The Billionaire Boyfriend Proposal: A Kavanagh Family Novel (4 page)

"True on both counts."

He glanced at me over his shoulder, a glimmer
of a smile on his lips. It was the only part of his face I could
see because of the low hood. "Besides, cleaning this up gives them
something to do," he said, turning back to the fence. "Nothing like
a bit of exercise for over-indulged fat cats."

"How thoughtful of you. Except you forget
that people around here don't clean. They hire others to clean for
them."

He merely
humphed
.

"What's wrong with my fence? It looks like a
good blank canvas to me."

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"Is it because I'm an artist too?"

"Are you?" he said, lazily.

"You know I am. You've been doing this to get
my attention without pissing me off directly. Nice work, by the
way. You did get my attention. Your work is lively and you have
talent. With a little more direction, you could be a fabulous
artist."

He swung round. "Direction?" He snorted.
"Trying to get me to sign up? I've got news for you, lady, I don't
have money for your exclusive art classes."

So he did know who I was and what I did. My
curiosity was officially piqued. "My classes aren't exclusive and
my fees are reasonable. I want everyone to be able to afford
them."

He merely snorted and stabbed his brush onto
his palette, grinding it into the paint.

I was about to offer him free tuition when I
saw someone move out of the corner of my eye. I gasped as another
hooded figure emerged from the darkness of the street. This one was
taller than the artist, despite hunched shoulders. His hood came
down low over his face too, but as he drew closer, I could see the
sneer on his thin lips. He strode right up to me, but the artist
stepped in front before he reached me.

"Don't," the artist said, his voice pitched
higher. "Let her go." He held up his paint-splattered hands, still
holding brush and palette. "Please, Skull."

I shrank back, my palms slick, my heart in my
throat. Everything inside me recoiled as the newcomer's hands
curled into fists. Skull. What the hell kind of name was that? A
gang member's nickname, maybe. It wasn't the name you gave a nice,
reasonable person. I couldn't even run back to my house. Skull was
in my way and I bet he could run faster than me.

"Who are you?" Skull's voice was a menacing
rasp.

I swallowed, but my fear remained. "A
concerned citizen."

"You live here?" To the artist, he said, "Is
this her?"

They'd talked about me? What the hell for? I
wanted to ask, but I didn't want to attract any aggravation from
Skull. It was best to keep quiet and fly under his radar as much as
possible.

"Yeah," the artist said. "I recognize her
hair."

Skull reached out and wrapped a strand of my
hair near my face around his finger. I held myself still, despite
the desire to gag at the smell of days-old grime wafting off him.
"Nice hair. Wild." He leaned in. His stinking breath warmed my
cheek. "I like wild."

"Please," I whispered, "let me go."

"She's harmless," the artist said quickly. He
licked dry lips. I didn't expect him to save me, despite his
urging. He was smaller than Skull and not as scary.

Skull grabbed more hair in his fist. He
twisted it, almost pulling it out by the roots. I cried out as pain
ripped across my scalp.

"You fucking idiot," Skull snarled. "She's
seen you. Seen us. She can identify us."

"I can't!" I cried. "Your hoods hide your
faces.

"Please, Skull," the artist begged. "I'll do
anything if you let her go."

Skull chuckled. "Anything? Yeah?" The click
and swish of a switchblade made me jump and my jumping made him
laugh. "First, I want to take me a lock of this pretty, wild hair
to remember her by."

The cold steel pressed against my cheek. I
closed my eyes and tried to lean away, but Skull held my hair too
tight. It was just hair. I could lose some of it. As long as that
was all he cut.

CHAPTER 3

Skull expelled a breath and let go of my
hair. I opened my eyes to see him crumple to the ground at my feet.
Behind him stood Blake.

I almost threw my arms around him in relief.
I'm not sure what held me back. Maybe the fierce glare in his eyes
as he looked down at Skull. I began to shake and, to my horror,
cry. I buried my face in my hands and suddenly Blake's arms were
around me, holding me against his chest. He stroked my back, my
neck, and kissed the top of my head. His heat soaked through my
clothes, calming me, and I stopped shaking.

"You okay?" he whispered into my hair.

I nodded.

He gently cupped my face and stroked his
thumbs across my cheeks, wiping away my tears. His hooded gaze
searched my eyes and for one heart-stopping moment I thought he
would kiss me.

Skull groaned and sat up. "Fucking hell." He
rubbed his head until Blake reached down and jerked him to his
feet. The hood fell back, revealing a long, straight nose and a
curved scar across his cheek. His lanky hair hung like damp weeds
over his eyes, shielding them. I'd guess he was aged in his
mid-twenties.

His lips peeled back in a snarl. "Tough guy,
huh?" He no longer held the knife and I saw it in Blake's hand.

"Jesus," said the artist, now behind me. He
was packing his things up, working fast, not caring what the paint
touched. "I'm going, okay! You got what you wanted, lady. I'm
leaving and won't come back. Just let us walk out of here, no cops,
nothing."

"No," Blake said. That single command was
enough to render everyone still. "You hurt her, I hurt you."

"I didn't touch her!" Skull cried. "Let us
go, man."

The artist's head snapped up, his hand still
in his pack. The hood fell back and I got my first proper look at
him. He couldn't have been more than twenty. His features were a
lot like Skull's only more handsome and a little fuller, as if he
hadn't quite shed all his baby fat.

"I'll do a deal with you," he said to Blake.
"Hand me over to the police, but let my brother go."

Blake and I were no longer touching, but he
was close enough that I could feel his body ripple with tension.
"Brothers?" he muttered.

"It's me you want," the artist said. "Skull
didn't do any of this. He hasn't got an artistic bone in his
body."

"Art is for pussies," Skull sneered.

"Please. I'll clean this off myself, tonight.
I'll confess to the cops. Just let him go."

"Already got convictions, has he?" Blake
tossed out.

The brothers looked at one another. "Go," the
younger one said.

Skull backed away without taking his gaze off
Blake.

"If I see you here again, I won't be calling
the cops," Blake said. "I'll deal with you myself."

Skull gave us the finger, then turned,
flipped up his hood and sprinted off.

Beside me, the kid swallowed loudly. "What's
your name?" I asked him. "Your real name, not your street
name."

"Robbie."

"Your brother's a coward, leaving you behind
to face the music."

"Don't let him hear you call him that. He'll
feel like he has to prove you wrong, and I can tell you now, that
won't end well."

"I meant what I said," Blake told him. "He'd
better not show his face around here again." He snatched up
Robbie's pack and rummaged through it.

"Hey!" Robbie protested. "Careful of my
paints."

"This stuff's good quality," I said, taking
one of the tubes off Blake. "How can you afford it?"

"He can't," Blake said. "He steals it."

Robbie didn't answer which told me Blake was
right.

Blake removed a small knife from the pack and
tucked it into his back pocket. "Cassie, our artist here needs to
borrow some paint remover."

I left them and headed back to the house. I
gathered up supplies and returned to the street where it looked
like Blake was lecturing Robbie. The kid's arms were crossed over
his chest, defiant. They both looked to me as I approached.

"My name's Cassie West," I said. "And this is
Blake Kavanagh."

Robbie whistled low. "As in one of THE
Kavanaghs?"

"Whatever you've heard is probably an
exaggeration," Blake told him, with what I thought was a hint of
sheepishness.

"You're not all mega rich and own half of
Roxburg?"

"Precisely."

"They're super-rich, not mega," I teased.
"And it's a third of Roxburg, not half."

Robbie laughed, but it withered beneath
Blake's glare.

"Get cleaning," Blake snapped. "Cassie, you
should get back home. It's late and you've had a scare."

"It's okay. I want to talk to Robbie
here."

Robbie screwed his nose up at me. "Why?"

"Reasons."

"Cass," Blake said again. "Go home. It's
getting cold."

"A few minutes working to remove this paint
will warm me up." I flashed him a smile, but he only scowled
harder. "Thank you for rescuing me, Blake. I do appreciate it. Your
timing was impeccable."

"What the hell were you doing out here at
night on your own, anyway? I thought you were smarter than
that."

I bristled. "I only approached Robbie when I
realized he was harmless. Skull didn't arrive until later."

"He wouldn't have hurt you," Robbie said. "He
doesn't hurt women. He would have just taken a lock of your hair to
scare you then left."

Blake rounded on him. He was huge compared to
Robbie and towered over him. The kid took a step back. "When I say
nobody touches a hair on her head, I mean it." He shoved a rag into
Robbie's chest. "Get to work."

We each set about removing one section of the
paint. "What was it going to be?" I asked Robbie.

"Not telling."

"Have it your way. So what's your story?"

"No story."

Oh-kay. "You never told me why you left my
fence alone."

He shrugged. "I didn't feel like covering
it."

"Are you sure it doesn't have something to do
with trying to get my attention?"

He scrubbed a spot clean, rubbing his cloth
into the area over and over until there was nothing left. "Women!
You think everything is about you."

Blake chuckled until I shot him a withering
glare.

"In this case, I think it is about me," I
said. "You want me to teach you some tricks to help you
improve."

"I don't need improving to do this sort of
thing." He wiped the back of his sleeve across his forehead and set
to removing his work again.

"You want to paint fences your entire
life?"

Robbie shrugged one shoulder.

"Maybe he should paint them properly," Blake
said. "According to the owner's directions. No weeping clowns or
dogs, just good honest work for a good honest day's pay."

"I'd rather slit my wrists."

I threw my rag at the wall. "Don't joke about
suicide. There are people out there suffering with depression and
you belittle their struggle. I can't believe I'm wasting my time
here talking to you. You clearly don't appreciate help when it's
being handed to you on a platter. Go back to wherever it was you
came from with that bully of a brother. Just stay the hell
away."

Robbie stared slack-jawed at me. I didn't
care if I'd shocked him with my outburst. He must think it came out
of nowhere, but I knew it hadn't. Blake knew too. His worried gaze
watched me.

I stormed off, tears stinging the backs of my
eyes. Neither of them followed me. I ran up the drive and slammed
my front door shut behind me. Then I sat on the floor and let the
tears flow.

I couldn't stop thinking about Wendy. My
poor, big sister with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She'd been dearly loved by me and Gran, but she couldn't see it.
She'd only had eyes for Reece and he hadn't loved her enough to
keep her happy.

It was unfair of me to take my anger out on
Robbie. He'd probably seen a lot of crap in his life, more than me.
I wiped away my tears and returned to the street. Both Robbie and
Blake were gone, my equipment with them.

***

I slept in and woke up mid-morning to someone
knocking on my door. I raced downstairs and opened it to see Blake
standing there. His hot gaze raked down my body, taking in the
T-shirt I wore to bed, pajama shorts and bare legs. He swallowed
heavily.

Robbie emerged from behind him. I hadn't seen
him standing there, shielded by the bigger man. His gaze did a
repeat of Blake's. "Wow," he murmured.

Blake thumped him in the chest and Robbie
coughed. "Avert your eyes," Blake said.

Robbie rubbed his chest. "I was just looking.
Jeez, lighten up. You Kavanaghs are so wound up."

I cleared my throat and stepped aside. "Come
in while I go and change."

They entered and I raced upstairs to quickly
change into a dress that reached to my knees. I glanced at myself
in the mirror and winced. Another bad hair day. I tied it up in a
tight bun and returned downstairs.

I found them in the kitchen, Blake making
coffee. His presence filled the room, and yet he looked at home
there too. He moved with a kind of effortless grace, the muscles
shifting beneath his tight T-shirt. He suddenly turned, catching me
looking. A fleeting, uncertain smile passed his lips. I blushed
fiercely.

"Do you still have it white with one?"

I nodded and took the cup he offered. Robbie
opened my pantry door and pulled out a carrot cake I'd baked the
day before. "Are you going to eat this?"

"Cut yourself a slice." I indicated the
breadboard. A moment's panic seized me as he grabbed a knife, but
he simply used it to cut the cake. I was panicky over nothing.
Besides, Blake was there to disarm him if necessary. I suspected
Blake was good at doing that.

He'd been goddamned good at everything eight
years ago, I saw no reason why he would be less capable now with
military training behind him.