Small Town Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Billionaires of Ballytirrel Book 1) Read online

  ©Sara Forbes 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.saraforbes.com

  cover design: DepartingUFO 2019

  editor: Phrase Pharoah

  He's got a title, a castle, a fortune, and a rather massive...image problem.

  I was looking for a temporary job.

  What I found was a temperamental Irish duke in need of a housekeeper—and a serious image makeover.

  To me, Danny is sexy, intelligent, and kind. From the very first moment, I couldn't stop thinking about him.

  To the locals, he's a monster.

  But I'm no sheep, I follow my own path. None of the vicious rumors matter because he's the most perfect experience of my life. We're opposites, but fit together like a dream. Our time together is tender, intense, real.

  Then I learn that Danny has kept his past secret for a very good reason. He isn't as free as I thought.

  Is this doomed to be a temporary fling, or can we salvage something permanent from the mess?

  1

  SHANNON

  Marci, my best friend, is trying to convince me to take the day off to attend a K-pop concert. Korean pop is important to her, and she’s not giving up easily.

  “You could write in the car on the way there and back,” she says for something like the fifth time.

  “Yeah, nope. You just want to show off your Prius, and I can just as easily admire it here before it leaves my garage.”

  She flicks back a strand of her blue-black hair—a new shade that makes her look anemic—and settles her delicate features into a pout.

  “But you can take me for a spin around the block,” I say.

  “Fine. But next time, you’re coming.”

  “Agreed.”

  We traipse down the narrow stairwell to the underground parking. I hold the door open for her.

  “You’re working an awful lot lately,” she says.

  “Yeah, stepping it up a bit.”

  “Saving for a car?”

  “No, uh, for a condo.”

  Marci shoots me a glance.

  I laugh. “I know, pipe-dream.”

  “No, Shannon, it’s a really good idea. It would give you more control.”

  “I’ll be ninety-six before I can afford it. Eastside’s getting gentrified.”

  “Everywhere’s getting gentrified. Everyone loves Austin. I do realize how lucky I am to have inherited an apartment.” She presses her key fob. “But this baby, I earned all by myself.” The vehicle sitting in my parking spot lights up. “Metallic blue,” she says proudly. “Siberian Sky, they call the color.”

  “Siberian sky,” I repeat. “I like it. Sounds like freedom.”

  As we approach her car, strange noises start to escape from Marci’s mouth. Gasps and stutters. Before I can ask her what’s wrong, she bolts ahead to the car and frantically rubs at something on the bonnet. Bird poop?

  I follow. It isn’t until I come closer that I see the lines—thin, gray lines traversing the sleek blue paintwork. Scratches. Ugly gashes. And it’s not just the bonnet, it’s all over, aggressively random squiggles like someone who’s lost control of the Pencil tool in Photoshop and then totally lost their temper.

  “No, no, no, no, noooo,” she wails, racing around to inspect the sides and back where—if I’ve read her face right—things look just as bad.

  I trace the path of the squiggles down the passenger door. There’s no method in the scratches, just angry lines intent on ripping through the pristine paintwork. It’s a mess.

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t like this when you bought it,” I say.

  It’s the wrong thing to say. I’m pretty good at that.

  She’s tomato-faced, her arms jerking about in a robot dance, eyes bulging. It would be funny except it isn’t. “Whoever did this…whoever did is…dead. Who would—?”

  And then we look at each other.

  My gut tightens. “Oh no…” I moan.

  “Brett,” we chime in unison.

  My head’s in a sickening whirl. It’s happening. Again.

  “I’m so sorry, Marci. He—he must’ve thought it was mine. Or some new boyfriend’s, or something. I shouldn’t have let you park here, but I wouldn’t have dreamt he’d stoop to this.”

  Marci yells up at the ceiling. “Why are there no freaking security cameras here?”

  “Too expensive. The landlord would never—” I break off. There’s no need to explain.

  Marci covers her face with her hands, the key-ring still dangling from her pinkie, and starts to whimper. My heart thumps. I pull her into my arms, her petite frame only reaching my chin. Even though I’m normal-sized, she always makes me feel huge.

  Her sobs intensify, racking her body. Nausea wells in my stomach. I rummage in my pocket for a tissue. I find a clean one which I hand to her.

  She draws back, dabbing furiously under her eyes. “Two whole years! I was slaving in that attorney’s office for two whole years! That paint job took an extra three thousand. And now look.” Her eyes are wide. “Brett’s insane, Shannon! And he must totally hate you.”

  “It’s more a control thing,” I say quickly. “Look, I’ll pay.”

  “How can you?” she screeches. “You can barely pay your rent.”

  I scratch my neck. “I just have to take on more jobs.”

  “No,” she fumes. “That’s not the solution.”

  “Yes, I am paying for this. Every last cent.”

  “What you have to do is get that bastard out of your life for once and for all. He clearly hasn’t given up!” She grasps my arm. “That was just wishful thinking, wasn’t it? Promise me you’ll do something about him.”

  “I promise.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I do too.” Of all the times that Brett made my life a misery, I could stand it. But hurting my friends? This I won’t put up with. This is a whole other dimension.

  I tried reporting him to the police, but that didn’t work out. I tried moving into my mom’s place for a while, but that only made the situation worse—he started bugging her as well. Is he going to vandalize any car that parks in my spot?

  “I can’t drive it like this. It’s inviting more vandalism,” she says, surveying the car again.

  “I’m so, so sorry. Let’s go back up and research garages for the best repainting deal,” I say, pulling out my phone and opening the browser. Anything to avoid looking at the car.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll go to my own garage. They know me there. I’ll use my insurance. The company might call you about security in this garage so be prepared for that call.”

  “Right. Best I don’t tell them my crazy ex still has the garage key,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’d leave that out if I were you. Also…I’d move.”

  “I know,” I say. Now’s not the best time to complain that I only got this dump by sheer luck and that I’ll never manage to get another one I can afford.

  Marci stays on for a while, calling her garage and drinking the coffee I force on her. Then she sets off to her garage.

  When she’s gone, I walk down the street to retrieve my own car from where I parked it last night. The Nissan Micra is there, same condition as I left it in, battered by age. If only I’d told Marci to
park here instead. I thought I was doing her Prius a favor, letting it have my spot in the garage.

  I make my way up to my mom’s in Georgetown, cursing the horrendous midday traffic of downtown Austin. I promised to do lunch with her and I’m not letting Brett’s actions derail my plans.

  In a fair world, they’d stop Brett from coming anywhere near me. Probably in other states. But not in Texas, apparently.

  Ultimately, it’s my own fault. For choosing to go out with Brett in the first place. Suave and charming when I first met him, he concealed the control freak factor. And the borderline psychosis. Or maybe it was just me misinterpreting his behavior as devoted attention. After two years of being with him, I should have anticipated that breaking up with him wasn’t going to be plain sailing. There were warning signs, but I ignored them.

  “Brett did it again,” I tell my mom bitterly as I lean against the island in her warm kitchen with its unique fragrance of detergent and freshly baked soda bread. She’s making scones, cutting rough squares in the thick, springy dough, something I used to love to do with her.

  I tell her about Marci’s car. “He’s showing no signs of stopping. If anything, he’s getting worse. I just don’t know when he’s going to stop.”

  “It’s not your fault, Shannon,” Mom says.

  There’s nothing else she can say.

  “I could pretend to be dead,” I muse.

  “What?”

  “That would be too much, wouldn’t it?”

  “Mm, Shannon, it would.”

  “Well, I could disappear.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “It wouldn’t be forever.”

  She looks up from the dough. “But where would you go?”

  “Well…” My pulse quickens because I haven’t aired this idea to anyone and it’s a new one for me too. “Remember the Christmas card from Nuala?”

  Mom’s got a steely look in her eye. “What about it?”

  “Well, there’s got to be some reason she sent it.”

  She makes her hmpf sound.

  “Well, what if she’s dying or something?”

  There’s a split second where alarm crosses her face, like she hasn’t contemplated this one. She’s cutting the dough faster now. “She’s not dying.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look, Shannon, when she wrote that she’d love to see you, that was politeness, that’s all. Politeness to you, serving as a snub to me.” The Irish accent slips out as always when she’s talking about Nuala and home.

  “No, that was huge coming from her.” I stare down at her, challenging her. “She meant that.”

  “Oh, she meant it two months ago maybe,” my mother says. “But my sister is not good at meaning things, over time.”

  “It’s good enough for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  My embryo of an idea has just hatched and now it’s teetering around on unsteady, but joyful, legs. “Why don’t I visit Nuala in Ireland? I can give up my apartment, go over there and work for a while. I’m not tied to any place for my work. And it’d solve the Brett problem. He wouldn’t bother you or my friends if I wasn’t here.”

  Her hands go completely still. “What?”

  “It won’t be forever.”

  “Well, it can’t be. The tourist visa’s only for three months.”

  “Exactly,” I say triumphantly.

  Lines of worry etch deeper into her once-pretty face. She’s had a tough time with Dad running off with his mistress last year and everything, and she’s borne more than her share of Brett’s madness because he’s been calling here, dropping in uninvited for a chat and cup of tea, as if we were still going out, as if he were the cherished son-in-law. Nothing could be further from the truth; I know she’s not telling me how much he disturbs her.

  Going away for a while is the quickest solution, and the only one I can think of. He’d stop pestering my mom. And Aunt Nuala did sound enthusiastic in her little note specifically to me at Christmas. Never mind that I’ve never met the woman. Nothing that a quick Skype conversation can’t cure. Hell, it’s worth a try.

  I shoot my mystery aunt a quick text message asking for a Skype call and within the hour, I get an affirmative reply, saying that she would love that so much and that we could talk this evening which is after breakfast her time. I thump my forehead when I realize I texted her at 3 a.m. her time. What must she think?

  My mom wants nothing to do with a Skype call to her sister, so I opt to do it back in my own apartment.

  ***

  Back in my own apartment, I clear away the corner with the least water damage to the walls and haul over the greenest pot plants from their respective corners. The idea is to make the backdrop look respectable so Aunt Nuala doesn’t think I’m trying to escape poverty. Which I kind of am even if the main point is to escape from Brett.

  Soon it’s time for the call and I’m nervous. What if that Christmas letter was disingenuous, and she was just being polite? This might be just about the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  “Hi,” I say when Nuala’s end flashes into life. A smiling woman waves out at me, looking not exactly in the camera—someone not used to videocalls. The internet connection is good.

  I’d seen old photos of Nuala, so her appearance isn’t a surprise. Her long, thin face is vaguely like Mom’s but a hippie version thereof. Her skin is more weather-beaten but looks fresher. Whereas my mom wears her hair in a sleek, platinum bob, like armor, Nuala’s mane is long, wavy, greying-brown with a defiant streak of pink. Hippie chic.

  “I shouldn’t have left this for so long, Aunt Nuala,” I begin. I’ve prepared my spiel. “Thanks for the card and the invitation to come over. If that still holds, I’d love to. Come over, that, is. Uh, I’d love to meet you.”

  She claps her hands. “Of course, it still holds, Shannon. My dearest, I was hoping you’d get in touch. Come over—there’s loads of room with the boys gone. And stay as long as you like.”

  I can’t help laughing. It feels eerily like talking to a more open-minded, scatterbrained version of my mom. She’s watching me keenly. At least I presume that’s what she’s staring at in her screen.

  “I don’t suppose your mother…?” she says.

  “No,” I say quickly. “She can’t make the trip.”

  Nuala looks like she’s relieved but trying to cover it up. “Then it’ll just be the two of us. Oh, this is just perfect. Perfect timing.”

  I chuckle weakly, wondering what’s so perfect about it. “I truly won’t be any trouble, Aunt Nuala. I’ll be working most of the time and I want to contribute to my rent.”

  The entire upper half of her face crinkles in amazement. “But how would you be working? You didn’t apply for a job here, did you?”

  “No, I take it with me. I work online. I’m a copywriter I can work anywhere. Digital nomadism, they call it.”

  “So, you’re independent? Well, that’s great, love. So, when was it that you were thinking of coming?”

  “As soon as possible for you?”

  “Any time,” she enthuses. “I just need a day to air out the room. It’s a grand quiet room—you’ll love the view and it’s very conducive to creative work. Not many distractions around here.”

  “That sounds excellent. And I can pay you rent, of course.”

  She makes a shushing noise. “Indeed, you cannot. I won’t hear of that again. You’re my niece, for God’s sake.”

  I grin. Considering how she doesn’t even speak to my mother, that’s hardly a point of recommendation, but if she doesn’t want me to pay, I’m sure I can help out in other ways. Her homemade jewelry website could certainly do with a re-vamp. I’ll postpone that discussion until I’m there.

  After the twenty-minute call, I’m shaking with excitement. There are still some details to iron out that we’ll discuss via texts but the wheels are in motion. It feels incredible, and very strange, to have had something big like this work out so easily.

>   The last thing I do before turning in is to call my best friend. “I’ve decided, Marci. I’m canceling the apartment with the landlord and going to my aunt Nuala in Ireland. Flying out next Monday, arriving Tuesday local time,” I tell her.

  “Wait what?”

  “You can come visit me.”

  “Shannon—”

  “I’m going to send you the money for the car paint job soon as my client pays the next job. Just let me know the damage.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. When did all this happen? And are you out of your mind?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Are you doing this because of Brett?”

  “Partially.”

  “Are you sure about this? Really sure?”

  “No, but my Aunt Nuala has practically rolled out the red carpet. It’ll give Brett time to cool down and hopefully find someone else’s life to ruin. It’s the best I got.”

  “I get that you need a break from him. But is this the solution? Running away?”

  “I’m broadening my horizons.”

  She’s quiet for a while. Then she sighs. “Well. You do keep saying you’re a digital nomad. Here’s your chance to prove it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But don’t forget to come back.”

  “I won’t. The visa is for three months and I’m not going to risk the wrath of Homeland Security by returning late. Besides, I’d miss you too much. I’ll probably only last a week.”

  “Well, if you’re going, then aim a bit higher.” I finally hear a smile in her voice. “I’ll be here, working my ass off, as always. Say hi to your maternal ancestors for me.”

  I laugh. “I will.”

  2

  DANNY

  The blue light flashing behind the policeman casts a ghostly halo around him through which I make out his features—mid-twenties, ginger, prematurely receding hair. He’s new.

  Five kilometers out from the center of Ballytirrel, this is a travesty. What does it matter that I was doing eighty in a sixty zone?