Brothers Read online

  Brothers

  Helena Newbury

  Foster & Black

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Kian

  2. Kian

  3. Kian

  4. Bradan

  5. Sean

  6. Carrick

  7. Sylvie

  8. Aedan

  9. Sean

  10. Kian

  11. Carrick

  12. Carrick

  13. Louise

  14. Kian

  15. Annabelle

  16. Louise

  17. Carrick

  18. Sean

  19. Kian

  20. Emily

  21. Annabelle

  22. Aedan

  23. Louise

  24. Aedan

  25. Sylvie

  26. Sylvie

  27. Aedan

  28. Sylvie

  29. Aedan

  30. Sylvie

  31. Sylvie

  32. Kian

  33. Annabelle

  34. Bradan

  35. Annabelle

  36. Sean

  37. Louise

  38. Kian

  39. Bradan

  40. Carrick

  41. Bradan

  42. Sean

  43. Bradan

  44. Louise

  45. Kian

  46. Emily

  47. Emily

  48. Carrick

  49. Sylvie

  50. Sean

  51. Aedan

  52. Annabelle

  53. Kian

  54. Louise

  55. Bradan

  56. Sylvie

  57. Sean

  58. Kian

  59. Annabelle

  60. Carrick

  61. Carrick

  62. Bradan

  63. Aedan

  64. Emily

  65. Louise

  Epilogue

  Contact Me

  © Copyright Helena Newbury 2017

  * * *

  The right of Helena Newbury to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

  * * *

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, events, companies, organizations or products is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  This book contains adult scenes and is intended for readers 18+.

  * * *

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations. Main cover model image licensed from (and copyright remains with) Wander Aguiar Photography

  * * *

  Third Edition

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To my readers, who—like me—wanted to know what happened next.

  WARNING

  All of my romantic suspenses are standalones.

  EXCEPT THIS ONE!

  I wrote Brothers especially for my readers who’ve followed the O’Harras through four books. This book is not a good place to start. Not only will you have missed out on how all four couples got together but you’ll also ruin the four O’Harra books for yourself.

  So if you’ve somehow stumbled across this book and you haven’t read the others, go and read them first. The O’Harra books are, in order:

  Punching and Kissing (Aedan and Sylvie)

  Growing and Kissing (Sean and Louise)

  Saving Liberty (Kian and Emily)

  Outlaw’s Promise (Carrick and Annabelle)

  Okay, back? Good. Let’s go ;)

  1

  Kian

  I always keep a hand on her back. Always.

  When I’d been her bodyguard, it had been about guiding her through the crowd and being able to grab her and pull her behind me at a second’s notice. It had been about quelling her panic attacks, reassuring her that I was there, that she wasn’t alone. That I’d never let anyone hurt her. And, in the days when we’d been trying to hide our growing, smoldering, unstoppable attraction, it had been the one way we could touch without anyone knowing. All of that emotion, all of our need for each other, focused into just the tips of my fingers and the press of my palm. Those moments of touching were what I looked forward to all day.

  Everything was different, now. I wasn’t her bodyguard. Her panic attacks were a fading memory. And everyone knew that we were together. But I still kept my hand on her back, every time we were in a crowd. I couldn’t bear not touching her. It was reassurance for both of us that, after everything we’d been through, we were finally together for good.

  “Bergier,” whispered Emily, leaning close. “French ambassador.”

  I grunted and forced a grin as they guy approached and did the whole double-air-kiss thing with us. We’d only been at the reception a half hour and already my smile muscles were hurting.

  “Lundgren,” Emily whispered. “Danish ambassador.”

  How did she do that? All these people looked the same to me: politicians stuffed into dinner jackets. The names were gone from my head by the time the next one approached. The saving grace was that, each time she clued me in on who someone was, I felt the brush of her soft, mahogany hair against my neck and the heat of her breath in my ear. The scent of her, warm skin and big, open horizons and rocks baked by a desert sun...it made me instantly hard. I’d endure a thousand embassy receptions if it meant I got to be close to her. But I wished they built breaks into these things, away from the cameras, so I could pull her into a quiet room, push her up against a wall and—

  Emily gently tugged my sleeve, guiding me towards a couple who were either connected to the British royals or Iceland, I wasn’t sure which. I forced a fresh smile onto my face and shook their hands, trying to stretch my shoulders under the dinner jacket. Whatever I did, I couldn’t get comfortable. Maybe it was too tight: it certainly felt ridiculous, stretched over my big frame. But it was tailored for me so I knew it wasn’t that.

  I ran a hand over my cheek as I thought about it, still thrown when I didn’t find the expected stubble there. I had to look respectable for the press. Maybe that was it, maybe I still wasn’t used to being clean-shaven. But I knew deep down that it wasn’t that, either.

  I froze as I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A waiter coming towards us, carrying a tray of champagne glasses...but there was something off about him. The chattering of the Brits or the Icelandics or whoever the hell they were seemed to fade away as adrenaline pumped into my system. The waiter was doing everything right: he had the walk and the polite, discreet presence and he held his tray rock-steady but—

  But his eyes. His eyes were wrong. They were everywhere, flicking over the crowd, just like mine were. He’d nearly reached us, now, and he was looking behind us. Maybe checking on an accomplice....

  I whipped around. A man in his thirties was approaching fast. “Miss Matthews?” he called out.

  Emily began to turn around. Just as the guy wanted. At adrenaline was slamming through my veins, now, every muscle going tight and hard. I saw Emily’s eyes widen as she recognized the look on my face: trouble. All old, familiar feelings surged up inside me: the gut-wrenching fear when she was in danger; that primal, all-consuming need to protect her. I reached for my gun....

  My fingers closed on air. Shit! I didn’t carry a gun anymore.

  The waiter was almost on top of us and now I thought I could see a bulge under his jacket. And the guy who’d come up behind us was reaching under his jacket—

  The fear was subsumed by something stronger: the need to destroy those who threatened her.

  Time seemed to slow down. I used the hand on Emily’s back to shove her to safety. Then I grabbed the waiter�
�s shirt and yanked him towards me so hard his feet left the ground. I drove my fist into his face and he slumped to the ground, champagne glasses falling like rain and shattering all around him.

  I grabbed the metal tray, spun around and slammed the edge of it into the nose of the guy behind us. It wasn’t enough to knock him out but he went down on his ass, blood spurting from his nose, and it made him pull his hand from under his jacket. All around me, people were screaming but I ignored them.

  I turned back to the waiter and checked under his jacket. Jesus, I’d been right: there was a handgun in a holster there. I pulled the gun and shoved it in the face of the guy on the ground. “Stay down!” I yelled.

  He lifted his hands from his broken nose, his face white with fear.

  Suddenly, Secret Service agents were all around me. I was pleased to see that Jack, the agent who’d taken over from me as Emily’s bodyguard, had already pulled her to the edge of the room. Others were hustling away the guests, leaving me in a widening circle of space.

  “Check him,” I ordered, nodding at the guy with the broken nose. “He was going for something under his jacket.”

  One agent patted him down and pulled something from his inside jacket pocket: a Dictaphone. Maybe it’s a bomb. They could be that small, these days, and it would explain how he got it past security.

  Emily managed to get to the edge of the circle, even though she had to drag a reluctant Jack with her. “That’s Warren Banks!” she said. “He’s with the Washington Post!”

  Shit.

  “I was just going to get a quote,” said Banks, his voice distorted by his broken nose.

  Shit! I spun to point my gun at the waiter, still unconscious on the ground. “What about him?” No way was he innocent. He’d had a concealed gun, for God’s sake.

  At that moment, Miller, the head of the White House Secret Service detail, pushed through the crowd. He waved for his agents to lower their guns and I lowered mine as well. He looked at me, looked at the waiter and sighed. “He’s NCIS,” he said. “He was here undercover.”

  Navy intelligence? He was an agent? A creeping sense of dread wound its way up through my legs, tightening around my torso like cold, clinging vines. Have I just—Oh God.... I looked around the room at the two injured men, the shattered glass, the shocked guests. Yep: I’d messed up on an epic scale.

  I dropped the gun on the floor and put my palm to my face. “Feck,” I said loudly.

  Much later, I lay on Emily’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’d been spirited out of the reception while the Secret Service “secured the scene.” Which I knew was code for cleared up my mess.

  I heard the door open and close, then Emily’s soft footsteps padding across the room. But I didn’t look up, even when I felt the bed sink under her weight. I was brooding too hard. Only when she swung a leg over me and brought her face over mine did I focus on her...and immediately, everything felt a little better. God, the sight of her: the perfect, wide mouth, those eyes filled with warmth and compassion and the soft waves of hair that hung down between us to brush my cheeks. I love this woman.

  “So,” said Emily. “An update.” She took a deep breath. “The NCIS agent is fine and said you have a hell of a right hook. He’s on his way home.”

  “I blew his cover, didn’t I?” I muttered.

  “He didn’t say,” said Emily diplomatically.

  I winced. I’d probably cost the NCIS weeks or months of work and tipped off whoever they were investigating. “And the reporter?”

  “I’ve promised him an exclusive interview.” She straddled my waist. “No one wants to press charges. It was a misunderstanding. Everything’s okay.”

  I sighed. I wanted to believe it, wanted nothing more than to pull her down to me and kiss her and forget about all this. But I was mad at myself.

  “You couldn’t have known he was undercover,” said Emily, her voice soothing.

  Of course I couldn’t. I hadn’t been briefed, unlike the Secret Service. And that was the whole problem: I’d behaved like her bodyguard when it wasn’t my job anymore. Protecting people was what I did. I didn’t know how to do anything else. That was why I’d felt so uncomfortable all evening, why I always felt uncomfortable at these events. It wasn’t the bowtie or being clean shaven. It was not knowing who the hell I was, anymore. Emily was born to this life: effortlessly charming, completely comfortable making small talk with foreign princes and prime ministers. But that was my idea of hell. I’d always been about doing things: as a Marine, tell me who to fight and I’d fight them. As a Secret Service agent, tell me who to guard and I’ll protect them with my life. Now I had no purpose other than to be on Emily’s arm.

  I turned my face away from Emily’s—I didn’t want her to think I was mad at her—and glared at the door.

  A second later, I felt her cool, soft fingers on my cheek, gently but firmly turning me to look back at her. “What?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to talk about it but, as soon as I looked into those big green eyes, I knew that wasn’t going to fly. Emily had her mom’s diplomacy but her dad’s Texan stubbornness. I could scowl and brood as much as I wanted but she’d get it out of me eventually. “I just feel like a fifth wheel around here,” I told her.

  “Kian, there are people lining up to give you a job. Say the word.”

  It was true: ever since what had happened with Kerrigan and his attempted coup, all sorts of CEOs had been asking if I wanted to be their head of corporate security. But I knew it would be a publicity stunt: I didn’t know a thing about corporate espionage. They just wanted to be able to tell the press they had the guy who saved the president on their staff. And, even worse, they wanted my influence on Emily and her father. No. No way. I wasn’t going to put Emily and her dad in that position. Besides, I’d go crazy, sitting in meetings all day. I had to find something that actually suited me. But I couldn’t go back to being a bodyguard: as long as I was with Emily, I’d be a liability, more of a target than the person I was protecting. Besides, it would mean too much time away from her and DC. I sighed and rubbed my cheek, still missing my stubble. “I’ll figure it out,” I muttered.

  She lay down on top of me and rested her head on my chest, using my much bigger frame like a bed. The warm press of her body, all the way from shoulder to ankle, made me groan and the stress slowly oozed out of me. I gazed up at her, totally enamored. She always knew exactly how to make me feel better. “How the hell did I land a woman like you?” I asked, the words buzzing in my chest against her cheek.

  “I don’t know,” she said, deadpan. “You’re definitely shopping way above your station—Ow!”

  The last was a yelp as I swatted her ass. Then I was growling and twisting, rolling us over on the bed so that she was beneath me. Her dress was suitably demure for the president’s daughter but it had ridden up on one side and my thigh was pressing against smooth, bare skin. I felt myself hardening against her. I leaned down and kissed her hard, capturing her mouth and teasing it then plunging in, unable to stop myself. The blood started to pound in my ears. God, I got drunk on this woman. I was addicted to her, even more now than when we first met. She returned the kiss eagerly: that mix of innocence and desperate heat that I’d always found such a turn on. I reached down, grabbed the top of her dress and pulled it down, delighted to find that the bra was built-in.

  Our lips parted for a second. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” she panted.

  “Damn right it’s like that,” I panted back, my troubles forgotten. I cupped one breast, lowered my head and—

  There was a knock at the door. We both froze. Then, “No one here,” I growled loudly, the Irish strong in my voice from my lust. “This is a recording. Leave a message.”

  Emily patted my cheek, slipped out from beneath me and hurried over to the door, pulling her dress back into place at the same time. When she opened it, Jack, her bodyguard, was standing there. If he hadn’t guessed what he’d interrupted by Emily’s flushed face, my glare f
illed him in. He had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, ma’am. Sir. But...your brother’s here, Mr. O’Harra.”

  I blinked at him. My brother? Here? Now? It had been weeks since I was reunited with Sean in Anacostia Park. He knew better than to come here: the last thing Emily needed was for the press to find out that her boyfriend’s brother had grown a massive crop of weed. They wouldn’t care that he’d had a good reason to do what he did: they’d make a scandal out of it and Sean and his girlfriend Louise would probably wind up in jail. It must be an emergency.

  I turned to Emily. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I have to—”

  She nodded quickly. “Go!”

  I leaned down, gave her a quick kiss and went. I was still wracked with guilt that I hadn’t been there to help Sean during everything he’d gone through. He was the youngest of us, my baby brother: I was meant to protect him, for God’s sake. Well, whatever he needed, I’d help him now.

  The Secret Service had put him in a quiet side room, well away from the press. The room was dark except for a few table lamps and it took me a second to find him in the shadows.

  It wasn’t Sean.

  “Hello, brother. Been a long time,” said Carrick.

  2

  Kian

  Carrick?

  I stood there frozen but my brain was going full speed, trying to catch up. Carrick? Here? Now?

  It had been so long since I’d seen him. For a second, my mind rebelled: it can’t be. This was a man, as big as I was. The image I had of him in my mind was still a teenager. But there was no mistaking that face...even when it was coupled with that outfit.

  He was wearing faded jeans and a biker’s leather cut over a white t-shirt. His arms were loaded with muscle, the skin a rich tan. I could see the top of a back tattoo peeking out just above his t-shirt, the ink black and vicious. There was another tattoo on his bicep, much more colorful. A butterfly with a name emblazoned across it.