From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.

He’d failed.

“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”

“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.

Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”

“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.

At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”

She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course. He isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.

“It’s too...” Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult. “...red.”

“How can something be too red?”

He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”

“Who is Evan?”

She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”

“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”

“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”

C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”

She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”

“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.

“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”

She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”

Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”

“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”

“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.

He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”

She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”

He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even want to be here.”

He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.

Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“It’s just—” she threw her hands into the air, beseeching the heavens to help her cope with the disappointment “—I tried so hard to make this party special for Daddy and Charlotte, but it’s a disaster. First Uncle Zach texted me that he wasn’t coming and then you were late. Granddad’s been an absolute grump all night, making angry noises and thumping his good hand. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be here or because Carrie’s drunk and been hanging on Uncle Oakes. Then there’s Grandma...” Estelle shivered dramatically. “Well, you’re going to have to see that for yourself.” Her eyes welled. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, it’s ruined.”

He sighed. Hung his head. Women. Care about one of them too much and they’d get their hooks into you—either by the balls or by the gut. Either way, once they had you, you were never free.

He hoped like hell that, if he ever had children, he followed in his father’s footsteps and had all boys.

He held out his arms, but Estelle lifted her chin.

Stubborn as her father.

C.J. amped up his grin by a few degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re going to stay mad at your favorite uncle.”

“At the moment, Uncle Oakes is my favorite,” she said, prissy as a princess to a peasant. But then she relented enough to step into his embrace. Wrap her arms around him for a hug.

He squeezed her hard. Kissed the top of her head. Damn, but he was crazy about her.

“Oakes is everyone’s favorite,” he said, not offended in the least to be usurped by his brother. If she’d wanted to go for the jugular, she would have picked Zach.

There wasn’t anything he could do about his youngest brother not showing up, but he could take care of the rest for her. He looked over her head and scanned the room. People laughed and conversed around the round tables or stood in small groups, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping tall flutes of champagne brought around by the waitstaff. Others had paired off, swaying to the band’s acoustic rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain,” the lead singer’s smoky voice giving the song a slow, seductive quality.

Among the dancers, it was easy enough to find his brother Kane and his new fiancée, Charlotte Ellison. Hard to miss Charlotte, with that bright beacon of short red hair. Usually more cute than beautiful, she was a knockout tonight in an emerald-green dress that showed off her long legs and gave her thin figure the illusion of curves. For his part, Kane still looked every inch the badass he pretended to be. One of only a few men without a suit, he’d tied back his too-long hair into a stupid, stubby ponytail and wore dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that covered his tattoos.

“For a disaster, everyone seems to be having a good time,” C.J. said.

Estelle stepped back and nodded toward the room. “Look again.”

He followed her gaze to the far window where Carrie was pressed like a second skin against a pale, grim-mouthed Oakes. Though Carrie was doing her best to get a reaction, Oakes stood still as a statue, his eyes straight ahead and not on her impressive breasts, which were spilling out of her pale yellow dress.

Poor bastard looked as though he’d been cornered by a pissed-off bobcat and not a perky blonde.

C.J. would have laughed if that perky blonde hadn’t also happened to be married to their father.

Problem number one.

“You say Carrie’s drunk?” C.J. asked Estelle.

“The way she’s been groping Uncle Oakes all night, she’d better be drunk. God. It’s, like, completely disgusting. And with Granddad right there, too.”

It was then that C.J. spotted his father, his once robust form slumped to the side of his wheelchair. The stroke Senior had suffered almost a year ago had stolen his ability to speak and paralyzed the right side of his body. But judging from the glare he was shooting at his wife and third son, his mind was still in working order. Behind him, Mark, his large bald nurse, took a hold of Senior under the arms and lifted him straight.