Hard Rules

Book 1: Dirty Money

by Lisa Renee Jones

Genres: Billionaires Romance; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Wall Street meets the Sons of Anarchy in Hard Rules, the smoldering, scorching first audio-book in the explosively sexy Dirty Money series from New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones.

How bad do you want it?

The only man within the Brandon empire with a moral compass, Shane Brandon is ready to take his family's business dealings legitimate. His reckless and ruthless brother, Derek, wants to keep Brandon Enterprises cemented in lies, deceit, and corruption. But the harder Shane fights to pull the company back into the light, the darker he has to become. Then he meets Emily Stevens, a woman who not only stirs a voracious sexual need in him, but becomes the only thing anchoring him between good and evil.

Emily is consumed by Shane, pushed sexually in ways she never dreamed of, falling deeper into the all-encompassing passion that is this man. She trusts him. He trusts her, but therein lies the danger. Emily has a secret, the very thing that brought her to him in the first place, and that secret could destroy them both.

A Macmillan Audio production.

Release date: August 9, 2016

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

There’s no such thing as good money or bad money. There’s just money.
—Lucky Luciano
CHAPTER ONE
 
SHANE
I park the silver Bentley convertible, which my father gifted me last year for saving his ass, into my reserved spot in the garage of the downtown Denver high-rise building owned by our family conglomerate, Brandon Enterprises. It’s a car he and I both know was far more about his attempt to drag me to the dark side, and aligning me with his way of doing business, than the thank-you for keeping his ass out of jail. I’d have refused the damn thing if my mother hadn’t begged me to take it, insisting I’d bruise him when he’s already fragile and cancer-ridden. Like my father ever fucking bruises and he damn sure isn’t fragile. And if he knew I’d coddled him, he’d most likely spit in my face, and tell me I’m a disappointment.
Killing the engine, I exit the vehicle and stare at my older brother’s white Porsche 911, also a gift from my father, ironically and most likely for getting us into the very mess I’d returned to Denver to clean up. Jaw clenched, I shove my keys into the pocket of the gray two-thousand-dollar suit I’d bought back in New York, a reward to myself for winning a high-profile case for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. I wore it today to remind myself that I’m a few well-played cards from conquering the challenge I took when I returned home: becoming the head of the family empire when my father retires and replacing all the dirty money running through six of the seven asset companies with good, clean cash. Namely, the revenue produced by Brandon Pharmaceuticals, or BP, the newest asset I’d forced into acquisition only three months ago.
I head toward the elevators, when my cell phone buzzes with a text. Fishing it from my jacket pocket, I glance down to read a message from my secretary, Jessica: Seth just called. Needs to speak to you urgently. I told him you had a meeting at the BP division this morning and he hung up on me. Knowing Seth, he’ll show up at your meeting. Seth Cage was the one person I brought to the company with me, and the only person other than Jessica who I trust now that I’m here.
I punch the call button for the elevator, and dial Seth. “I’m pulling into the BP parking lot now to see you,” he says by way of greeting.
“I just pulled into the garage downtown.”
“Son of a bitch. I’m pulling a U-turn at the security gates. I have something you need to see now, not later, and I can’t talk about it on the phone. Is your brother in the building?”
I glance at the Porsche. “His car’s here so I assume he is as well. What the hell has Derek done now?”
“Let’s just say I’m not sure it’s a good idea that he’s in close range when you find out. Let’s meet outside the office.”
“Fuck me,” I growl.
“No,” he amends. “More like fuck us all.”
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I say, catching the elevator door that’s opened and already trying to close. “Meet me at the coffee shop.”
“That still puts you in the same building as him. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Just hurry the hell up and get here,” I order testily, ending the call and stepping into the otherwise empty car where I punch the L button on the panel to my left. In the short trip to the lobby level, I manage to come up with at least five ways my brother could fuck over the plays I have in action, and I’m still counting.
Exiting into the gray marble corridor, I walk toward the huge oval foyer of the building and then to the right, where a coffee shop is nestled between a restaurant and a postal facility, both of which rent from Brandon Enterprises. I head to the counter when Karen, the owner of the coffee shop—a robust forty-something woman with red hair and a big attitude—appears, leaving me no escape from her habitual chitchat.
“Well, well, well,” she says, leaning on the counter. “Now I know what I’m missing on the morning shift and I do declare that seeing Shane Brandon himself, instead of his secretary, is a better ‘wake-me-up’ than any java shot I sell. But then, you Brandon boys came by those looks honestly. That father of yours is a looker.”
And therein lies the reason she irritates the shit out of my mother and I happily treat Jessica to afternoon coffee to have her bring me mine. Karen’s not only a chatterbox and a flirt, she has it bad for my father.
“All right now,” Karen says, grabbing a cup and pen, and preparing to write. “Large latte with a triple shot?”
“Just what the doctor ordered,” I confirm, though I have a feeling once Seth arrives I’ll be wishing for a bottle of whiskey.
“Will do, honey,” she says, giving me a wink before moving toward the espresso machine. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
I retreat to the end of the counter where the orders are delivered, resting my elbow on the ledge, retreating into my mind and chasing problems made worse by the division between Derek and me. He’s thirty-seven, five years my senior, and the rightful successor to our father. I’d happily stepped aside and started my own life, but damn it to hell, I know things now and I can’t walk away.
My order appears and I straighten, intending to claim my coffee and find a seat, when a pretty twenty-something brunette races forward in a puff of sweet, floral-scented perfume, and grabs it.
“Miss,” I begin, “that’s—”
She takes a sip and grimaces. “What is this?” She turns to the counter. “Excuse me,” she calls out. “My drink is wrong.”
“Because it’s not your drink,” Karen reprimands her, setting a new cup on the counter. “This is your drink.” She reaches for my cup and turns it around, pointing to the name scribbled on the side. “This one’s for Shane.” She glances at me. “I’ll be right back to fix this. I have another customer.”
I wave my acknowledgment and she hurries away, while my floral-scented coffee thief faces me, her porcelain cheeks flushed, her full, really damn distracting mouth painted pink. “I’m so sorry,” she offers quickly. “I thought I was the only one without my coffee and I was in a hurry.” She starts to hand me my coffee and then quickly sets it on the counter. “You can’t have that. I drank out of it.”
“I saw that,” I say, picking it up. “You grimaced with disgust after trying it.”
Her eyes, a pale blue that matches the short-sleeved silk blouse, go wide. “Oh. I mean no. Or I did, but not because it’s a bad cup of coffee. It’s just very strong.”
“It’s a triple-shot latte.”
“A triple,” she says, looking quite serious. “Did you know that in some third-world countries they bottle that stuff and sell it as a way to grow hair on your chest?” She lowers her voice and whispers, “That’s not a good look for me.”
“Fortunately,” I say in the midst of a chuckle I would have claimed wasn’t possible five minutes ago, “I don’t share that dilemma.” I lift my cup and add, “Cheers,” before taking a drink, the heavy, rich flavor sliding over my tongue.
She pales, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, before repeating, “I drank from that cup.”
“I know,” I say, offering it back to her. “Try another drink.”
She takes the cup and sets it on the counter. “I can’t drink that. And you can’t either.” She points to the hole on top, now smudged pink. “My lipstick is all over it and I really hate to tell you this but it’s all over you too and…” She laughs, a soft, sexy sound, her hands settling on her slender but curvy hips, accented by a fitted black skirt. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but it’s not a good shade for you.”
I laugh now too, officially and impossibly charmed by this woman in spite of being in the middle of what feels like World War III. “Seems you know how to make a lasting impression.”
“Thankfully it’s not lasting,” she says. “It’ll wipe right off. And thank you for being such a good sport. I really am sorry again for all of this.”
“Apologize by getting it off me.”
Confusion puckers her brow. “What?”
“You put it on me.” I grab a napkin from the counter and offer it to her. “You get it off.”
“I put it on the cup,” she says, clearly recovering. “You put it on you.”
“I assure you, that had I put it on me, we both would have enjoyed it much more than we are now.” I glance at the napkin. “Are you going to help me?”
Her cheeks flush and she hugs herself, her sudden shyness an intriguing contrast to her confident banter. “I’ll let you know if you don’t get it all.”
My apparently lipstick-stained lips curve at her quick wit but I take the napkin and wipe my mouth, arching a questioning brow when I’m done. She points to the corner of my mouth. “A little more on the left.”
I hand her the napkin. “You do it.”
She inhales, as if for courage, but takes it. “Fine,” she says, stepping closer, that wicked sweet scent of hers teasing my nostrils. Wasting no time, she reaches for my mouth, her body swaying in my direction while my hand itches to settle at her waist. I want this woman and I’m not letting her get away.
“There,” she says, her arm lowering, and not about to let her escape, I capture her hand, holding it and the napkin between us.
Those gorgeous pale blue eyes of hers dart to mine, wide with surprise, the connection sparking an unmistakable charge between us, which I feel with an unexpected, but not unwelcome, jolt. “Thank you,” I say, softening the hard demand in my tone that long ago became natural.
“I owed you,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s a hint of panic in her eyes that isn’t what I expect from this clearly confident, smart woman.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Emily,” she replies, sounding just a hint breathless. I decide right then that I like her breathless but I’d like her a whole lot more if she were naked and breathless. “And you’re Shane.”
“That’s right,” I say, already thinking of all the ways I could make her say my name again. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I’ve never been here before,” she counters and I have this sense that we are sparring, when we’re not. Or are we?
My cell phone rings and I silently curse the timing, some sixth sense telling me that the minute I let go of this woman, she’s gone, but I also have to think about whatever explosion Seth is trying to contain. “Don’t move,” I order, before releasing her to dig my phone from my pocket. I glance down at the caller ID to find my mother’s number, and just that fast, Emily darts around me.
I curse and turn, fully intending to pursue her, only to have Seth step in front of me. Considering the man equals my six feet two inches, and is broader than I am wide, he stops me in my tracks. I grimace and he arches a blond brow that matches the thick waves of hair on his head. “Looking for me?”
“You’ll do,” I say, reaching for my coffee and bypassing it to pick up Emily’s instead, or rather holding it captive for the return I doubt she’ll make.
“Good to see you too,” he says, the words dripping with his trademark sarcasm, which five years of knowing him has taught me to expect.
“Bring me good news for once,” I say, motioning us forward, leading the way through several display racks of chocolates and coffees, as well as a trio of empty tables, to claim a seat at a corner table facing the entryway.
Seth sits next to me rather than across from me, keeping an eye on the door, the ex-CIA agent in him ever present, his skills and loyalty paired with his no-nonsense attitude only a few of the reasons I recruited him from my firm in New York. He opens a large white envelope and pulls out a picture, setting it in front of me. “The private security company we contracted to do surveillance on your brother delivered this to me about an hour ago.”
I stare down at the image of my brother handing a large envelope to a man I’ve never seen before. I eye Seth. “Who is he?”
“He works for the FDA.”
Any remnant of pleasure I’d taken from the exchange with Emily disappears. “Obviously it’s related to the pharmaceutical division and I don’t even want to think about how many laws we broke in that exchange.”
“That’s why I wanted you to see it right away.”
“Do we know what was in the envelope? Do we know anything?”
“The FDA employee’s name and tenure. That’s about it, but I authorized the security team to follow him as of today.”
I glance at the picture, wrestling with anger that will get me nowhere but the hell to which my brother is trying to drag me. “This is the aftermath of last week’s stockholder meeting. I walked in there singing the praises of BP profit margins, with the promise that once the FDA approves our new asthma drug, it would allow us to let go of all the dirty money.”
“And all they heard was the chance to double their money,” Seth supplies. “Enter Derek, who promises to make it happen in a ploy to claim the table. You knew this could happen. We talked about it. Dishonest people don’t suddenly become honest.”
“No,” I say tightly. “They don’t. And I haven’t been operating with the same killer instincts as I did in the firm or this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Because you still haven’t let go of the firm.”
“It’s not the firm I haven’t let go of. It’s my brother. Because despite my denial, I knew staying meant my brother became my enemy.”
Seth leans closer. “Listen to me, Shane. I’m thirty-five years old. I did seven years in the CIA and five years of contract work all over the world before I happened to take a job that threw us together. I’ve seen monsters. I’ve seen criminals. I’ve seen your family and I say this not just as the person you hired to have your back, but the friend who would have it anyway.” He taps the image of my brother in the photo. “This man is your enemy. And I’m not going to let you forget it.”
“He’s also my brother, and this is my family, who I want to save.”
“You may not be able to.”
“I’m aware of that and if I don’t take this company as my life, the way I did my law career, I won’t succeed. And believe me, I’ve navigated enough family-driven litigation to know that blood divides as easily as it unites, especially when money and power are involved. I have to get ahead of this before we all end up bloody or in jail.”
“So we agree. This is war.”
“It’s always been war. I didn’t want to name it, but I am now. It’s time we go to battle.”
“Meaning what?”
“I played nice for my brother’s sake. Today he put me—us—into the line of fire with the law, and I’m done pulling punches. The number-one obstacle is my need for the board’s vote to gain control.”
“And when exactly is that vote? Because the last I heard, your father wasn’t exactly retiring to hit a bucket list. If he hadn’t dropped twenty pounds in six months, I could forget the man is dying of cancer.”
If only forgetting made it not true. “Whatever the case, a vote now would not be in my favor and since we’ve agreed there isn’t a cure for corruption, our board needs to go away. That’s the only way I can freely dissolve the root of all of our problems, which is Brandon Financial, where my father’s spent decades hiding people’s money and doing dirty deals for them. The rest of the companies—trucking, restaurants, real estate, and steel—they’re nothing but shells to hide money for us and those clients.”
“You won’t get rid of them without playing hardball.”
“I didn’t win the case I won, or save my father’s ass from the Feds, by playing softball. This is a chess game, and you can ask my father and brother. I’m damn good at chess, both on the board, and off. Hire the staff you need and get me the kind of leverage I can use to push them out.”
“Dirt or leverage?”
“Isn’t it one and the same with these kinds of people?”
“There can be a fine line.”
“And I’ll evaluate when I have data to analyze but if I don’t do this in one fatal blow, my family will push me out before I can.”
“I’ve already pulled enough substantial ‘dirt’ on everyone to force an exit, with the exception of Mike Rogers. He’s reading clean to me. The man owns a professional basketball team and twenty percent of our stock and I can’t figure out why he’s even risking the liability he knows exists here. He has to have hidden money with your father, but we can’t use that without the threat of the company being exposed.”
“His money is exactly why he’s involved. He has a boatload to hide and invest. He has more to lose when we shut down the investment division than anyone. Interestingly enough, Mike is the only one, aside from me, Derek, and my father, who has the complete list of transactions for the financial division. He could rally people together. He’s dangerous.”
“Why would your father put him on the board and give him that kind of power?”
“Good question, because my father isn’t one to give anyone else power. I’ll ask my mother what she knows. In the meantime, get me what you have on the others.”
“You’re sure your mother’s still on your side?”
“Believe me. My mother doesn’t think orange jumpsuits work for her. Last year’s brush with the law scared the shit out of her. Fortunately for her, I plan to make Brandon Enterprises something far bigger, and more prosperous, than ever before.” I grab the picture and stuff it in the envelope.
“What are you going to do about that?” he asks.
“Use my father to rein in Derek to buy us some time while I prepare to leash him myself. And speaking of Derek, are we sure he doesn’t have anyone inside BP on his payroll?”
“I’m working on that answer.” Seth glances at his watch. “I’m meeting with the head of security at BP in an hour to pick up the logs and camera feed. I’ll review it all tonight and let you know what I find.” He stands, pausing to say, “Cave canem”—Latin for “Beware of the dog”—before he heads for the exit.
I stare after him, chewing on the words, my words, I’d said almost daily at the firm right before I went toe-to-toe with opposing counsel, and I understand why Seth repeated them now. It’s a reminder that it isn’t about family anymore. It’s about winning and the “dog” isn’t opposing counsel. It’s my brother, who I fully intend to put on a fucking chain before he ruins us all.
Grabbing the cup off the table, I stand and tip it back, drinking a long, deep swallow, the sweet rich taste of chocolate awakening my taste buds and reminding me of the woman who’d ordered it. Crossing to the trashcan, I decide I know exactly what drew me to Emily. She was strong, but also sweet and soft in all the ways this life, and my family, has made me hard. She’s the kind of woman who would be eaten alive in my world. I toss the cup, and decide it’s a good thing she ran.
*   *   *
Five minutes later, I step off the elevator onto the twenty-fifth floor and pause to stare at the words BRANDON ENTERPRISES painted on the wall, my gaze focusing on the lion emblem beneath them. It’s meant to represent my father—the king of our jungle, in his own words—and I’d seen him that way until I was about fourteen. From that point forward, he’d become the man he is now, the monster who’ll eat any sheep who dare cross his path and a few who don’t. And I have that killer instinct in me, but I will never be him. It’s a thought that sets me into action again, walking toward the double glass doors of our corporate offices.
I enter the reception area, dominated by a horseshoe desk in the center of a fork of hallways; the bulk of our offices are on the other side of the building. Kelly, the new, twenty-something brassy blonde who handles the desk, straightens on my approach. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brandon.”
“Is my father in?” I ask, stopping directly in front of her.
“Yes, but I believe your brother’s with him.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Don’t warn him I’m headed his direction.”
“But he said—”
Waving a hand at her, I dismiss her objection, cutting left down a short hallway. In a few steps, I’m entering the enclave that is the exterior of my father’s office. And considering my father just burned through his third secretary this year, there’s no one to stop me as I pass the mahogany secretarial desk framed by a giant painting of the Denver skyline to reach the double, floor-to-ceiling wooden doors of his office. Without a knock, I open them and enter the room to find my father sitting behind his ridiculously large half-moon oak desk.
Derek springs from one of the two high-backed leather visitor’s chairs to face me, his tailored blue suit an expensive product of everything wrong with this company and family, and he doesn’t give a shit. In fact, he’s proud of it.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Shane?” he demands. “Don’t you know how to knock?”
I ignore him, closing the distance between me and my father, who just watches my approach, choosing not to speak until I stop in front of his desk, opposite Derek.
“Yes, son,” he demands then, his voice low and controlled, like everything he does. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I’m not fooled by the obvious reprimand, all too aware of the gleam in his eyes that has nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with amusement. He thrives off the war for control he’s stirred between his sons. He’s not repenting for his sins with the grim reaper on his doorstep. He’s daring him to come take him, and as much as I’d like to blame his brain tumor, I can’t. I love my father because he’s my father, but he’s a bastard, which is exactly why I swore I’d never work here.
I reach inside the envelope and remove a photo, tossing both down in front of him. “Do you know who that is?”
Derek replies before my father has the chance. “You said the FDA was keeping us from doubling our money. They aren’t anymore.”
There is pride and victory in his voice that has me checking my anger, and slowly rotating to face him. “Did you read the reports that said the drug isn’t ready for market? We can’t endanger lives.” And because my brother doesn’t seem to have a conscience I add, “It opens us up to lawsuits.”
“That we’ll be able to afford,” Derek argues, “because we’re rolling in cash. And we have you to fight them.”
“People will die,” I bite out.
“Every drug company takes calculated risks,” he counters.
“The drug isn’t ready.”
He rests his hands on the back of one of the two leather chairs separating us. “No one says we don’t keep working on the quality of the product, but I’ve paid to ensure we can take it to market whenever we so choose.”
I mimic his position, my hands settling on the second chair. “Poorly hidden lump-sum payments to various organizations got this company in trouble last year, in case you don’t remember.”
“And you cleaned it up as I’m sure you’ll do again if need be.”
“If this goes sour, I won’t defend you.”
“The pharmaceutical property was your acquisition. You’re linked, baby brother. No one will believe otherwise.”
There’s no missing the threat beneath those words. If he goes down, he’ll do whatever is necessary to take me with him. “You want to play God, do it with one of the other six companies under our umbrella.”
“That’s the difference between you and me,” he says. “You want to be God. I, on the other hand, prefer the fires of hell.”
“Until they burn you alive.”
His jaw clenches, his eyes glinting with anger, and while we might look alike, today I face the fact that we share nothing else anymore, most especially this company.
“Come now, brother,” he says, a hint of amusement shading his voice. “You know you wanted that drug approved. And now we have an inspector in our pocket. We should be celebrating.”
I turn to face my father. “You asked me to stay and protect this company after I cleaned up your mess. Rein him in, or the only legacy you’ll end up with will be jail, because I’ll leave. I will walk the fuck away and your little game will be over. And when this explodes in your face, like the last mess did, I won’t fix it this time.”
My father’s lips tighten, eyes sharpen, darken, and while mine might be the same shade of light gray, I refuse to ever let them be as hard and cold. “You do know I’m dying,” he says.
“Which means you have nothing to lose but that legacy,” I say with brutal honesty, because brutal is all he understands. “I have everything to lose and that’s too much. I won’t go to jail for you.”
His lips twist wryly. “This company survived twenty years without your sense of morality.”
“And then you got on the Feds’ watch list with that trade deal that went south. I covered that shit up despite everything I believe in.” Anger and guilt burns through me. “Because you said I had a chance to make things right here once and for all.” I glance at Derek. “You’re still my brother and I am trying to keep you out of jail.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself to look in the mirror, Shane.”
I don’t justify the snide remark with an answer that will only ignite another attack, instead refocusing on my father. “You know what it takes to keep me here. It’s nonnegotiable.” I turn on my heel, striding toward the door, and the moment my hand closes on the knob, I hear my father speak. “Brandon Pharmaceuticals is yours. Derek will stand down.”
I don’t turn, pausing only long enough to hear Derek’s low curse, nor do I stay for the argument certain to follow. I exit to the exterior office, shutting the door behind me and traveling the secretarial enclave with long, purposeful strides meant to lead me to a stiff drink I normally don’t entertain at this time of the day. An agenda that is derailed as I reach the hallway and my mother steps into my path.
“Shane, sweetie,” she greets me, looking forty when she’s actually in her fifties and sporting a sleek black dress that hugs her curves in a way no son would approve. “Is your father in?” Her brows dip, her hand closing on my arm. “You’re upset. What happened?”
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly she reads what I know is not on my face. “Nothing I can’t handle.” And knowing this isn’t the time or place to talk to her about Mike Rogers, I say, “I have work I need to attend to.”
“You mean you don’t want to talk about it.” Narrowing her pale blue eyes on me, she delicately swipes a lock of her long, dark hair behind one ear. “I don’t even need to know details because we both know you still aren’t listenin