JAMES (7 Brides for 7 Brothers Book 6)
Roxanne St Claire
James
7 Brides for 7 Brothers
Book 6
Roxanne St. Claire
James
7 Brides for 7 Brothers
Copyright © 2016 South Street Publishing
978-0-9970627-8-6 –EBOOK
978-0-9970627-9-3 –PRINT
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means except for brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews without prior written permission from the copyright owner. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, [email protected]
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7 Brides for 7 Brothers
Meet all seven sexy Brannigan Brothers!
1. LUKE by Barbara Freethy
2. GABE by Ruth Cardello
3. HUNTER by Melody Anne
4. KNOX by Christie Ridgway
5. MAX by Lynn Raye Harris
6. JAMES by Roxanne St. Claire
7. FINN by JoAnn Ross
The Barefoot Bay Series
Roxanne St. Claire writes the popular Barefoot Bay series, which is really several connected mini-series all set on one gorgeous island off the Gulf coast of Florida. Every book stands alone, but why stop at one trip to paradise?
The Barefoot Bay Billionaires
Secrets on the Sand
Seduction on the Sand
Scandal on the Sand
The Barefoot Bay Brides
Barefoot in White
Barefoot in Lace
Barefoot in Pearls
Barefoot Bay Undercover
Barefoot Bound (prequel)
Barefoot with a Bodyguard
Barefoot with a Stranger
Barefoot with a Bad Boy
Barefoot Bay Timeless
Barefoot at Sunset
Barefoot at Moonrise
Barefoot at Midnight
Table of Contents
JAMES
Copyright
More 7 Brides for 7 Brothers
More Books from Roxanne St. Claire
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
The BAREFOOT BAY Series
Dedication
When my first book was published in 2003, I received a letter from a reader in Italy who informed me I’d made some mistakes on the Italian phrases. She offered to help me if I ever used Italian again. Over the next twelve years, Rossella Re and I became good friends. When I wrote about a series about a large Italian-American family, she was invaluable to me. And when my real-life family and I visited her country last year, Rossella and her awesome husband, Marco, welcomed us into their home and hearts. Getting to know readers is a great part of this job. Becoming lifelong friends with one is a true blessing. This book, set entirely in Italy, is dedicated with all my love to Rossella Re. Of course, she corrected my Italian all the way through. Grazie mille, Rossella. Ti voglio bene, amica mia!
Chapter One
A high-pitched scream of an engine broke through James Brannigan’s concentration. He looked up from a stack of documents just in time to see a motor scooter whiz by, so close the bike’s handlebar grazed the side-view mirror of the limo taking James up the side of a mountain. His Italian driver chuckled as the Vespa disappeared around the next hairpin turn.
James glanced to the right. That side of the limo was just a millimeter from a knee-high stone wall, the only protection from a thousand-foot drop into the Mediterranean Sea.
Could it be any more complicated, time-consuming, or dangerous to get to Positano, Italy, to visit a winery he’d inherited?
Perhaps Colin Brannigan, when selecting his mysterious “legacies” to give to seven sons upon his death, had mixed James up with one of his younger brothers. Hunter would love nothing more than hanging off that wall by his feet to get the perfect angle for his next National Geographic shot. Luke, the fearless documentary producer who lived to trek all over bizarre locales, would salivate at the surroundings. Former Navy SEAL Max could probably climb on top of that wall and shoot someone. Hell, almost any of his six thrill-seeking, speed-demon, danger-loving brothers would love this adventure.
Not James. He wasn’t the risk-taker in the family, unless the risk involved money and investments. James needed complete control and, right now, zipping around death-defying turns on the hairy edge of a road that might have been built a few centuries ago…he didn’t have any control at all.
Instinctively, he gathered up the papers and refocused on a spreadsheet that didn’t quite add up, because work always bent to his will. But every time his gaze landed on the column of figures, his mind drifted back to the question that had plagued him all day during this sojourn from New York to Italy.
Why would Colin Brannigan saddle his oldest son with an inheritance that was in every way a massive pain in the ass? James had asked himself that question a hundred times since his billionaire media mogul father died without even telling his seven sons he had cancer, let alone why they’d each inherited a bizarre and inexplicable “legacy.”
No money. No part of his vast fortune, at least not until the inheritance would be divided among them in five years. Just a single envelope, each containing…something. James got the deed to Villa Pietro, a two-hundred-year-old winery stuck in the hills above the Amalfi Coast that none of the seven Brannigan brothers even knew their father had owned.
Why, Dad? Why?
The surprisingly big hole left in James’s heart when Colin Brannigan died eight months earlier had mostly healed, filled with work and the business of following in his money-making father’s footsteps. But today, James had more time than usual to miss his dad and ponder the old man’s motives. In fact, in the half day James had flown in his private jet from Manhattan to Naples, then the hour in a helicopter to Sorrento, and now the limo ride on a mountain nature intended to be used only by goats, he’d thought of little else.
Why a winery?
He had no interest in wine, or alcohol of any kind, because it dimmed the laser focus required to run a multibillion-dollar hedge fund. James had never shown any great desire to visit Italy, beyond a trip to Rome for business only. And it wasn’t like this little country “villa” that grew grapes in the air would be a jewel in James’s portfolio. It commanded a decent price, which he’d negotiate higher after he saw it, but there were discrepancies in the documentation that made him wonder just how well it had been run all these years Dad had owned it.
Even with those issues, he had one offer in hand from a viable buyer, a megacorporation called Whitehouse Wineries known for gobbling up small wineries and turning them into production houses for their brand. It was a brilliant strategy from a well-respected company with a decent am
ount of zeroes at the bottom line.
It should be easy to sign, sell, and seal a deal.
He perused the Whitehouse offer he’d received via William Hayward, a business manager hired exclusively for this winery—thanks for that expense, Dad. Hayward had forwarded the contract with a strong suggestion that James sign it and cash the check. James could have done that, but something stopped him. Something made him put his life on hold and travel to southern Italy so he could see this winery in person before he handed it over to new ownership.
Something he didn’t like or understand.
He took a slow inhale and looked through the windshield, the postcard view of emerald-green mountains draped in olive groves and lemon trees spilling into the impossibly blue Mediterranean lost on him.
By now, the Brannigan brothers had to face the fact that these little envelopes delivered by their Aunt Claire with essentially no other communication were more than just a nice way for Dad to apologize for a lifetime of being a less-than-perfect father. Each gift, so far at least, had been a catalyst for change in the recipient’s life.
James shifted on the plush leather. He didn’t want to change. Didn’t need to change. Didn’t like change.
And yet…even from the grave, Dad was pulling strings with these so-called legacies, many of which were unwelcome and complicated. Luke had been given a resort Dad owned near Yosemite, and he liked it—or a woman who ran it—so much so that he ended up making it his home base. Gabe got the family ranch in Calabasas, which made sense since Gabe was a real estate guy, but he didn’t sell the place. No, he got married and moved into the ranch. Knox landed a vintage motorcycle, which had taken him on quite a ride and settled his fun-loving ass down for good. Hunter went on a literal treasure hunt, only to land some weird poem. Oh, and their grandmother’s wedding ring, which he then gave to the woman who’d helped him find it.
That left three of them who hadn’t dealt with what their envelopes held. Finn got a small Alaskan airline consisting of three planes, but since he’d been deployed flying carrier duty when Dad died, he was only now getting out of the Navy and planning to go claim the airline. James had, naturally, advised him to sell those planes, but when had the youngest Brannigan brother ever listened to anyone?
Only Max’s legacy was closest to what James got—a horse farm in Kentucky. Last time they talked, a little more than a month ago, Max was doing the smart thing and trying to sell the place, but he’d run into some complications with the tenant. Surely he’d worked that out by now.
So James knew, deep in his gut, that he wasn’t going to walk away from his legacy until he knew what Dad was trying to tell him from the grave. Then he would walk away from it.
Until then, he would wrestle with why. Were the legacies for fun, profit, or change? Were they supposed to tell the brothers about their often distant, preoccupied, and uncommunicative father? Were they some kind of posthumous character study?
James didn’t need to solve the puzzle of Colin Brannigan. His brothers had far more “issues” with their workaholic father, but James was the oldest, and the most like him. When Mom died and left behind seven boys under thirteen, James had easily assumed the role of second parent and had done his level best to maintain some semblance of control in the chaos that was the Calabasas, California, ranch.
With six brothers ranging from age four to ten and the lively but steady Kathleen Brannigan gone far too soon, James had no choice but to take over while Dad worked. And worked. And worked some more.
From the time he was twelve until he left for Stanford, James would give Dad daily reports like a dutiful employee, highlighting school progress, sports victories, and not a few mishaps on ATVs or fights that had gotten out of hand up in the tree house. Dad would approve or recommend reprimands, and his leadership and decision-making skills soaked into James’s head, making James every bit the successful executive his father had been.
No, Dad hadn’t been exactly “available” as a father, but business had become James and his father’s level playing field and the one thing they had completely in common. James sought advice and shared issues with his father about his rapidly growing hedge fund and the dozens of deals, employees, acquisitions, and trades he managed every day. In exchange, Dad had shared his business empire and given James a glimpse into his life. Nothing too personal, though, not with Colin Brannigan.
He’d mourned his father, yes. But he was also pissed as hell that the old bastard hadn’t shared with him the fact that he was dying. Or why the hell they had these arcane problems to deal with.
Shaking it off, he looked down at the deed for Villa Pietro one more time. With Colin—as with James—business was life. So there must be a damn good business reason he’d given the winery to James.
It had to be because he trusted James to get top dollar in a sale of the place Dad had purchased twenty-four years ago and, as far as he could tell, had never even visited again. So it wasn’t like the winery held any sentimental value.
A dilapidated white farm truck rumbled around the next corner, taking up way too much of the road, coming at them at a ridiculous speed. James winced as he gauged how close it would come or, more likely, how hard it would hit. But the limo driver smoothly maneuvered to the right, and the only thing that hit them was a lemon bouncing from a crate on the truck bed.
“The Americans are always scared,” the driver said with a laugh and thick Italian accent.
“I’m not scared,” James replied. “I’m stunned that more people don’t die.”
“Eh, some do,” he said with the culturally distinct wave of his hand. “Wait until you see Positano. You risk life when you cross the street.”
Great. “I won’t be there long.”
“You are staying at the Eden Roc?” he asked. “You won’t want to leave. You will cry when you see the view.”
He would cry if they didn’t have good Wi-Fi, since the Barclay bank deal was going down the next day and he had to conference into the meeting.
“I’m here on business,” he said, picking up the papers to let the driver know he wasn’t a chatty tourist and views didn’t impress him.
“Business in Positano?” he asked. “The only business is sun, sand, and limoncello, Signor Brannigan.”
“Not wine?” James asked.
“Ah, sì. It is Italy,” the young man said with a wide grin. “Wine is life. You’re here to taste?”
“I’m here to”—sell—“visit Villa Pietro. It’s a small—”
“Pietro?” His whole face lit up, and he barely missed killing a biker who passed at lightning speed. “I live in Montepertuso, one town from the winery. The Sebastiani family are friends. They have run that winery for many gen…gene…”
“Generations,” James supplied.
“Yes, yes. Old Giorgio died a few years ago, sadly, but Anamaria is strong, and if you say she is not, she will hit you, or shove a garlic clove down your throat.”
The driver laughed again, but James just stared at him, willing him to get the message that this passenger didn’t do small talk.
“Now, Lorenzo and his wife, Elena, run everything,” he continued, not getting the clue. “But they’ll be handing it to Enzo and Filippa. Of course, there’s another brother, Antonio, and Sofia. Oh, Sofia’s pregnant with a girl!” He grinned like this was earthshaking news. “Very pregnant. Might have had it already.”
James nodded and looked down at the papers, preferring to bury himself in numbers rather than the gobbledygook Italian names that all blurred together. Those people were Whitehouse Wineries’ problem. Whitehouse wanted to fill the place with their American staff and build their presence in Italy. James just wanted the money and to get Villa Pietro off his books for a decent-sized profit.
“You’ll meet them all,” the driver nattered on. “With Enzo’s boys, Nico and Gianni, they should be running that place for many more years to come. Oh, and there’s Bruno.” He looked skyward. “Madonna. Every family has one of those, sì?
”
“Right.” Whatever Bruno was, the Brannigans probably did have one of those. With seven boys, there wasn’t a type they couldn’t claim.
“They are a nice, big family,” he said, the Italian thick but the loving sentiment clear. “I went to school with Antonio.”
When James didn’t answer, the man’s voice finally faded, a shadow of disappointment visible in the dark eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
“Would you like me to take you there first? To Villa Pietro?”
“No,” James said, glancing at the agenda his assistant had prepared, breaking his day into the fifteen-minute slots he preferred. He had a late-night call with a financial analyst in Hong Kong that he had to make immediately, since it was nearly eleven there now. And four different conference calls with his office in San Francisco, where it was still the workday. After that, he’d have dinner in the room, do a bit more reading, and finally sleep.
