Mad About the Man

Praise for the Grayson Series by Tracy Anne Warren

“Few things are more fun than an enemies-to-lovers romance, and Warren delivers. . . . [She] pulls out all the stops. A truly satisfying romance.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

“Zippy yet soulful . . . deeply relatable characters and strong writing.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A strong start to Warren's steamy new series. Will leave readers wanting . . . more.”

—
Booklist

“The feel of a fast-paced comedy made in the forties. Well written [and] witty.”

—Cocktails and Books

“Well-done.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“This was such a good story. A great combination of romance [and] sex with a really good plot and characters. It was one fun read.”

—Bitten By Love

Also by Tracy Anne Warren

THE GRAYSON SERIES

The Last Man on Earth

The Man Plan

THE RAKES OF CAVENDISH SQUARE

The Bedding Proposal

THE PRINCESS BRIDES ROMANCES

The Princess and the Peer

Her Highness and the Highlander

The Trouble with Princesses

SIGNET SELECT

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Tracy Anne Warren, 2015

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ISBN 978-1-101-63767-8

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

“N
ow, remember, we're here in the Hamptons for a weekend of fun, sports, and relaxation,” Barrett S. Collingsworth IV said in a tone that was as smugly patronizing as his name.

Fun, huh?
Brie Grayson wasn't going to hold her breath on that one.

Tapping the edge of her tennis racket against one trim calf, she gazed out over the refined grounds of the exclusive private club. The May air was a perfect seventy-two degrees, the sky a cloudless blue. From the courts around them came the quiet
thwack
of rackets hitting fuzzy yellow tennis balls and the low murmur of conversation mixed with an occasional grunt of frustration or shout of success.

Yet despite the undeniable benefit of spending the weekend in the Hamptons, this was a working weekend, whatever Barrett S. might say to the contrary. He wasn't called Ol' BS at the office for nothing.

It had taken her less than a day when she'd started at Marshall, McNeal and Prescott to figure out that Barrett was mostly full of crap—a sentiment shared by not only the associates but most of the partners as well. Still, for all his shortcomings, he wasn't as stupid as he looked or acted—he had earned his Juris Doctor from Harvard, after all, just as she had.

The most important thing to know about Barrett, though, was the fact that he was the nephew of one of the senior partners, and that he never hesitated to whine to his uncle about anyone or anything he didn't like. So, as irritating as Ol' BS was, she made a point of staying on his good side.

She supposed that was why she'd been flagged to come along with him for the weekend—though “punished” was probably a better description. She could have said no, but she had plans—upwardly mobile plans—and she wasn't about to screw up her fast track toward making junior partner. So if it meant putting up with Ol' BS for a couple of days, then put up she would. As for shutting up, well, she'd see how much of that she could stand.

At least the weather was truly beautiful, she reminded herself again, as were her surroundings. She tipped her fair-skinned, SPF-45-protected face up to the sunshine and drank in the rays, relishing a slight breeze that ruffled her stylishly cut, chin-length blond hair. Maybe if all went well that afternoon, she would have time for a quick dip in the pool when they got back to the hotel.

“Just play tennis and let me decide when it's time to talk business,” Barrett said, interrupting her thoughts so he could continue the lecture he'd started hours ago on the drive out from Manhattan. “We've been trying to land Monroe for years, and we can't afford to let him slip away again.”

She kept walking and held her tongue.

“He's a huge get.” Barrett jabbed a stubby finger in the air for emphasis. “In the past decade, he's built a line of luxury hotels here in the States and Canada that are second to none. Rumor has it he's about to go international. If we can convince him to come on board with us before he takes the business global, it'll be a massive coup. Might even earn me a promotion.”

Since I'm part of this deal, it had better earn me a promotion too.

“And you really think playing a round of doubles with Monroe is going to change his mind?” she asked.

“The game is only a warm-up. The deal will happen afterward. Clients love attention and flattery. The trick is to get them good and relaxed. Then, when their guard's down, pounce like a tiger with a powerful business angle.
Wa-la
, deal done.”

Brie kept her face as expressionless as possible, trying not to smirk at the idea of Barrett as a tiger. More like a house cat—some really annoying, overly pampered Persian maybe? Although the comparison was unkind to cats everywhere and Persians in particular.

No, Barrett might think he was James Bond smooth, but somehow she didn't believe a self-made entrepreneur like M. J. Monroe was going to be swayed by flattery and attention. If getting him to sign on the dotted line were that easy, he'd have put his Montblanc to paper a long time ago.

She tapped her racket against her leg again, the attorney in her demanding that she argue her point, however unwise. “But you said yourself that no one has been able to convince him to switch firms before, so why should he now? Surely he's already been buttered up lots of times before this.”

He came to an abrupt halt and stared at her, a look of supreme arrogance on his knobby-chinned face. “Not by
me
, he hasn't. That's why Uncle Wendell sent in his big gun this time. Monroe just needs the right man to explain to him what the firm can do. Our billables alone are enough to impress even the most hardened businessmen. To say nothing of our client roster and winning track record when it comes to settlements and litigations.”

Big gun, huh?

Brie sniffed in time to cover a snort. Not that Barrett was mistaken about the power and prestige of Marshall McNeal Prescott and what it could offer. Indisputably, MMP was one of New York City's top law firms—if not
the
top. But somehow she still didn't think that fact would sway Monroe. If he hadn't already been lured by the mystique of their one-percenter-heavy client list or their admittedly excellent reputation for winning lawsuits and making sure their clients didn't pay out a dime more than necessary for their legal transactions—except to the firm itself, of course—then he was looking for something else. Something more. Exactly what that something more might be was the key to acquiring his business.

“Besides,” Barrett said, pausing only long enough to take a breath, “I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this match—”

“You mean
I
went to a lot of trouble, considering it's my sister's fiancé who has a membership here. And the fact that James is the one who very graciously accompanied us here today so we could use the amenities.”

“Yes, but
I'm
the one who wrangled the court time with Monroe. I won't tell you what it cost me to bump the couple who was originally scheduled to play.”

Brie managed not to roll her eyes. “I still don't see why we couldn't have just met Monroe in an office like normal people rather than resorting to all these schemes.”

“Because we're not normal people. We're lawyers.”

She paused, realizing that for once Ol' BS had a really good point.

Then they were courtside, the court number painted in a neat white on the carefully maintained grass.

Showtime!

She put on her best professional smile and followed after Barrett, only to stop dead seconds later. A shiver went through her as she stared at the man standing across the court, his head bent as he listened to whatever his curvy brunette partner was saying.

He was tall and athletically built without being overly muscled, solid without an extra ounce of fat. She guessed he was close to her own thirty-three years and in his prime. His dark brown hair was short and neatly trimmed but not in a big-city, five-hundred-dollars-a-cut kind of way. His tennis clothes were the same: good quality but not obscenely expensive.

Brie scowled, her heart racing beneath her crisp white Burberry Brit sports shirt. She gave herself a quick shake and looked away. With her eyes on her white sneakers, she trailed Barrett over to the bench that lined one side of the court and set down her bag.

What is wrong with me? I've never met M. J. Monroe before, so why the freaky reaction?

She'd taken a quick look at an Internet photo of him when she'd done her prep work for the weekend and it hadn't sparked any unusual reactions. He'd seemed pleasant-looking enough in a business-hardened, square-jawed kind of way, but he hadn't made her senses go on full alert, as if there'd been a breach in security at the Pentagon. But her instincts were blaring like screaming sirens now, warning her that there was something alarming about him—and something oddly familiar.

How could that be, since she didn't even know the man?

Maybe she was dehydrated and her sudden anxiety had nothing to do with Monroe at all. She just needed to drink some water and rebalance her electrolytes, even though she'd felt fine two minutes ago.

Glad for a distraction—any distraction—she pulled a bottle of water out of her gear bag, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barrett lope his way over to Monroe and his companion and introduce himself with far too much enthusiasm. She stayed where she was, careful not to turn. Extra careful not to look again.

Another minute and I will be calm, cool, and collected,
she assured herself,
all hints of weirdness gone.

She smiled inwardly, well aware that being “weird” was the last thing anyone would ever accuse her of. Serious and intense with workaholic tendencies that her mother worried would drive her into an early grave—those were qualities usually ascribed to her. Not flaky and certainly never weird.

She took one last pull from the bottle, then sealed it and stowed it away. Picking up her racket, she turned, sure she had herself under control once more. She pasted her professional smile back on her face and strode confidently forward.

“Here she comes now,” Barrett said with a toothy, well-oiled grin. “M.J.—I hope I can call you M.J.?—and Lila, his most exquisite doubles partner”—Lila the exquisite gave a throaty laugh—“let me introduce my partner of the courts—tennis courts, that is.” Barrett waved a hand toward her with a flourish. “Ms. Brie Grayson.”

Monroe's head turned and he looked straight at her. But instead of a handshake and a hello, he stared, running his eyes slowly over her, head to toe.

Her inner alarm shrieked again, the weirdness crawling back over her skin. She was too good a litigator, though—and Texas Hold'em player—to let any hint of reaction show on her face.

But inside . . .

She shivered.

His eyes were dark, the brown of rich teak. Under other circumstances, she might have thought them beautiful. Instead, all she could see was their shrewdness, their keen calculation and sharp understanding. It was as if he knew the punch line to some joke she hadn't heard. And if there was one thing she hated, it was realizing that someone else knew something she didn't.

Suddenly, he grinned. And not just any grin but one that was wide and shit-eating.

She was still considering that peculiar turn of events when he spoke, his voice deep and smooth. “Why, if it isn't the creamy little cheese herself. How many years has it been, Brie-Brie?”

Her mouth fell open, her mind racing backward to her childhood.

No, it isn't possible! It cannot be him.

She looked closer, comparing her memory of the hateful boy she'd known in junior high school with the sophisticated man who now stood before her.

Christ Almighty, it is him!

How could she not have seen? How could she not have known that M. J. Monroe and Maddox Monroe were one and the same? No wonder her body had been sending out warning signals. It was a miracle she hadn't broken out in hives.

Yet here he was, live and in person, her worst nightmare come back to life—the bully who'd turned seventh grade into a slice of pure hell!

*   *   *

Maddox stared at Brie Grayson, unable to look away.

Of all the people he'd expected to run into here at the club, it wasn't the girl who'd starred in every one of his immature, twelve-year-old male fantasies for an entire school year—and a long while after that, if he was being strictly honest.

Back in those days, he'd thought she was the cutest girl he'd ever seen.

She'd thought he was a pig.

And he probably had been; adolescent boys weren't much known for their tact or thoughtfulness.

Of course he'd noticed her the moment she'd walked onto the tennis court—how could he not have with her head of sun-bright blond hair, her gorgeous long legs, and a tight little ass that practically begged to be squeezed through her short white tennis skirt?

When she'd been a girl, he'd thought she was adorable.

But as a woman full-grown, she was a real knockout.

Still one thing that apparently hadn't changed over the years was her reaction to him. Judging by her narrow-eyed glare, she hated him every bit as much now as she had in the seventh grade. Although he supposed he was partly to blame, aware he shouldn't have renewed their acquaintance by baiting her the way he had.

Then again, that had always been the problem—she brought out the very devil in him. He hadn't been able to control his reaction to her when he was twelve, and it would appear he couldn't control it any better as a grown man.

He hid a smile, certain the afternoon was going to be a whole lot more entertaining than he'd imagined.

Brie's blowhard tennis partner looked back and forth between him and Brie, a frown of confusion on his pale brow.

Boyfriend?
Maddox wondered. He eyed Brie again, speculating. Surely she had better taste than to hook up with Barrett whatever-his-name-was. But you never knew with women. Taste could definitely be a subjective thing when it came to relationships.

Barrett, the blowhard, frowned harder. “So, do you two know each other?” he asked.

“No!” Brie shot back.

“Yes,” Maddox said at the same moment, meeting her eyes with amused contradiction.

She stared back, her body bristling with tension and challenge.

Barrett's gaze swiveled back and forth between them again, his confusion even plainer. “Well, which is it?”

“Yes,” said Lila, a tart tone in her voice. “Do you know each other or not?”

His date, who he'd forgotten was even there, crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

Maddox met Brie's gaze again and arched a single eyebrow.

“We do,” Brie admitted reluctantly, “but it was a
long
time ago. I didn't even recognize him.”