Page 98 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

Julian sits across from me, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. He has taken off his jacket, and the white shirt beneath it pulls across his shoulders whenever he shifts. Every few minutes, I catch him looking at me. Neither of us comments on it.

The Blackwell estate does not appear all at once.

At first, I see only the edge of a stone wall through the trees. Then the boat changes direction, and the property opens slowly along the waterfront.

My breath catches.

The villa rises several levels above the lake, its warm ivory stone softened by age and framed by tall cypress trees, clipped hedges, and terraces spilling down toward the water. Dark green shutters flank rows of tall windows, while climbing vines soften portions of the façade without hiding the scale of the house. A broad terrace stretches across the lake-facing side, and beyond it I can make out gardens disappearing behind another wing.

The property is grand without looking new enough to have been designed for photographs. It has the settled permanence of something that has belonged to the same family long enough to stop needing to prove its value.

“You grew up coming here?” I ask.

“Summers, mostly,” Julian replies.

I glance at him.

“This was your summer house?”

“One of them.”

I stare at him.

He looks back at me without smiling.

“That might be the most billionaire thing you’ve said since I met you.”

This time he laughs.

The sound disappears beneath the engine as the boat slows near a private pier.

Julian gets out first. When I stand, he reaches for me again.

“I can manage,” I tell him.

“I’m sure you can.”

He takes my hand anyway. I step toward the dock, but the boat shifts beneath me at the last second. Julian’s arm comes around my waist, lifting more than guiding me until my heels land securely on the wooden pier.

For a moment, I am against him. His chest is solid beneath my palm. His hand remains at my waist. Our faces are close enough that I can see the pale blue of his eyes change with the light coming off the water.

“Still fine?” he asks.

His voice has dropped slightly.

“Yes.”

Neither of us moves immediately. Then footsteps sound farther up the pier, and Julian releases me.

Two men are waiting near the stone steps leading toward the house. One is dressed in a charcoal suit despite the summer heat, silver threaded through his dark hair. The second moves toward the luggage as soon as we approach.

“Mr. Blackwell,” the older man says warmly.

“Welcome back.”

“Good to see you, Clive.”

They shake hands with the familiarity of people who have known each other for years.