My Best Friend's Hot Billionaire Brother

My Best Friend's Hot Billionaire Brother

An Opposites Attract, Neighbor Next Door Romance

Ashlyn Hayes

Copyright © 2023 by Ashlyn Hayes

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Table of Contents

1.Mallory

2.Trevor

3.Mallory

4.Trevor

5.Mallory

6.Trevor

7.Mallory

8.Trevor

9.Mallory

10.Trevor

11.Mallory

12.Trevor

13.Mallory

14.Trevor

15.Mallory

16.Trevor

17.Mallory

18.Trevor

19.Mallory

20.Trevor

21.Mallory

22.Trevor

23.Mallory

24.Trevor

25.Mallory

26.Trevor

27.Mallory

28.Trevor

29.Mallory

30.Trevor

31.Mallory

32.Trevor

33.Mallory

Also By Ashlyn Hayes

Chapter one

Mallory

It’s been a weird day. Hard to describe it, but there are times when I wake up with a strange feeling, like I didn’t sleep right or something. I try not to overthink it, that’s the bane of the artist. Analysis paralysis, they call it. And even at just thirty years old, I haven’t got any time to waste.

I’m just stepping out of the shower, checking myself out in the mirror. Not too bad for thirty, I have to think. Chestnut hair has got no gray, brown eyes still clear, no bags or wrinkles to speak of. I can see the cute teenager I used to be fading away, and even suggestions of the older woman I’ll someday become.

I don’t look too long.

My body’s still in good shape, the years treating me well enough. Eating right helps, staying away from the booze, taking those long walks. Life as an artist can require extra care to one’s good health, after all.

Still, there’s a strange queasiness in my stomach. I chalk it up to the stress of life in general, especially here in Manhattan. The streets are teaming with life, cars crowding every street at every hour, pedestrians cluttering the sidewalks and streetcorners, people jamming the subways going in every direction at every minute.

But it’s the most exciting city in the world for an artist, just about the pinnacle of the artistic experience. I’d be crazy not to take advantage of it, of the incredible opportunity I have, and through little more than simple good luck!

Looking around Del Kane’s incredible penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, it’s easy to be grateful. I don’t have this kind of money and I don’t think I ever will. Few enough painters ever become billionaires.

But I don’t need a billion dollars. I’ll settle for worldwide recognition, the small fortune, and the adoration of generations of art lovers. I’m humble that way. For right now, I’m very, very humble! I’m still just another struggling painter in the most competitive city in the world. I wouldn’t be able to live in a Brooklyn sewar system, never mind such a gorgeous penthouse apartment. It’s all glass and chrome, Picasso’s later works on the walls, slick and smooth, just like Del Kane himself.

The view is every bit as amazing, the park a massive green rectangle beneath them on one side, Fifth Avenue right in front, the rest of Manhattan spread out all around. We’re on the top of the world, literally.

And it’s only Del’s friendship which is keeping me there. I’m grateful for that friendship more than anything. It’s easy to look back on the years we’ve spent after meeting in the art gallery. He’d been so flattering, so friendly. I’d been surprised and a little disappointed that he wasn’t angling to seduce me. But it soon came to delight me that he was genuinely interested in a real, human connection.

Walking through the penthouse in shorts and a t-shirt that would not be cumbersome under my painting smock, I take a deep breath of the rich Columbian coffee, luring me to a brisk hot cup.

It hadn’t been surprising for me in a lot of ways. A man with Del’s money and good looks had as many women as he wanted, blue-eyed blondes and green-eyed redheads, world-class models and starlets. I’ve come to realize that, having so much of everything, a lot of it had lost its allure.

What Del, and I always assumed other people like him, really wanted and needed had been honesty, truth, realness, something he couldn’t get from gold diggers and yes-men. I’m a real friend, because I’m not asking anything of him. He’s giving me shelter and support while I develop my art, because he’s a real friend. And that friendship means everything.

I pour the coffee and raise the mug to my lips, the steam and robust scent rising up. I take a big, refreshing whiff and then a small, shallow sip.

Del? Any plans for the day? No answer comes back, but that’s hardly surprising. He could be in his bedroom with Ms. Heather Lang. She’s been around for almost a month, a good stretch for one of his girls. She seems determined to stick around, and just as determined that I don’t. I ignore the snarls and snide comments and stay out of their way. I’m lucky enough to have a gorgeous studio set aside for me with perfect lighting, and I’m there more often than not, especially when Heather’s around.

I’m inclined to go directly to work. But it’s a beautiful late spring day in Manhattan. The humidity hasn’t set in yet, the sky is clear blue with just a few clouds to drift over the tops of the buildings. There’s a slight breeze, and the warm sun on my face will be just the way to start my day.

I was going to work on that portrait of you today, I call, if you’re available to sit. No answer came back. Probably too busy lying down, I have to think. But I do have the run of the penthouse, and I don’t see how Heather can object to –

Del! My heart jumps in my chest to see him floating in the pool, surrounded by ornate stone. He’s motionless, facedown, arms slack at his sides, legs already sunk into the water. Del! I toss the coffee cup and jump into the pool, reaching Del in an instant. He’s cold, and I turn him over to reveal that his skin has a bluish tint. I paddle him to the side of the pool and check his pulse, but it is still and cold. I press my ear against his chest, unable to hear any heartbeat, no lungs churning or gurgling.

Del-Del-Del-Del … is all I can say, hoping his name alone might somehow reach him, but certainly not counting on it. I know I won’t be able to pull him out of the water, so I try to resuscitate him against the side of the pool.

C’mon, Del, c’mon! His face is cold and wet against my own, his brown hair plastered to his handsome face. Come back, Del, come back! I try again, but there’s no breathing new air into his lungs. I press my heart against his chest again, no heartbeat rising up from under his chest.

He’s not coming back.

Oh, Del, I say, stroking his face, eyes closed, head lolling against the side of the pool. I’m so sorry, Del, my … my loving friend, I … I’m so sorry.

Chapter two

Trevor

I’m standing at the window of my grand room, which is really only a bit grander than the others. But just about every room in Norwalk is grand, even more than the rest of Connecticut. Though I feel like I may as well be alone in town, in the state, in the whole damn world.

It’s hard to look around the place and not think of my late wife. She’d designed the house, she’d harbored dreams of raising a family, and I did too.

But that was all years ago. Since then, little has changed. The drinks come and go, the Johnny Walker black never quite filling that burning hole inside me.

There other things to think about, of course. I always make sure of that. There’s business to be done, deals developing at every level. I have a hundred different things to consider, if I want to, if I’m able.

It’s our anniversary, and I know that’s bringing Katie to mind, more and more. Five years, I think, we’d have had kids by now, I’m sure.

Other things pull at my attention, and I’m glad to oblige. The family business had left us with as many investments and financing deals as either me or my brother could manage, and that had been assuming that Del wanted to manage anything at all.

Can hardly manage his own life, I can’t help think. Mister cool, mister slick, Capt. Manhattan. If he put half as much effort into the company, we’d have twice as much land. Not that we need much more, but … we’re not in the business of giving it away either.

I try not to think about my brother. I haven’t seen him in years, and that’s the way I want it. That’s the way it has to be.

Have to call Egypt, I think, reaching for the first thing I can think of, settle up with the Radisson project there. And there’s the Paris deal too, not too far off. Maybe it’s time to leave Norwalk for a while. It’ll still be here when I get back.

It always is.

Traveling puts Del back in my mind. Could check in while I’m out and about. I’ll want to fly out of New York anyway. Wouldn’t hurt to check in, see how he’s doing. Who knows, maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe I’ve changed.

Yeah, right.

Another sip of scotch quells that idea, but not for long.

That old anger comes back, something I don’t even want to think about. Time heals all wounds? No. Time goes by, infections set in, that’s what really happens!

The phone rings. It’s my iPhone on the coffee table. It sends a chill up my spine, but that’s not anything new. The world comes at me all the time and from every angle. It’s gotten to the point where I just wish everybody would just leave me alone. But I know that’s not possible, and I probably would wind up being pissed off about that too, I can’t deny.

My offices handle most of my professional calls, my personal assistant Gerald Johnson good about reporting the important news to me. When I see his name on the screen, I know to pick it up and swipe the screen.

Gerald, I say, not needing to say more. If it’s business, and it is, I want to hear what the business is. I have a strange feeling, not sure what’s bringing it on other than my wedding anniversary, even though I’ve been widowed for half a decade.

Mister Kane, he says from the other end of the phone. You have a call, I think perhaps I should put you through.

Is it Zuckerberg again? Tell him to stop calling me, little nerd.

No, sir, Gerald says. There is a gentleness in his voice, a caution that worries me even more. It’s … it’s the police, sir.

The police? NYPD?

Shall I put them through?

Um, yes, Gerald, thank you, please do.

I wait a moment or two, then I speak with the man on the other end of the phone, who introduces himself very courteously as a Detective Frank Scopes. In a very calm and officious manner, he reports the news of Del’s death, of the report filed by his roommate, a person who remains of interest in the case.

I was wondering if you’d be making plans to come into town, Detective Scopes says in a thick New York accent. See to your brother’s affairs?

My brother has lawyers; our company will see to all that internally. To hear my own voice be so cold in the matter of my brother’s death is almost as heartbreaking as the news itself. I feel stunned, mind and heart hardly able to digest what I’m hearing.

You said … a person of interest?

One of several, sir.

A long, mean moment passes before I say, Foul play then.

We’re not sure, sir.

A cold pit seems to open up in