Reilly & Riordan (Dance for the Billionaire 3)

By Jewelle Moore

A DANCE FOR THE BILLIONAIRE spinoff.

Millionaire portrait artists and identical twins Reilly and Riordan O'Brien are so close they seem to share one soul. They have lived and loved together since reaching maturity. Finally they are ready to give up their hedonistic lifestyle if they can find the perfect woman to share their lives.

Identical twins Gabrielle and Isabelle Johnson need to clear debts incurred by their father's illness overseas. Gabrielle, the bolder, more impulsive sister, responds to the brothers' advert for a nude model. When she secures the job as their sitter, she makes a solemn vow to her mortified sister that she won’t let the brothers know that she's a twin, too.

Both brothers are immediately attracted to Gabrielle and for the first time in their lives neither wants to share.

It should have been a simple matter, twins dating twins. But Gabrielle's stuck in a promise she can't break and either of the O’Brien twins is too much man for her quiet sister!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jewelle Moore
• Release date: Jun 6, 2018

Jewelle Moore

I’m a British writer who has always been fascinated by the concept of true love transcending the boundaries of race and colour. I like to touch on some of the issues each couple faces on their journey to their HEA in a fairly light-handed way that provokes thought but hopefully doesn’t detract from readers’ enjoyment – after all, most are looking for romantic escape, not political debate.My stories are set in London and have a British flavour, but as the vast majority of my readers so far have been American, I’ve tried to accommodate them by using American English in my books where possible. The British also read a lot of American literature and have become accustomed to both spellings.Sign up for my newsletter: https://tinyletter.com/JewelleMoore

Book preview

Reilly & Riordan

(Dance for the Billionaire 3)

Jewelle Moore

Copyright 2013 by Jewelle Moore

Smashwords Edition

Jewelle Moore

Reilly & Riordan

(Dance for the Billionaire 3)

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher or author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

Copyright © 2013 by Jewelle Moore

All Rights Reserved.

My Website

My Mailing List

My FB Page

CONTENTS

Reilly & Riordan (Dance for the Billionaire 3)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Excerpt: After the Storm

Excerpt: Dance for the Billionaire 1&2

Reilly & Riordan (Dance for the Billionaire 3)

by

Jewelle Moore

A Dance for the Billionaire spinoff.

Millionaire portrait artists and identical twins Reilly and Riordan O'Brien are so close they seem to share one soul. They have lived and loved together since reaching maturity. Finally they are ready to give up their hedonistic lifestyle if they can find the perfect woman to share their lives.

Identical twins Gabrielle and Isabelle Johnson need to clear debts incurred by their father's illness overseas. Gabrielle, the bolder, more impulsive sister, responds to the brothers' advert for a nude model. When she secures the job as their sitter, she makes a solemn vow to her mortified sister that she won’t let the brothers know that she's a twin, too.

Both brothers are immediately attracted to Gabrielle and for the first time in their lives neither wants to share.

It should have been a simple matter, twins dating twins. But Gabrielle's stuck in a promise she can't break and either of the O’Brien twins is too much man for her quiet sister!

MEANING OF THE TWINS’ NAMES

Reilly: courageous, valiant.

An Irish surname that can be used as a given name.

Riordan: royal poet.

From the Irish ri ‘king’ and bardan ‘poet’.

LITTLE KNOWN FACT

Incidences of quaternary marriages, identical twins marrying identical twins, are rare but do occur.

Chapter One

Reilly O’Brien smiled as a blonde in a pink Porsche pulled up beside his Ferrari at the traffic lights and waved at him mockingly.

He waved back with an equally sardonic inclination of his head. He had left her in his wake at the last set of lights, but the busy, narrow London roads hadn’t allowed him to get very far ahead. As he’d approached these lights they had been turning amber and for a moment he considered going through them to avoid the embarrassment of her catching up with him again, but at the last minute he had decided to play it safe. Better a little humiliation than risk injury or death.

The blonde’s eyes wandered past him to the man occupying the passenger seat beside him and her eyes widened comically…and then narrowed speculatively…predictably. Women seemed to get the filthiest thoughts whenever they saw him and his identical twin Riordan together.

She wasn’t exactly their type with her bleached blonde hair, slender body and small, pert and clearly-unsupported breasts. They preferred dark-haired, fuller figured women, but she would do for tonight.

Feel like some action? he asked his brother with a wink.

No. Riordan didn’t seem to need time to decide. And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be her!

Reilly shook his head regretfully at the blonde and eased off the accelerator to allow her through as the road once again narrowed, in appeasement for turning down her tacit invitation.

Are you okay? he asked his twin.

They had just attended their younger brother Dominic’s 30th birthday party where he’d proudly announced that he and his wife Chantelle were expecting their first child later in the year. He, Riordan and their other seven siblings had celebrated with their youngest brother, thrilled for him and their newest sister-in-law.

But Riordan had been quiet ever since.

Don’t you ever get tired of all this? Riordan demanded, sounding unusually out of sorts.

Tired of what? Reilly asked, a frown creasing his brow.

Tired of picking up strange women, fucking them and then discarding them?

We don’t discard them! Reilly was shocked at his twin’s criticism and even more so at his choice of words. Riordan was the more even tempered of the two, although more volatile in a rage, but that was a rare occurrence. We let them know upfront what we want from them and they are happy to oblige.

Well, I’m tired of sleeping with women and forgetting their names the next day. Riordan pulled off the supple black leather band which secured his ponytail. Thick, dark-brown, almost-black hair tumbled free. I’m tired of this bloody ponytail, too.

Are you sure you’re alright? Reilly’s heart lurched as a thought struck him with the force of a Mack truck. Was Riordan ill? He couldn’t live without his brother. He couldn’t. Everyone had thought that he would have left Riordan and gone off to sow his wild oats as soon as he’d reached maturity, but they didn’t understand that he needed his brother as much as…more than…his brother needed him. You aren’t…?

Reilly’s throat closed around the rest of the question as his concerned eyes met his brother’s.

I’m fine. Riordan turned his head and held Reilly’s gaze for a moment…the briefest instant as Reilly had to focus on the road ahead again, but it was enough.

Good. The air rushed back into his starved lungs.

Riordan would understand how disturbing the thought had been for him, Reilly knew, in those milliseconds before his twin’s answer quashed his fear.

But I’m going to find a place of my own.

The car swung to the left alarmingly before Reilly tightened his suddenly nerveless hands on the steering wheel and fought to bring the powerful car under control again.

Sorry. Riordan laid his right hand on his brother’s tightly clenched left fist. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. I should have waited until we got home.

Reilly nodded, feeling suddenly chilled and too numb to speak.

He wanted to demand answers from his brother.

Why now?

What did I do wrong?

But for now he needed to concentrate on getting them both home safely.

The uncomfortable silence between them as the car quickly ate up the miles to their Holland Park residence was the first he remembered them sharing.

What did I do wrong?

The question kept playing like a broken record in his mind as he tried to recall the last day, the last week, the last month.

He was still searching for an answer as he parked the car in the underground garage of their four bedroom home.

Riordan left the car, slamming the door and quickly walking to the door which connected the garage to the main house. He unlocked it and let it close behind him before Reilly reached it.

Shocked at his twin’s rudeness, Reilly fished his own keys out of his pocket and let himself into the building.

Riordan was in the living room, his dress shirt opened at the neck, a glass with a generous splash of brandy in his hand.

His eyes were as sad as Reilly knew his own must be.

What’s the matter? he asked softly as he approached his brother.

Everything. Riordan turned his head away and emptied the brandy glass.

Reilly felt as though his brother had punched him. Something was definitely wrong. Whatever it was didn’t worry him as much as the fact that Riordan was keeping it from him—they never hid anything from each other.

They were incredibly close, even for twins. Their siblings still teased them about them both crying when only one was injured when they were children, dressing alike and first having their own secret language and then speaking in unison well into their teenage years. They still had very similar tastes in clothes, though he tended to wear mostly black and Riordan, dark grey or blue.

They had been a stark contrast to their older identical sisters who had little in common and had articulated their preferences from an early age, making a conscious effort to look as different as possible. Deirdre, the older by seven minutes, had been a tomboy who had fought tooth and nail with her brothers and at the age of sixteen rebelliously cropped her dark hair short and dyed it a shocking red, ending any confusion between her and her twin. Darcy had been her daddy’s darling and quite content to be adored, pampered and protected by her brothers. Although she’d achieved the grades required to join Deirdre at the start of her medical degree at Oxford, she had decided not to go to university. Instead she’d married her childhood sweetheart six months after completing her A-levels. Their sisters had grown closer as they had aged and now spent about a third of the year together either in the UK or Italy, but they didn’t seem to need each other the way he and Riordan did.

Reilly couldn’t imagine being away from his twin for any considerable length of time, not in another town and certainly not another country. He loved the closeness they shared. It was comforting having a best friend around 24 hours a day, but if someone waved a magical wand and severed the invisible, unbreakable bond between them it would almost be a relief. To love someone so intensely was like walking a tight rope sometimes.

Without giving it a thought, he moved in close and wrapped his arms around Riordan tightly.

For a moment his brother stayed stiff and unresponsive in his arms. Then he put his head on Reilly’s shoulder and returned the hug with equal fervor.

They stayed like that for a long time. Neither of them spoke, but they were both conscious that something had changed. Something scary and momentous.

Can we talk about it in the morning? Riordan finally raised his head and looked his twin in the eye.

Sure. Reilly reluctantly slackened his hold and released his brother.

Riordan walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Picking up the glass his brother had abandoned on a nearby ledge, Reilly poured a brandy and threw it back in a single gulp.

The ornate mirror on the opposite wall which made the room appear almost double its size seemed to mock his aloneness as he turned and gazed into it.

Barely resisting the urge to hurl the glass and shatter it into a hundred pieces, he placed it on the ledge, turned and walked out of the room in the identical manner to his brother.

After a shower in his en suite bathroom, he found himself walking out of his bedroom without thought and reaching for the handle of his brother’s bedroom door.

Riordan was lying on his side under the iron-grey duvet, his body facing the wall.

Reilly threw off his dressing gown, lifted the end of the duvet and got into the bed behind his brother. When he put his arm around his twin, Riordan instinctively moved backwards into the spooning position they had adopted when they were younger.

They hadn’t slept like this for over twenty-five years, but it felt as natural as breathing. As though they had done the same from the moment they had split in their mother’s womb.

Reassured that things couldn’t be as bad as they’d seemed, Reilly snuggled deeper into the large pillow they were sharing and closed his eyes.

***

When Reilly awoke, Riordan was lying on his side on the large, custom-made bed, facing him.

Sorry about last night, his twin apologized.

No problem. Reilly hadn’t been bothered by his brother’s behavior. He had been more concerned about whatever caused it.

Seeing Dominic last night…so happy with Chantelle and already expecting a baby…made me feel as if life was passing me by, Riordan started to explain. I felt….

Shall we get Fionnuala? Reilly asked when his twin didn’t continue.

Whenever Riordan got restless, they ‘borrowed’ their sister Darcy’s daughter for a couple of hours, taking her to Hamleys, the world famous London toy store, to spoil her rotten. Afterwards they usually went to their parents’ home, so that her grandparents could dote on her even more before they took her back to her parents. Deirdre, Darcy’s twin didn’t have children. She and her husband were jet-setting doctors who enjoyed their hectic work- and social lifestyles. Rosalind, their only other female sibling lived in Nice and so did her four children. Their sisters-in-law refused to ‘loan’ their children. Mona, the wife of their eldest brother Simon, had famously said that she wouldn’t lend either of them a sugar bowl for fear they would drop and break it, so there was no way on earth that she was going to ‘lend’ them a child of hers.

I don’t want anyone else’s child! Realizing that he was shouting, Riordan lowered his voice. I want my own.

What?

I want a wife and my own children.

What about our plan? Reilly asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

Reilly, do you honestly believe that we will find a woman who will marry one of us, but sleep with both of us and have children she doesn’t know which one of us fathered?

I believe there are women who would. We just haven’t found one yet.

We’ve been searching the last seven years and we haven’t yet. Riordan sighed in resignation. I think we have to forget that plan and go for a more traditional route.

Okay. Reilly sighed. But don’t move out. I’ll make myself scarce if you bring a woman home.

I will have to move when I get married, Riordan warned.

Why? Reilly asked, genuinely puzzled. Their four-bedroom house was big enough for the time being. They could get something bigger later on.

Do you think any woman is going to want to share a house with you and the string of women you bring home?

Perhaps I’ll find myself a woman and settle down, too.

Riordan sensed the desperation in his brother’s voice and felt like a heel for causing him pain. Look, I’m not going to find a woman any time soon. I just wanted you to know where my thoughts are headed.

No problem. Reilly smiled and jumped off the bed energetically. Let’s start the day by going to the barber’s.

The local barbershop opened on Sundays to cater for people who were too busy midweek and Saturdays.

I didn’t mean that you should cut yours off, too! Riordan felt terrible, although a part of him was relieved. They had looked the same for so long it would have been odd for strangers to suddenly be able to easily distinguish between them.

It’s time. Reilly grabbed a handful of his luxuriant locks which still luckily didn’t have a strand of grey and made a face. We hardly use the bikes anymore and we’re not getting any younger, are we?

They had enjoyed years of riding around on their powerful Harley Davidsons, but on their 40th birthday last year their younger brother Dominic had presented them each with a Ferrari FF: gunmetal grey for Riordan and black for Reilly. They had known that his choice of gift had a lot to do with their mother’s constant worry about them riding around on their motorcycles, but they had both fallen in love with the cars on sight. The Harleys were still parked in their basement garage, but didn’t see much action any more.

Let’s get a move on then. Riordan swung his legs off the bed and got to his feet. The reporter from The Times is due here at four. We don’t want to keep her waiting.

Damn, I forgot about her! Reilly’s brow creased into a frown.

Actually, the timing is perfect. We can plug our advert and get more eyes on it.

That’s true. Reilly smiled as he considered the potential impact of an article in the Arts section of the newspaper. We should get more than double the calls. Let’s hope we get lucky this time.

Smiling again, Reilly turned and left the room.

Their mother, a portrait artist herself, had recognized and encouraged their prestigious talent from a tender age. She’d financially supported them as they spent time in Europe, primarily Rome, after they had graduated university. They had walked in the footsteps of late, great masters of their craft.

Before leaving they had each painted a portrait of her as a gift for her approaching birthday which they would miss.

On returning to the UK, they had intended to complete the obligatory one-year PGCE training and take up employment as art teachers as two of their older brothers had done.

Instead, they’d come back to find themselves almost famous, at least in the art world, specifically among fellow portraitists and patrons who frequented the National Portrait Gallery.

Unbeknownst to them, their mother had contacted the curator of the gallery, who had seen the portraits and immediately decided that they should be on display in the gallery. They had become the topic of hot debate. Most people believed that the two portraits were done by the same painter, although the twins both signed their names in full at the bottom of each portrait. Only a few believed they’d been done by different painters or were even able to see the subtle differences in styles.

The Times had featured the portraits in a very flattering accompanying article and the twins had found themselves inundated with commissions. They’d been surprised to find that like Royalty, members of the aristocracy still believed in sitting for portraits which they proudly mounted on the walls of their grand homes.

They usually worked on a canvas together or set up their easels side by side, Riordan on the left, Reilly on the right, and painted different subjects if required.

Last year, an elderly and eccentric Saudi Arabian businessman had visited the gallery, seen the two portraits of their mother and commissioned them to each paint a portrait of a typical ‘English Rose’ for half a million pounds. An art connoisseur, the man had been one of the few people able to distinguish the minor differences in their styles. He had been as fascinated by the twins as he was their talent. They had no idea what he did with the portraits, but he’d told them that he was extremely pleased with the result, claiming that they had each captured a different facet of the sitter.

They had been well compensated for previous commissions, but the businessman’s had been the most lucrative. He had paid half the sum in advance and the other half promptly on receipt of the portraits. He had then commissioned a set of portraits of an African or African-Caribbean woman, and sent a length of sheer, silver silk chiffon and an ornate platinum and diamond necklace for her to wear while sitting for the portraits.

They had immediately started the search for an appropriate model, but finding her was proving tougher than anticipated. The businessman had a very specific requirement: a woman who looked innocent but wasn’t necessarily so. The ten women who had turned up in response to their previous advert had all been attractive in some way. Most of them had looked in good shape, but they had all looked too worldly for the job.

They had been luckier with their first model. The curvy blonde had been an out-of-work actress who had effortlessly achieved the look they’d wanted. She had been a lucky find, but there weren’t that many African or African-Caribbean actresses around, out of work or otherwise.

Riordan prayed that they’d find the right model soon. The restlessness he felt would dissipate as soon as he held his beloved paintbrushes between his fingers and started a new project.

*****

Chapter Two

I can’t believe you’re really going to do it!

Gabrielle Johnson looked at her twin Isabelle and rolled her eyes. We need the money, honey.

Not that badly! her sister protested. What if they hang your portrait in some seedy gallery?

The advert said that it was for a private collection of an overseas client, Gabrielle reminded her, poking a finger at a newspaper lying on the small kitchen table.

Things will get better soon, Isabelle said softly. You don’t have to do this.

Not soon enough! Gabrielle stood up and paced the floor. We’ve been the dutiful daughters Dad wanted us to be. Got our degrees, applied for jobs we were qualified for, got turned down time and time again and finally had to accept jobs that we were bloody overqualified for and pay crappy salaries!

At least we have jobs, Isabelle reminded her.

They both worked for the local authority: Gabrielle in Housing and Isabelle in Council Tax. Promotion prospects were virtually nonexistent, but as Isabelle had pointed out, they were lucky to be employed. The government spouted talks of economic recovery, but only the wealthy seemed to be benefiting from it. Most new jobs were on a temporary basis and neither of them could afford to leave their current jobs for better-paid, less-secure positions.

Jobs that can’t cover our bills. Gabrielle couldn’t help the bitterness coating her voice.

They did until we had to send all that money for Dad’s operation, her sister reminded her.

Yes, the stubborn mule stayed in Guyana and now we’re fucked!

Gabby! her twin admonished.

Their parents had returned to Guyana when their father retired four years ago. Seven months ago when the doctors had diagnosed what he’d thought was a stomach ulcer from eating the peppery foods he liked as the early stages of stomach cancer, his daughters had urged him to return to the UK where he would have received free hospitalization and treatment—after all he’d worked and paid his taxes in the country for over twenty-five years. Instead he had stubbornly booked himself into a private hospital and the nightmare of escalating costs had begun. Soon he had run through the nest egg which had remained after he and their mother had built their dream home in Prashad Nagar, an affluent area in the capital, Georgetown. With their father’s treatment already begun and no way of them then getting him to the UK, the twins had had no choice but to empty their bank accounts, take out bank loans and maximize the balances on their credit cards.

The only good news in the whole nightmare was that the cancer hadn’t spread. The surgeon had been able to remove the diseased piece of intestinal track and their father was now supposedly cancer free. Knock on wood.

The loan repayments on top of their other bills, including the mortgage on a two bedroom house which they had bought during the housing boom that was now worth less than they had bought it for, was crippling them. They’d had cut out all luxuries: the expensive fresh seafood that reminded them of holidays with their grandparents in Guyana; the weekly cinema trips to see newest blockbusters as well as the overpriced drinks, large salted popcorn and cheesy nachos they used to snack on while enjoying the movies and the monthly pampering sessions at an expensive West