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God. Who the hell needed twenty pairs of the same identical fancy black socks?
Drake Shepperton swore under his breath and shook his head, tossing them all in a large box marked “Charity”. The excess was par for the course, he supposed, where his twin brother was concerned. Devon had always been far too slick and ostentatious for his own good.
In the end, it was probably what had gotten him killed, wrapping his expensive car around a tree because he’d believed that speed limits were meant for other people. Devon was reckless and rarely thought of the consequences of his actions—he always assumed that someone else would come along to handle the fallout from any of his stunts.
It had only been a week since the car accident that had taken his brother’s life, but already Drake’s neat, orderly life had been upended more than he could have imagined. And from the call he’d gotten earlier from the attorney for his family’s company, things would only get worse before they got better.
No. “Company” didn’t begin to cover what had become the Shepperton, Inc. manufacturing empire over the years. It was a behemoth, a massive industrial player with thousands of employees. And that meant that no matter how badly Drake wanted to walk away from the whole thing, he had to step up, take charge, and make sure the business was properly transitioned to new leadership now that his brother was no longer at the helm. That much was Drake’s duty as a Shepperton—even if it was a duty that he’d dodged for the past several years. He’d inherited the business along with Devon five years ago after their parents died, but he’d had exactly zero interest in leaving behind his hard-won career as a SEAL to share management of a business he hated. Devon had been more than happy to have the top seat at the company to himself, and Drake had been happy to leave him to it. Dividends from Drake’s shares were automatically deposited into an account that he never even looked at. An account that would grow even larger once Devon’s assets were added to it.
He didn’t care about the money. He would have given it all up to have his twin back.
Would have given even more to have been born into another family entirely.
Grumbling, he continued going through his brother’s clothes and other personal effects, separating out what he could send to charity and disposing of the rest in preparation for putting Devon’s million-dollar mini-palace of a condo on the market.
Drake could have kept it all, according to his brother’s will. Hell, he probablyshouldkeep at least some of the clothes—they’d fit him just as well as they’d fit Devon. Despite their different lifestyles, the twins had stayed a remarkably close match in their physical forms. And of course, as far as features and coloring went, they’d always been shockingly identical. What looked good on his brother would look good on him. But he didn’t want it. It was all just another reminder of all the things his family had cared about more than he did—money, prestige, power symbolized by glamor and frivolous excess.
He yanked open another dresser drawer to find set after set of twinkling cuff links. Gold, silver, some with diamonds, some with engravings. The stuff in the drawer was easily worth more than most people made in an entire year. It turned Drake’s stomach, to be honest. He slammed the drawer, then raked a hand through his short dark hair. He shouldn’t be here. He should be overseas with his SEAL team, fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. Fighting for things that mattered.
Instead, he was stuck right back into his family’s mess, the one place he swore he’d never be again.
He looked around the room with a disgusted sneer. For all the amenities and expensive artwork hanging around the condo, there were no family photos at all. Another Shepperton trait—family was only prized for what they could give you, not for love.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to see another text from the head of the company’s legal department.
Emergency Meeting Scheduled 9am Tomorrow. Devon’s Office.
The knot of tension in his neck tightened further and Drake cringed, rolling his shoulders to try and loosen the muscles. Dammit. He wanted to go sit in some stuffy financial meeting about as much as he wanted to get a root canal done, but he had no choice. If he didn’t show up, he’d leave all the workers for their company in peril. And Drake was nothing if not a protector. Underdogs, the underprivileged—basically anyone who needed help, he was their guy. He fixed problems.
Too bad there was no one else around to help him fix this mess he was in now.
Frustrated and restless, he tossed his phone on the massive bed in the center of the room and stalked out to the fancy restaurant-grade kitchen to see if his brother had any decent booze in the place. Drake wasn’t much of a drinker, normally, but damn if liquor didn’t sound like manna from heaven about now.
He’d just yanked open the door to the large double-sided, stainless-steel fridge and peered inside, when a knock sounded on the front door. Drake frowned, glancing back over his shoulder. He wasn’t expecting anyone and as far as he knew, his brother’s address wasn’t listed, for security reasons. While there had never been any serious threats, apparently it wasn’t possible to run a manufacturing company without ticking some people off. That meant that Devon’s home address hadn’t been widely known, even within his social circle. So who could be at the door? Had some nosy neighbor spotted him coming in and out of the condo and decided to bring over a casserole or something?
Drake straightened and snorted, bracing himself for painful small talk with a stranger. Yes, he and his brother had been twins. Yes, such a tragedy—so young, etc. Sure, he supposed it was a comfort to know it had happened quickly, without a lot of suffering.
That much was true, at least. Devon had died instantly, according to the coroner. Hell, he’d been dictating a text at the time, from what the police found on the vehicle’s black box. Something about money. Figured. Chasing more cash until the end. The Shepperton way. But Drake probably wouldn’t mention that to the neighbor.
Nor would he mention that personally, he’d rather live on the street than in some palatial prison like this.
Give him a tent in the dusty desert and a war to win and he was a happy camper.
The knocking sounded again, louder and faster this time.
Damn. He’d hoped they’d go away if he ignored it.
Apparently not. Stalking over to the door with a bottle of locally brewed ale, he sighed and turned the handle, bracing himself to be polite.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but—” she started, her shoulder-length dark hair partially covering her face as she fiddled with her phone. Then she looked up and her doe-like brown eyes widened, what little color was in her cheeks draining away before his eyes. Her pink lips parted, and she wavered on her feet. “Oh God. You…it can’t be. You’re dead… I…”
Drake grabbed her arm before she toppled over, intrigued despite himself. She looked familiar, but from where? He’d only arrived back in the country after receiving word of Devon’s death and the subsequent funeral, so he hadn’t had time to meet anyone connected to his brother, let alone a woman as attractive as this.
“Here, sit down,” he said, guiding her to the overstuffed leather sofa nearby. “Let me get you some water.”
She’d turned an odd grayish colour and he was worried she’d pass out on him.
He hurried to get the water, then returned to the living room, standing nearby by and eyeing her warily while she sipped the drink. He didn’t like being caught off-guard. Disliked not knowing why she looked familiar even more. Was she one of Devon’s bimbos? Could be. His brother’s appetite for wealth had been rivaled only by his lust for the next new thing—be it women or cars or luxury yachts. Devon had always enjoyed sending Drake pictures of his so-called glamorous lifestyle. Maybe he’d seen this woman in one of those?
