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PROLOGUE
(Just in case you missed this part in Tell Me You’re Mine, Book 1)
Kylie
“Who in the fuck are you, and why are you here? Never mind. Just go away and stop pounding on my door.”
I lowered the fist I’d been using to bang on the door since Dylan Lancaster had finally decided to open it.
I’d rung the doorbell for two minutes straight, and then resorted to hammering on the door for several more minutes before Dylan had finally popped his head out.
I wasn’t about to…go away.
Not in the near future, anyway.
I plowed past him and into the foyer of the Beverly Hills mansion, a rolling suitcase in tow, and my miniature beagle, Jake, cuddled against my body.
I took a deep breath as I turned to face him. “I don’t really have to ask if you’re Dylan Lancaster. You do look a lot like Damian. Although I do have to say that your brother looks a lot…healthier.”
I stared at Dylan, assessing his bloodshot eyes, unkept attire, and his general malaise.
His eyes were the same color as Damian’s, but Dylan’s didn’t seem to have a single spark of life in those pretty irises. What a shame, because I’d always thought Damian’s eyes were one of his best features.
Dylan slammed the door. “I’ll ask you again. Who in the fuck are you? And what do you mean that Damian looks…healthier?”
I smirked because I knew I’d hit a nerve. Obviously, Dylan didn’t like being compared to his elder identical twin.
Jake squirmed in my arms, so I put the miniature beagle down on the floor. He was well potty trained, and he wasn’t a chewer. “I mean that you look like the anti-twin. Your eyes are bloodshot, you’re way too skinny, probably because you prefer to drink your meals instead of eating them, and your general sense of style with your clothing is horrible. Not to mention the fact that you need a haircut, and possibly a shower because I can smell you from way over here.”
Okay, I really couldn’t smell him, but I’d much rather nip the cleanliness thing in the bud. There was absolutely nothing worse than a guy who reeked, and I was going to have to be around Dylan every single day.
“I do not stink. I shower every single day.” His answer was haughty, and he sounded somewhat offended.
Since I wasn’t about to get close enough to him to sniff for myself, I ignored his comment. “Don’t you have caretakers here?”
I could have sworn that Nicole had mentioned a couple who lived here, and managed the estate.
Dylan glowered at me. “They’re on vacation somewhere in the Caribbean. I didn’t expect to be back here so soon. Now tell me who you are and what you want, or I’ll throw your ass out of here.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. You were staying at Hollingsworth House until your mother decided that it wasn’t appropriate behavior for you to fuck a female under her roof while she was throwing her gala. Not to mention the fact that you broke Nicole’s heart. Is that why you ran back here like a coward instead of telling Nic that you were sorry?” I plastered an innocent look on my face while I waited for his answer.
Bastard!
He had no idea how much I wanted to put my knee in his balls for making my best friend cry.
“I was in a private bedroom, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t like I knew that she was going to come and watch,” he said testily.
I folded my arms over my chest. “But you apparently had no problem if she wanted to join you and your girl-toy.”
Dylan glared at me. “She wasn’t a girl. The woman was thirty years old, and as for Nicole, I thought the more, the merrier. How was I supposed to know that my brother was madly in love with her? Damian has never fallen in love with any of the women he’s shagged.”
Don’t do it, Kylie. Don’t punch the bastard in the face so hard that he can’t talk anymore.
I was usually more patient, but Nicole was my best friend, so it fried my ass to hear Dylan referring to her like she was just another fuck for Damian.
Since it wouldn’t exactly start us out on a good footing if I punched Dylan, I resorted to insults. “Seriously? I doubt you could handle one woman in the shape you’re in, much less two. And by the way, Nicole is my best friend, so if you say anything bad about her, I’ll put my knee in your balls until you sing soprano. Do we understand each other?”
Dylan’s expression turned dark. “The shape I’m in? What in the hell does that mean? I’m thirty-three years old. I’m perfectly capable of handling any number of women in one night.”
