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Daniel was also proficient in hand-to-hand combat and handguns, which Blane found to be a good recommendation as well. Growing up in East L.A. will do that. And you just never knew when that would be handy. As such, Blane had Daniel spar with him on a regular basis, just to stay sharp. Old habits die hard.
Blane went upstairs to shower, shave, and dress for the day. Saturdays without having to wear a suit were a treat. Pulling on jeans and a soft, gray Henley, he was back downstairs in fifteen minutes. He didn’t linger over his shower. The military had burned speed into him when it came to grooming. Fifteen minutes was more of a luxury than usual.
The aroma of bacon and coffee drifted from the kitchen as Blane sat down at the dining table and poured himself a cup. Daniel had piled the papers to the side of his place setting and Blane grabbed the top one. Unusually, it was the New York Post. Daniel usually took it upon himself to glance through the papers and turn to specific articles he thought Blane might want to read first. This one was turned to Page Six, the gossip column. At a glance, Blane saw why.
“Senator Kirk Rescues Intended Victims: Sweeps Billionaire Heiress Off Her Feet,” he read the headline aloud.
The photo was of him and Anne as he was helping her to his car. His suit coat was wrapped over her shoulders and he was supporting her with an arm around her waist. She looked in shock, pale with wide eyes.
“Busy night last night?” Daniel asked, setting a plate piled high in front of him.
“You could say that.” Blane scanned the article again.
Wait a second…billionaire’sdaughter?
He scanned the article, her father’s name lighting up synapses inside his head that connected his memories. They’d had a son. Adopted. Killed on a dark D.C. street one night in a mugging attempt. And Anne, the only blood heir to the family fortune. Why was she waitressing? She hadn’t lied to him last night about her background. But none of it made sense, including the address is a disreputable part of town. What was she trying to prove?
Poor little rich girl, indeed.
Dialing a number on his cell, he took a bite of a strip of bacon and bit into it. Perfectly crispy, as always. The call picked up.
“Brother, isn’t it a little early, even for you?”
Blane grinned. If Kade was calling him “brother,” then he couldn’t be too upset.
“I figured you’d be up. Or are you sporting a dad bod and sleeping ‘til noon on the weekend?”
“Fuck that shit,” Kade grumbled in reply. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have someone I want you to check out. Her and her parents.”
“Oooh, are you digging a chick? It’s about time. What’s her name?”
“I didn’t say I was ‘digging a chick.’”
“Didn’t have to. Half-brother, remember?”
“How could I forget,” Blane replied, his tone dry.
“Name,” Kade demanded.
Blane sighed. “Anne Holton and her father, Gerald Holton.”
“The fracking guy?”
“One and the same.” Much of Gerald’s fortune was in the energy industry.
“Aren’t you on his shoot-first-apologize-later list?”
“Probably.” It came with the territory when you were on a Senate subcommittee on fracking rights.
“Couldn’t you just find a nice, sweet little waitress somewhere? Be her Prince-Fucking-Charming and take her away from all that?”
Blane grimaced at the reminder. Well, technically…
“Will you do it or not?”
Kade gave a dramatic sigh. “Yes, I’ll do it. But only if you actually shack up with this one. I’m not even asking you to marry her. Just something to make you less broody, Mister McBroodypants.”
