Playboy Bachelors: Remodelling the Bachelor. Marie FerrarellaЧитать онлайн книгу.

      To Helen Conrad, my bridge over troubled waters.

      Thank you.

       Chapter One

      “When are you going to get that cracked sink fixed?” Beau de la Croix asked good-naturedly as he slid back into his place at the poker table.

      The question was addressed to Philippe Zabelle, his cousin and the host of their weekly poker game. Beau and several other friends and relatives showed up here at Philippe’s to talk, eat and bet toothpicks on the whimsical turn of the cards. They used colored toothpicks instead of chips or money because those were the house rules and Philippe, easygoing about so many things, was very strict about that.

      Philippe’s dark eyebrows rose slightly above his light green eyes at the innocent but still irritating query. Beau had hit a sore spot. Everyone at the circular table was aware of that.

      “When I get around to it,” Philippe replied evenly.

      “Better hope that’s not soon,” Georges Armand, Philippe’s half brother commented, battling the grin that begged to break out across his tanned face. “If Philippe puts his hand to it, that’s the end of the sink.”

      Philippe, the oldest of famed artist Lily Moreau’s three sons, shifted his steely gaze toward Georges, his junior by two years. “Are you saying that I’m not handy?”

      Alain Dulac, Philippe’s other half brother, as blond as Philippe was dark, bent over with laughter at the very idea of his older brother holding an actual tool in his hand. “Oh God, Philippe, you’re so far from handy that if handy were Los Angeles, you’d be somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Drowning,” Alain finally managed, holding his sides because they hurt.

      Georges discarded two cards and momentarily frowned at the rest of his hand. “Two,” he decided out loud, then looked over to his right and Philippe. “Everyone knows you’ve got lots of talents, Philippe, but being handy is just not one of them.”

      Philippe tried not to take offense, but it bothered him nonetheless. For the most part, he considered himself a free thinker, a person who believed that no one should be expected to fit into a given slot or pigeonholed because of gender or race. With the flamboyant and outspoken Lily Moreau as his mother, a woman who made the fictional Auntie Mame come off like a cloistered nun, he couldn’t help but have an open mind.

      Even so, it got under his skin that he barely knew the difference between a Phillips-head screwdriver and a flat-head one. Men were supposed to know these things, it was a given, written in some giant book of man-rules somewhere.

      The fact that he not only couldn’t rebuild an automobile engine but was pretty stumped if one refused to start, didn’t bother him. Lots of men were ignorant about what went on under the hoods of things housed in their garage.

      But