not as often as Harry,” Gray said thoughtfully. “He’s the public face of HuntCom. I’ve got to give the Old Man credit, he’s deflected as much publicity from us as he could.”
“True,” Justin agreed. “So, how about it, Gray? Are you in?”
“Face it, Gray,” Alex said. “Harry holds all the cards.”
“He always has.” J.T. sighed audibly.
“Okay, fine,” Gray finally said. “But the only way to tie the Old Man’s hands is by outvoting him in the boardroom. I’m not agreeing to anything without an iron-clad agreement, in writing, that he’ll transfer enough voting shares to each of us so that he can’t pull this again the next time he gets some wild hair. If we can’t back out, neither can he. Nor can he start adding on more conditions just because he feels like it. The only thing he’s ever understood is HuntCom. Once he’s no longer squarely in the driver’s seat, then I’ll start believing he’s really concerned about us passing on the family name—no matter how concerned Cornelia seemed.”
Justin rang off, dropping the cell phone onto the seat next to him. He’d never wanted to get married, let alone have a kid.
If Harry expected hearts and flowers with some sappy version of true love along with Justin’s cooperation, the Old Man was in for a rude awakening. Hell, Harry’s threats and demands were downright bizarre.
The morning after the conference call with his brothers, Justin woke early. Just before 6 a.m., he carried a mug of coffee, a writing pad and a pen out to the deck. Several streets below, sunlight sparkled on the waters of Puget Sound. An ocean freighter lumbered slowly through the deep water toward the Port of Tacoma to the south. Its ponderous size and speed made the boxy white-and-green Washington State ferry appear sprightly and swift as it neared Colman Dock on the Seattle waterfront.
Much as he loved his Idaho ranch, Justin couldn’t deny the Pacific Northwest was stunningly beautiful on this sunny July morning. He tipped his chair back, propped his bare feet on the seat of a neighboring chair, ankles crossed, and wrote a name in capital letters at the top of his potential-bride list.
Lily Spencer.
She probably never wants to see me again, he thought, remembering the Tiffany bracelet she’d returned the morning after he’d broken off their affair. The box was unopened, his note still sealed in its envelope. The messenger who brought back the items had told his secretary Lily herself had written Return To Sender in black script across the front of the envelope.
Justin had left Seattle the next day and had rarely returned over the following two years. Long days spent in punishing physical labor had exhausted his body but hadn’t stopped his mind from thinking about her. Finally, after months of pain, the ache in his chest where his heart was went numb. He figured that meant he was finally over her.
But you haven’t stopped thinking about her. You haven’t forgotten her.
He tuned out the small voice in his head and went back to his list-making, forcing himself to write despite the distaste he felt for the task.
He jotted down the names of three unmarried women before he stopped abruptly, frowning at the list. Every one of them was a business connection he’d met through HuntCom. They all knew he was billionaire Harry Hunt’s son.
How the hell am I going to find a bride if they can’t know who I am?
Despite equating the Bride Hunt with any other project he’d done for HuntCom, Justin felt a distinct reluctance to make the very personal details of Harry’s demand known outside the family.
I suppose I could use a pseudonym and join an online dating service. Almost immediately, he dismissed the thought. Too time-consuming.
He stared at the rooftops—marching in neat blocks down the hill between him and the waterfront—while he considered the problem.
He drank his coffee and watched the marine traffic on the waterfront, his thoughts drifting back to Lily Spencer. He ended his relationship with Lily when he’d realized she was a woman who wanted marriage and a family. Neither of those two commitments were in his future. He’d walked away from her so she could find what she needed.
He punched in the phone number for her shop, frowning as he realized he still remembered it, even though he hadn’t dialed it in years.
“Good morning, Princess Lily Boutique. How may I help you?”
“Is Lily in?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Justin Hunt.”
“One moment, please.”
Justin paced impatiently, listening to the murmur of female voices and occasional laughter in the background.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt.” When she finally came back on the line, the feminine voice was distinctly cooler than before. “Ms. Spencer isn’t available.”
“When do you expect her?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she said politely. “May I take a message?”
“No message.” Justin hung up, convinced the woman was lying.
He suspected Lily was somewhere in the shop or in her workroom one floor above, but had refused to take his call.
When he’d abruptly ended their three-month affair, Lily hadn’t cried or called him names. Unlike other women he’d dated and broken things off with, Lily hadn’t made a scene at the restaurant. Instead, she’d carefully folded her napkin, stood and walked out without a word.
Maybe that was another reason he needed to see her—maybe he wanted her to yell at him and tell him what a rat he was for dumping her. Then he could apologize, and if he was lucky, she’d forgive him. At least then she wouldn’t hate him for the rest of her life.
With sudden decisiveness, he grabbed his keys from the counter and left the apartment. Ten minutes later, he parked the Escalade on Ballard Avenue and jogged across the brick street, dodging traffic.
The mannequins in the bowfront display windows of Lily’s shop wore white lace bustiers and garter belts, and were posed against draped black satin. Justin stepped inside, the shop’s interior an Aladdin’s cave of jewel-tone colors and sexy silk and lace women’s underwear. The air had a subtle floral scent, and the designs and textures of the lingerie were extravagantly feminine.
The door eased shut behind him and he paused, searching the room. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Lily.
Several women browsed the racks and shelves. All of them gave him curious glances. He ignored them, scanning the shop, hoping to find Lily. She wasn’t there.
“May I help you, sir?” The willowy redhead behind the counter left a customer sifting through a basket of lacy thongs and approached him.
Justin recognized her voice; she was the woman he’d talked to on the phone earlier.
“I’m looking for Lily.”
The redhead’s
