The Rich Boy. Leah Vale

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СКАЧАТЬ he’d spent his life believing to be his brother. The brother he’d initially admired, then set out to be as different from as possible. And only Marcus would have had the nerve to belittle legalities by actually writing yadda, yadda, yadda, especially on something as important as an addendum to his last will and testament.

      Even if Alex could harbor any doubts, he would have a hard time dismissing the word of David Weidman. The McCoys’ longtime family lawyer had witnessed Marcus write the addendum—though David claimed not to have read the document before sealing it into the heavy cream envelope that bore his signature and noting the existence of the unorthodox addendum in the actual will.

      The will had been read nearly a month ago, four days after Marcus was killed on June 8, while fly-fishing in Alaska, by a grizzly bear that hadn’t appreciated the competition. Before the reading, Alex had grieved for the relationship he’d hoped to one day develop with his much older brother. Now…

      Of all the ways Alex’s jet-setting, “client-relations” guru brother—father—could have met an untimely end, this suddenly seemed the most apropos. Maybe it was the price Marcus had had to pay for being so cavalier with the truth. A truth that had changed everything.

      Alexander’s whole life had been a lie.

      The well-respected McCoy family, one of the richest in the nation, had a dirty little secret. And Alex’s actual parentage was the worst part of it.

      The truth beat in his head in cadence with the music coming from the small parlor off the foyer of his family’s mansion. His brother was his father, and the man he’d believed to be his father was his grandfather.

      My God.

      Alex swiped a hand over his eyes. He’d tried his damnedest to push the reality from his mind these past weeks, focusing on the challenge of keeping the revelations in Marcus’s will from blowing up into a monster PR disaster. But for whatever reason, tonight he’d snapped. While hundreds of people, including his three new half brothers, celebrated his grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday in true Joseph McCoy style, all Alex could do was stare at the document that had turned his life upside down.

      Try as he may, he could not deny that the shattering words had been penned by Marcus’s own hand. The same hand that had so often waved off a younger brother’s pleas for a scrap of attention. A younger brother who in reality was a son.

      With nearly a twenty-year difference in their ages, it had made sense at the time that Marcus wouldn’t have much interest in Alex. Knowing what he did now, he damn near doubled over from the ache in his chest.

      And Helen! She’d doted on him more like a mother than the family’s longtime housekeeper. Because she was his mother.

      Alex shoved out of the chair, swallowing bile. He paced to the wall of books on one side of the room, the heels of his gleaming black dress shoes sharp on the hardwood. He then crossed to the wall of windows on the opposite side, the heavy, burgundy velvet curtains still closed after being drawn this afternoon to protect the books and mahogany furnishings from the early-July sun.

      Helen had tried to explain right after the reading of the will why she had agreed to Joseph and Elise’s plan. He’d been in no mood to hear any excuses. So she had wisely given him his space when it became clear he needed time to process what was happening to him. Now he wasn’t so sure he was capable of processing it, regardless of time.

      At least Elise didn’t have to face the turmoil of being outed as his grandmother instead of being known as a woman who’d been blessed with the late gift of another child, as she’d always claimed. This was the only good thing to come out of her passing from cancer ten years earlier.

      Alex couldn’t help wondering how much of her love had actually been guilt.

      Finally, there was Joseph McCoy, the man who had built a billion-dollar retail empire off the motto Don’t Trust It If It’s Not From The Real McCoy. Joseph had beamed with pride when Alex had set out from an early age to give his “father” a son he could be proud of. A son who lived his life with the sort of integrity and drive that would take the family and corporation to even greater heights. A true teammate to Joseph.

      So far Alex had succeeded.

      Something Marcus had never managed to do.

      Was that why Marcus had decided to reach from the grave and destroy Alex’s world? There had never been any sign of “sibling” rivalry from Marcus. Still, who could say what had been going on inside his head.

      Alex moved to the fireplace and the painted portrait of Joseph, Elise and Marcus that hung above it, focusing on the ten-year-old boy with the same black hair and dark blue eyes that Alex possessed. Sure, Marcus had done the right thing in acknowledging his other children. But why claim his first child? Alex fisted his hands and slammed them down on the mantel. He was already a McCoy!

      A knock on the door to the study jerked Alex from the downward spiral he seemed doomed to succumb to. He turned to stare at the oversize door. He had no intention of answering; he realized the last place he should be right now in such a dark mood was at a party.

      Particularly one for Joseph.

      The man Alex had thought was his father.

      Alex couldn’t decide if he was angrier at Marcus for turning his world on end or at Joseph for not telling him the truth of his paternity long ago.

      He needed out of here. Out of this house.

      Since there was no way he could get his car from the garage with all the catering trucks and limos and town cars clogging the circular drive, he’d have to settle for escaping to the stable.

      He waited long enough for whoever had knocked to give up and go away, before he unlocked the door. Then he slipped out of the study. It was like stepping into a noisy, glittering sauna saturated with the cloying scents of gardenias and roses from the huge floral arrangements covering tables that lined nearly every wall, scents that competed with perfumes and aftershaves.

      The wide hall between the domed foyer and the rear of the house was oppressively packed with people wearing everything from formal wear to Sunday best because Joseph was known for inviting a wide range of guests. Barons of industry were elbow to elbow with mail clerks who had caught Joseph’s notice by going above and beyond the call of duty.

      The crowd appeared to be making its way toward the expansive stone veranda that ran the length of the house out back, undoubtedly intent on staking out spots to watch the pre-Fourth of July, McCoys-love-America fireworks.

      “Alexander!” Peter Carver, McCoy Enterprises’ chief financial officer, hailed Alex as he approached.

      Peter raised his punch glass. “Your dad really went all out this time.”

      Smoke and mirrors. Alex forced a smile and murmured in agreement. He continued to inch his way through the hall. If he could make it to the door to the kitchen, he could break through and—

      No. Helen would be there, coordinating the caterer’s efforts, even though Joseph had specifically asked her to consider herself a guest for the night, not an employee. She wouldn’t listen—she never did—because everyone knew she’d stopped considering herself an employee a long time ago.

      Now Alex understood why.

      The healthy breakfast waiting for him every morning regardless of his schedule.

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