”

  He flashes me a rare grin and tips his chin. “Thank you, Bree. You’ll call me in the morning if you need me, won’t you?”

  “I promise. Good night, Clifford.”

  Once he’s gone, I turn and face the hotel. The front steps are spilling over with elegantly dressed people, all of whom I assume are here for the same function I’m supposed to be attending. I feel a wave of nervousness, as I take in their formal attire, their subtle confidence.

  I’m no stranger to industry events — I do run my own business after all — but this is different. These are Dad’s people.

  And none of them know the truth — that he died a month ago. That I’ve secretly been running Bailey Living, the home furnishings company he founded, ever since. And that, for the most part, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

  I take a deep breath.

  No more stalling.

  I head up the stairs and through the wide grand doors of the hotel. It’s go time.

  2

  Luke

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I stare down into the toilet, where my cufflink winks at me from beneath the clear water. I had just been about to fasten it to my sleeve when the damn thing slipped out of my fingers and — of course — landed straight in the porcelain bowl.

  “I didn’t want to wear that anyway,” I announce, to no one in particular. I unbutton the cuff of my button down white shirt, roll up the sleeve, and then reach my hand in to rescue the stray cufflink, tossing it on the side of the vanity before washing my hands. Then I unhook the other one and let it join its friend. Cufflinks are fucking overrated anyway.

  If I had my way, I’d be wearing jeans and boots to this thing, not cufflinks and these fucking wingtip shoes that make me feel like a 1940s tap dancer or something.

  Actually, scratch that — if I had my way, I wouldn’t be going to this thing at all. Full stop. I’d be at home, maybe in my workshop, maybe having a beer, maybe watching some Netflix and sketching up some designs. I wouldn’t be getting ready to go to another fucking party or fundraiser or whatever the hell this is, where I’m going to have to schmooze and smile and make fucking small talk with boring corporate types.

  This kind of thing is my brother Trent’s jam, not mine. Unfortunately, I’m acting in his place for six months, as CEO of this company we’d built together, and that means I have to do all the bullshit he normally keeps me comfortably away from.

  Which is why I’m currently wearing a three-piece suit and preparing to give up yet another Friday night to rub elbows with ass
holes.

  I sigh as I run my fingers quickly through my dark hair. There’s not much I can do to make it any more presentable — it’s shaggy enough that it has a mind of its own now — so I just comb it down as much as I can. I straighten the tie I’m wearing and sigh. It’s a good thing I can make any outfit look good.

  I step out of the bathroom and head to the bedroom to hunt down my shoes. I have the sudden worry that I might have left them at home. I pull open the closet doors and start pulling shit out of my way but there’s no sign of them.

  I’ve been staying at Trent’s old condo, the one he hadn’t quite gotten around to selling yet. He and his new wife had bought a new place together, and his old place was still sitting vacant. When he decided to step away from work for a few months, leaving me to act in his stead, he offered me the condo to crash at. I’d accepted, since my own house was an hour outside the city, but now I was regretting my decision. None of my stuff was here, and I was constantly finding myself looking for things, only to realize they were still back at the house.

  Just please don’t let that be the case with my shoes. Otherwise I really am going to be wearing boots to this thing.

  I don’t find them in the bedroom closet, so on a whim I try the hall closet. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot the shiny leather wingtips tucked into the back corner.