Read Online Fire and Flame by Anya Breton - Free Book Online

It was where news anchors went to die!
    But was that really her dream? Or like he’d asked, was it what she’d felt she ought to reach for?
    Furious that he’d made her question everything she’d worked for, Sara stomped the three feet to the office door. And then she left Brenton Conley to stare mutely after.

Chapter Nine
    Sara lifted her head from the Sunday newspaper atop the granite kitchen island. Brent stepped into the kitchen, shirtless, and rubbing his hand across black hair that stood on end. He had tan lines from short sleeves on his powerful biceps but it was the trail of dark hair weaving a narrow path through the valleys of his toned chest that caught and held her attention longest.
    Brent’s mouth was open wide in a powerful yawn. A half second later it abruptly shut. “By the Phoenix, what are you doing up already?” he exclaimed even as he reached down and discreetly checked that the flap in his blue plaid boxer shorts was closed.
    His exclamation jogged loose a forgotten memory. Sara bolted upright in her seat. “The Rule of Succession.”
    Brent’s features crinkled as he shook his head. “Pardon?”
    Sara cast her gaze across the kitchen, into the dining room, and then toward the living room. Soon it snapped back to the driveway and the cars parked there, as if she could see Fintan’s kingdom in a single glance.
    “It’s all yours,” she choked out. “Everything here, it now belongs to you because you killed his killer.”
    Her pink bedroom. Her Lexus. Her every possession. They had all been gifts from her daddy and thus it all belonged to Brent. She could hardly hold herself upright.
    “There was an immediate living heir,” Brent reminded her. “This is all yours now.”
    Sara shook her head. That wasn’t how it worked, was it?
    “In any case, the reading of the will is this afternoon,” Brent explained far too calmly. “We’ll find out what Fintan wanted then.” After a beat he said, “I’m not very good at making breakfast. How about we get dressed and find someplace to get some eggs?”
    Woodenly she nodded because the Rule of Succession still concerned her. She’d always heard a witch’s killer was entitled to his or her empire. Would it have been different if she hadn’t lived with her father? Perhaps that was what the word “immediate” had meant.
    Sara would worry about it once the will had been read. Fintan would have noted how he wanted his empire to be handled after his passing. And Brent would surely respect the final wishes of his esteemed mentor. After all, it was the very least he could do for failing to keep her daddy alive.
    ****
    Brent had never particularly liked Fintan’s lawyer and Curt Hourig had made no bones about his dislike of Fintan’s protégé. So when Brent settled into the seat in front of the man’s desk, he couldn’t help but adjust the cufflinks on his crisp shirt.
    Sara had been quiet since the meeting in the kitchen. In fact, she’d been quiet since she’d shouted at him after he’d kissed her.
    She’d thought it had been a play for sex. And while it had been, it hadn’t been what she thought. Brent didn’t want her to do her duty with him—he didn’t want one instance of intercourse when she was at her most fertile. He wanted her . And once he had her, he didn’t intend to give her up.
    Brent cast a look to his right where she’d settled herself into Curt’s second leather chair. She looked beautifully dour in her black chiffon dress with its satin trim. It draped just so over the inviting curve of her knee, a knee he’d like to set his fingers to before he slipped them beneath the hem… He made himself look away because they had an audience.
    The others named in the will sat in the chairs lining the outer edges of the room. The back portion of the large office was standing room only. Fintan had been generous.
    Curt silently counted the attendees then checked the clock on his mantel, making sure he began at precisely two on