Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  I’ve been caught staring, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  Ellie’s hand tugs free of mine, jarring me back to the present and my responsibilities.

  “Auntie Dair.” She’s pointing to the spread the caterers have laid on the dining table.

  Of course, he had to be here, and I had to agree to cake. Would he think I was coming to talk to him? Was I the reason he was here? Maybe it was a fluke.

  Don’t be stupid. Sterling didn’t show up today, of all days, out of the blue.

  Maybe he worked with my father. Stranger things have happened. Except not really. My father might have worked with the devil himself to close a deal, but somehow I doubt Sterling would get in bed with a MacLaine.

  Or rather back in bed with one. Not after everything that happened.

  Then again, we were adults now. He probably never even thought of me after he left Valmont. And he is obviously successful judging from that suit. Still, I can’t help but wonder where he’s been the last five years.

  While I’ve been trying to convince myself that this is the world’s most unlikely coincidence, Ellie has been attempting to pull me toward the desserts. No doubt she’s spotted the chocolate cake.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I spy my brother, Malcolm. Marching her to him, I interrupt his conversation, which sounded like business talk anyway. Maybe politics. I’m not sure which topic is worse at a funeral but discussing either is like a MacLaine. “She wants cake.”

  He doesn’t bother to look at me—or her. “Get her some.” Then he turns back to his discussion.

  “She’s your daughter,” I say icily.

  His answering glare is somehow even colder. I hate seeing my green eyes staring back at me from his face. Are mine that empty? Malcolm has my father’s dark hair and brutal looks, but we both have our mother’s eyes. Ellie has gone completely silent at our feet. She isn’t tugging at my hand anymore. I glance to her and hate myself. I tell myself she’s little—that she doesn’t understand what’s going on—but she gets more than I want to admit. A rock would pick up on the tension between me and my brother, but that’s not the worst of it. It’s become a game to pass Ellie off like we’re playing hot potato. It’s been worse with the funeral plans. I couldn’t tell Malcolm or Ginny no when they needed an extra hand after Daddy got sick. That was a year ago, and I’ve been playing part-time nanny ever since. That’s why Ellie usually lands with me. I suspected it made her mother feel better to dump her with family instead of a stranger. Her baby lips trembles and I realize she understands so much more than either her parents or I give her credit for.

  “Let’s get cake,” I say in a strained voice. “Apparently, Daddy doesn’t want any.”

  I keep my sights on the table and lead her there, pretending to be completely absorbed in every request she makes—partially due to guilt, but mostly in an attempt to ignore my proximity to Sterling. It doesn’t matter. My body vibrates with barely suppressed awareness. I can feel my memories of him. They dance across the back of my neck, rippling through me and raising goosebumps along my skin. I don’t even realize I’m picking up one of each item Ellie has pointed to until the plate is heaped with sugary confections. A sugar high might teach her parents not to dump her with me.

  I don’t have to look over to know Sterling is watching me now. I feel his gaze sweeping over me, penetrating my act, past the wall I’ve built so carefully over the last five years.

  Ginny appears, casting a disapproving look at Ellie’s plate. She looks even more stressed than when she left. That’s par for the course with her. Her anxiety ratchets up a notch every minute of the day. Even the small pharmacy worth of pills her doctor prescribes isn’t helping anymore. She wasn’t always that way. Times change. Not always for the better.

  I leave Ellie with her now that she’s been placated with sweets. Commanding myself to look ahead, I manage to avoid Sterling. I want to look. I want to move closer. I won’t let myself do either.

  But today isn’t one for escapes. Cyrus Eaton enters the front room, slinking through the crowd. He also moves like Sterling, graceful and serpentine, his dark eyes sweeping the room for his prey. When he spots me, I half expect him to pounce. His orders come from his girlfriend and my best friend, Poppy. She’s stuck in Paris, so she sent him to guard me. If she only knew.

  I made a mistake. Several, if I’m being honest. Who hasn’t?

  Cyrus is in front of me. Sterling behind me. I have to brave one of them. For a moment, I consider climbing through a window. They’re certainly large enough, but I’d probably set off an alarm. I have to make a decision. I’ve never been very good at that.

  I want to know why Sterling is here. I want to know where he’s been. I have a million questions and a few accusations for him. But getting too close is more dangerous than knowing the truth. That’s exactly why I move toward Cyrus. Better the beast you know. I have no idea who Sterling Ford is anymore. And Cyrus? For better or worse, I know exactly who he is. He never left. Like most of the people in my life he’s been a fixture in my world. Like Poppy and our friends. Like my brother and his family. Even my father.

  But Sterling? There is a morbid symmetry to his reappearance. He’d been here when my life started falling apart. Then he’d pieced it back together.

  I suspect he hasn’t come to save me twice.

  3

  Sterling

  Indecision grips her features and she pauses long enough for me to study her. Adair MacLaine was a slip of a girl when we first met. The girl was pretty. The woman is stunning. Her once slender body has ripened into a soft fullness, lush and tempting. A black dress hugs her generous hips and dips low to show the swell of her breasts. Her head tilts up, nose in the air, and I wonder if she ever found the confidence she so desperately flaunted five years ago but never really felt. Maybe she bought some with daddy’s money.

  She pivots on her Louboutins and starts toward the door with a smile on her face. I turn to discover she’s headed for an old friend. I’m ten steps closer and a foot taller. I catch Cyrus Eaton before she can reach him. Now she has a real choice to make. Fight or flight. Maybe she’s finally shed her skin to become the woman she wears like a glove. Adair hesitates before backing away and disappearing into the crowd.

  Maybe not.

  I’m not surprised. Cyrus, on the other hand, is. He takes a second to process me before his hand claps on my shoulder, dragging me into a hug. “Sterling Ford. What the fuck?”

  Trust him to get straight to the point.

  “How long has it been? Five years?” he continues as we break apart. “I didn’t know you were back in Valmont.”

  “Nashville, actually,” I tell him.

  “Visiting?” Cyrus can mine someone for information more efficiently than a computer virus. It’s his particular talent and one he’s put to good use on the stock market. Unlike most men I’d met who’d made their name in day trading, Cyrus shows no signs of stress or premature aging. Likely because he would never need the money he made there. Playing the market is exactly that for him: a game. Not a high stakes one like poker or black jack. Investing millions was no more than Monopoly to him. His mess of blond hair is closely cropped now, stubble dusts his jaw, but his smile is feline and familiar.

  “I have a place off Broadway.” He didn’t need to know more than that. Cyrus isn’t on my list, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.

  “We should do dinner. Poppy should be home from Paris later this week. She went to the spring shows with her mother.” He shrugs as though this is a perfectly normal thing for a grown woman to do. For people here, it is. I have nothing against Cyrus or his girlfriend. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the closest thing to decent humans this town has ever produced. That doesn’t mean they’re in touch with reality.

  That’s the real problem with Valmont: it exists within its own bubble of exclusivity. Close enough to Nashville to commute but with enough space to spread, it attracts the rich, the refined, and the renowned. It
also has the real estate market to match. The average home price is well over the million-dollar mark. In my time here, I’d seen the elitism first hand. They passed off the snobbery as high society, and even the kindest among them, like Cyrus and Poppy, had no perception of reality. When you’re born with a trust fund, vacation homes, and household staff, how could you?

  There are two tricks for surviving the Valmont enclave. The first is to understand them—what drives them, what scares them, what informs them. The second is to never become them.

  I might have made a fortune since my time here, but I will never be one of them. Not that they would ever let me.

  “This is terrible, isn’t it?” Cyrus lowers his voice, watching someone over my shoulder. I know exactly who has his attention without having to turn. He always watched over Adair. There was a time when I appreciated that. Now I want to shake some goddamn sense into him. “Losing her dad after…”

  I mutter a half-hearted agreement. Part of me agrees with him. The rest of me is over it. Lots of people lose their fathers. Lots of people have sad stories. Why does hers matter more than the rest?

  “At least she had time to prepare,” he says.

  “Was he sick for long?” I ask, pretending like I don’t already know. When I had heard the MacLaine family patriarch was ill, I’d celebrated at a two-star Michelin restaurant and ordered champagne for the house.

  “A few years. It was good of you to come, especially after you left things with her.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, its weight heavy with implication. He knows more than most about how my relationship with Adair ended, but he doesn’t know everything.

  “The past is exactly that.” I mean it. I have no interest in the boy I used to be or the girl she was. But I’m invested in what happens next. Too many people think revenge is about the past. It’s not. It’s about the future. You can’t destroy the past. All you can do is ruin what’s to come.

  “I should…” He trails off, leaving an invitation hanging in the air.

  “I came to pay my respects,” I tell him. “Adair doesn’t even remember me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Then she doesn’t want to see me,” I say. Cyrus looks like he wants to contradict this but can’t. We both know it’s true. She had her chance five years ago. She knows I’m here. I caught her looking at me. Maybe she’s trying to place me. Women like her throw away men as though we’re disposable. “Is she seeing someone?”

  “Many a man has tried.” Cyrus grins conspiratorially. “Money’s tried a couple of times.”

  I smother a growl. There are things I missed about Tennessee— hot chicken, good music, and muggy, summer nights—but I have never once missed Montgomery West.

  “Still no love lost there, I see,” Cyrus murmurs.

  “Bygones,” I force out. I have reasons to hate “Money” West that would sway even his oldest friend. I keep them to myself. Information is only currency when it’s in one man’s pocket.

  “I should check on Adair. I promised Poppy,” Cyrus reiterates his mission. “We should get together, though. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to the last few years.”

  Translation: he wants to know how the poor scholarship kid, who lost everything, is standing in front of him in a two thousand dollar suit. That’s a trade secret, but Cyrus might be my most amiable contact here. If I’m in with him, opportunities will present themselves. Money might buy open doors, but friends could as well.

  I slip a silver business card holder from my jacket and hand one to him. Cyrus studies the linen card and its simple embossed information for a moment before pocketing it. A million questions scroll through his eyes, but he doesn’t ask a single one. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Do that,” I say absently, noticing something interesting. Malcolm MacLaine and a handful of other men are heading toward the opposite wing of the main level where the offices sit empty. Cyrus excuses himself to find Adair, giving me the chance to follow them.

  The benefit of a flexible moral code is that I’m accustomed to remaining unseen when need be. As the men disappear into one of the MacLaine family’s conference rooms, a snort of laughter escapes me. Trust a MacLaine to hold court at a time like this.

  I slip into the large executive office that Malcolm and a half dozen other men entered a few minutes ago. I’m intimately familiar with Windfall’s rooms. I have rather fond memories of the table the men have gathered around, in fact. But I’m not here to skip down memory lane. I have an offer to deliver. Some might consider it a threat. I suspect the heir to the MacLaine fortune will see it as an opportunity.

  They’re already down to brass tacks—voices raised, first round of whiskey drank—so no one notices when the door clicks quietly shut behind me. I know a fair few of MacLaines’ associates, mostly by reputation. The family lawyer, Judd Harding, and I have our own history. The rest of the men are here for the same reason that I am: money. Angus MacLaine had died mired in debt after being forced to retire from the State Senate—a move that hadn’t endeared him to the powers that had put him there.

  “I know my father’s death leaves unresolved issues, but my bid for the Senate this fall is a sure thing.” Malcolm is exasperated, raking his hands through his hair. “However, without the company to back up my run, we’re all going to lose.”

  “Now isn’t the time to discuss this, Malcolm,” Harding says not bothering to smother the weariness in his voice. “Once the will has been executed, we can handle these matters.”

  “I don’t need the goddamn will to be executed to know that my father’s stock in the company is mine!” Malcolm’s hand slams against the conference table rattling the crystal Waterford whiskey glasses in front of each of his associates.

  “My uncle has a vested interest in MacLaine Media.” Even from behind, I recognize Luca DeAngelo’s languid baritone. His index finger taps the table softly. He’s the only man I know who can be bored while delivering a threat to someone. It’s one reason that he’s one of my best friends in the world. I find it’s best to keep Luca close. “Without the family’s assistance, your father’s last run for the Senate”—

  “Excuse me,” Malcolm cuts him off, but he isn’t begging his forgiveness. He’s spotted me. “This is a private meeting.”

  “Conducting business during a funeral?” I volunteer a sneer. Malcolm MacLaine is the kind of man who probably conducted business over his father’s death bed. The bastard gene runs in the family.

  “And you are?” His eyes narrow, trying to place me. When he can’t, he smiles apologetically at the men in suits. “I’ll have security”—

  “That won’t be necessary,” I cut him off, striding into the room toward the bar cart. “When you hear my offer, you’ll be glad you invited me to stay.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I’m not a man who needs an invitation into another man’s office or to his belongings. Not when I already own them. Helping myself, I pour a glass before turning back to the group. Malcolm hasn’t moved an inch toward his phone and the other men are watching me with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Luca’s dark eyes shoot me a look that clearly says took you long enough. I shrug as to say it couldn’t be helped. It’s not like he doesn’t understand the value of a dramatic entrance.

  “Help yourself.” Malcolm’s lips thin into a line.

  There’s an empty seat at the table—the one on the far end, opposite where he stands. With one hand, I unbutton my suit jacket before settling into it. Heads swing from me to Malcolm and back like metronomes, but he can only stare. I might as well have walked in and peed on the rug. I’m marking my territory with no regard to his claim over the space, and he knows it.

  “They can leave.” I gesture to the others. Luca gets up to excuse himself while the rest turn various shades of scarlet, protesting. Except Harding. He’s flipping through his mental contacts list. I see the pages turning in his guarded expression. His head tips in surprise when he lands on t
he answer but he covers his reaction quickly. Past the suit and past the years, he sees who I am. Or who I was. No one here knows who I am now. I like that, and I plan to keep it that way.

  “I don’t know who you think you are,” Malcolm seethes, igniting a wave of furious commentary from the others.

  I swirl the whiskey in my glass, watch it coat the sides, and wait.

  “Do as he says,” Harding advises over the protests. He doesn’t look happy about it.

  I hadn’t expected him to go to bat for me, but even an unwilling ally makes things easier.

  Men shuffle out of the room, bested by a better man or, at least, a bigger cock. I ignore the curious glances thrown my way. They’ll know who I am soon enough. Not one of them speaks. Malcolm glares at me in gloomy silence.

  Brushing my fingertip along the crystal tumbler’s cut edge, a soft vibrating chime fills the air. “Cheer up. It’s a funeral.”

  “Are you going to drink that or did you come here to play?” Malcolm asks dryly.

  I stop fiddling with the whiskey and lean back in my chair. That’s both a good and bad question. I did come here to play but not in the way that he means. My game is a bit more interesting than fucking with a room full of dickless loan sharks. I’ve been maneuvering my pieces into the right places for years. MacLaine wants answers. I want to savor the moment.