by Nikki Sloane
Royce followed me out into the hall, past the pictures of the different branches our family company had planted across the globe. “Take the afternoon,” he said. “Go get some rest.”
He didn’t say it with force, but I couldn’t tolerate it regardless. I halted and turned to face him. There weren’t tired lines etched at the corner of his eyes, and when he rubbed his fingers at his temple, I noted the flash of his cufflinks. Ares, the god of war—a gift from Marist.
It was difficult to tolerate how he had everything he wanted. His youth, his wife’s love, his high position within the company I’d done more for than any other Hale. In my desire to win at all costs, I’d lost practically everything.
Even people to desperately pin my failure on.
I kept my voice low so as not to disturb our employees in the offices nearby. “You do not tell me what to do.”
Royce’s shoulders lifted as he assumed a confrontational posture but matched my hushed voice. “You were an embarrassment in there.” He motioned back toward the conference room. “Go home, Dad. We didn’t fall apart while you were gone for two years. I think we can handle one fucking afternoon.”
When I didn’t move, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, which was a mannerism he’d unwittingly picked up from me.
“I’m asking,” he said. “Please.”
The word didn’t come easily to him, and I could respect that. We were both aware of the hierarchy at HBHC and how far he’d risen, and I appreciated that he chose not to flex his power or throw it in my face, especially since when the roles were reversed, I’d done it to him.
I was a sore loser, yet my son was gracious in his victory.
“You’ve made your point,” I said, conceding. I was tired and no good to anyone. “You’ll call if anything comes across your desk that needs my input.”
He relaxed a degree. “Yeah, of course.”
I gave a short nod as a goodbye and resumed my journey toward my office, but felt his gaze at my back. Despite everything I’d done, he still cared enough about me to worry, proving he was a better man than I’d given him credit for. It gave me a sliver of hope we’d find a way to repair some of the damage I’d done.
Sophia was at her desk, hunched over her computer for once instead of her phone, but when my shadow fell over her, she lifted her gaze to mine and kept her face blank.
“My office,” I barked. “Now.”
As expected, she did exactly as asked and shut the door behind us. However, alarm made her tense when I strode to one of the couches and sat, pointing to the other across from me.
There was an edge of panic she tried to keep out of her voice. “Are you firing me?”
“No.” I watched her scurry toward the couch. “We need to discuss last night.”
“Oh.” She wore a red top and a black and white houndstooth skirt, which rode up a little as she crossed her long legs. Her expression was guarded. “Which speech am I getting?”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes were dull and resigned. “I have a lot of work to do, so let’s save us both some time. Is this the ‘you’re a great girl, and last night was fun, but it didn’t mean anything’ speech? Or the ‘it was a mistake and it can’t happen again’ one?”
It was stunning how quickly she upended my thoughts. I had spent the ride in this morning carefully crafting the specific language to use to minimize how upset she’d likely become when I told her I was putting a stop to this. Yet she didn’t seem upset at all.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I clarified, “but you’re correct. It cannot happen again.”
“Okay,” she said plainly, the matter settled. “Is there anything else?”
Her dismissive attitude was a knife in my gut. I should have been pleased to have it over with so painlessly. It was a better outcome than I could have hoped for. But the idea that she had no qualms about walking away from me after what we’d done—what we’d shared—last night . . .
It rankled.
No, worse. I despised it.
“Don’t misunderstand,” I tried to keep my tone even and not seethe, “this isn’t what I want, but it’s necessary. You are too young, and if anyone were to find out, it’d destroy us both.”
“I get it.” She uncrossed her legs and smoothed her palms down her skirt before rising to her feet. “It would be bad if anyone knew.” She stared at me with electricity in her eyes and a cruel smile on her lips. “It’s really a shame,” she deadpanned, “that neither of us is any good at keeping secrets.”
My tired mind failed me with a response, and by the time I’d drummed one up, she was halfway out the door.
It vexed me the way Sophia pretended nothing had happened between us. Perhaps she was proving her point. I knew nothing about any of the secrets she held, or why she wanted the focus of DuBois’s book to be partly on her.
It was staggering the way she could compartmentalize her emotions, but it made sense. To compete at the Olympic level, she’d learned to turn off everything that had the potential to distract from her goal.
I was downright jealous of her ability.
Arrangements were made as we’d discussed. On Monday, I had dinner with Damon Lynch and offered to host an event for him and his campaign at my estate in July, which he graciously accepted. On Tuesday afternoon, I went to the Boston Opera Theatre to speak with the theatre director and came back to the office $200,000 poorer, but a guarantee that my grant would be used to produce a show casting Scoffield’s daughter Erika in a role, even if it were a minor one.
On Wednesday, I went to human resources and put someone on hiring Jason Vanderburgh, whatever position would be a good fit for both him and my company.
And on Thursday, Sophia came into the office wearing slacks.
I saw right through her attempt to test my limits. We were playing a different form of chess, and my next move was easy to execute. All it took was one phone call.
Friday morning, I was already in my office when she arrived, waltzing in to deliver my coffee, and for once I was pleased to see she was wearing pants. I gestured to the large, flat white box tied with a silver bow resting on the table in the sitting area.
“That came for you.”
She nearly spilled my coffee as I took the cup from her.
“What is it?” She eyed it warily, like it might explode if she touched it.
I feigned indifference. “Go find out.”
She trudged to the table and picked at the ribbon, tugging slowly until the knot slipped free and she pulled the satin away. The lid was lifted, and she hesitated, her gaze lingering on the designer logo stamped on the sticker holding the tissue paper closed.
It was unclear if her question was for me or rhetorical. “What is this?”
The tissue rustled as she opened and pushed it aside, and then the lid she’d been holding on to crinkled under the sudden pressure of her hand. She didn’t seem aware. Her free hand leaned down to touch the fabric of the midnight blue dress as if she weren’t sure it was real.
Once confirmed, she stroked her fingers over it lovingly and gave the smile I hadn’t realized I’d missed seeing until this moment.
“I took the liberty of purchasing you a new dress, as you seem to have run out of options in your wardrobe.”
Her focus drifted my direction, like she’d just remembered I was still in the room. She peered at me with confusion and perhaps a grain of distrust. “You bought this?”
“I approved the purchase, yes.” It hadn’t been difficult to track down a stylist yesterday, explain what I needed, and have it delivered by six a.m. the following morning. Money solved all problems.
She plucked at the price tag still attached and gave an amused look. “This dress is twelve grand.”
“I’m aware of how much it costs.” This was a nonissue as far as I was concerned. I would pay an additional twelve thousand dollars to see her in it. “You will wear this dress today,�
�� I said. “For me.”
Her breath caught, and color warmed across her cheekbones.
When she didn’t move, I added, “Now, Sophia. You may use my private washroom to change.”
It was powerfully satisfying when she scooped up the box and carried it into the attached restroom without a word of disagreement, and I may have detected a spring in her step as she went.
There were marketing proposals to look over, but I found it difficult to focus as I sat at my desk and listened to the rustling coming from behind the washroom door. It was inevitable that I pictured her standing beside the sink in only her bra and panties as she stepped into the dress and pulled it on. The fabric would glide over her curves as I wished my hands could.
I scowled at my thoughts.
When the door opened, she turned off the light, stepped back into my office, and my heart forgot how to complete its one and only task.
The blue dress was sleeveless but professional, its design understated. It was long, stopping several inches below her knees, and the length misled my eye into believing her legs were even longer. Like the sweater dress she’d worn the day she approached me, this one clung to her curves.
Her waist looked impossibly narrow and as if it were begging me to put my hands on it.
“What do you think?” she asked innocently and turned in a circle, and I leashed the groan that threatened to reveal my thoughts. It wasn’t just how good her feminine figure looked in the dress; it was all that went with it. I’d chosen the garment. Purchased it. Demanded she wear it.
Her brilliant smile announced she was happy to, and heat slicked down my spine, spreading out until it enveloped the rest of me. My voice was tight, choked with desire and the need to disguise it. “It looks fine.”
I’d overcompensated, and she didn’t believe a word of it. Sophia strutted toward me, gathering her hair in her hand, and when she reached me, she turned her back, presenting the tag still dangling from a ribbon pinned to the neckline.
In chess, I always plotted two moves ahead, but Sophia Alby made that impossible. She blinded me and it was difficult to trust my own instincts. I should have anticipated this, and perhaps I had on some level, but I was not prepared for how eager my fingers were to skate across the skin at the nape of her neck and undo the clasp of the pin.
I dropped the tag onto my desk and allowed myself a moment of weakness. I’d paid for this dress, after all.
She sucked in a sharp breath as my hands closed on her waist, preventing her from escaping, although it became evident escape wasn’t on her mind. As I moved into her space, she melted back into me, my chest becoming a wall for her to lean against.
Thoughts scattered and disappeared, such as logic and propriety and sense, making room in my mind for an unfamiliar feeling of longing. Without my consent, my head dipped, and I pressed my lips to the base of her neck, just at the edge of the dress.
Her shiver moved through her frame, and I experienced it with her, my body translating it into pleasure.
“Thank you,” she swallowed thickly, “for the dress.”
“You’re welcome.” I released her while I still could and stepped back, savoring how she seemed to sway in my absence.
The back section of the Cape Hill Yacht Clubhouse was a ballroom with a soaring pitched ceiling, supported by arches that dropped columns to the sides of the room and didn’t detract from the view at the back. Out the windows and beyond the veranda, the Cape was dotted with piers and boats, and then the water swept out deeper into the Atlantic.
I was pleased for Evangeline. The event appeared to be well attended, and the space was crowded, full with the finest families the town had to offer. It was loud with conversation and laughter, aided by liquor and drugs, some of which weren’t likely procured by prescription.
The Shaunessys were here in the crowd somewhere.
I knew because posters displaying the bachelors and their bios had been posted in the front lounge where I currently stood, and Liam’s pissant son Richard was featured on one of them.
If that snot-nosed kid brought in more money than I did, I’d go down the pier to my yacht, Checkmate, sail away, and never return.
“They’re getting ready to start,” a female voice said from behind me. “Did you mingle at all?”
The gentlemen had been encouraged to be friendly and work the room to give potential bidders a taste, and since I viewed this as a competition, I’d done my best. I’d made small talk as Sophia had coached me, chuckled at things I did not find amusing, and forced myself to smile.
I turned to face my assistant. “Yes, of course.”
She was still wearing the dress I’d given her, and my pleasure at her doing so hadn’t waned all day. The smile that warmed my face now was the first genuine one I’d had all evening.
There was a glass of champagne in one of her hands and her phone in the other, but as she gazed at me, a frown crossed her expression. She thrust the glass to me to hold, and I took it to free up her hand, which she immediately used to reach toward my chest. I stayed motionless as she dug her fingers into the breast pocket of my suit coat and fixed the white pocket square. It was an innocuous gesture, and yet my body thrilled at her touch.
I said it low, so no one would hear it. “You didn’t ask permission to touch me.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell me I didn’t have it.”
You are letting this become a problem.
I forced my gaze off her and on to the poster with my picture and bio, gesturing toward it. “Where did you get that?”
“The picture?” She glanced at the signage. “I took it during the sales meeting last week.” Her posture stiffened, realizing I might not approve. “Um, is that okay?”
The image she’d captured was through the glass windows of the conference room, and she must have cropped and edited it, so I filled the frame and was the only focus. I was seated at the head of the table, my gaze turned up at whomever was presenting at the other end of the room. My hair was peppered with gray, more at the temples, but I didn’t dislike how it looked. I appeared distinguished and thoughtful and unassuming.
I exuded a quiet power with that look. Confident, but not pretentious or intimidating.
It wasn’t the brand I had strived for once, but now? This image sold a promise of the new Macalister Hale, older and wiser and worthy, and I was determined to deliver.
Sophia was on edge, waiting for my approval, and her voice faltered. “I think you look great.”
It was unclear if she meant in the picture or in general, but either way was good. “I agree,” I said. “I also appreciate that it didn’t require me to sit for a photographer.”
Unlike the rest of the bachelors, who obviously had. Their pictures reminded me of yearbook head shots. It made mine more visually interesting, drawing the eye, and I would take every advantage afforded me.
She shook her head when I tried to pass her glass of champagne back to her. “Keep it.”
“No, I don’t—”
She lifted a hand like it was beyond her control. “I know, but you look better holding it.” She grinned. “The thirsty bitches are going to start a bidding war over you.”
Either she’d already had a glass or two, or she felt comfortable enough around me to say such a teasing thing, but her statement made me feel . . . good. It left me at a loss at how to respond, but then the music faded in the ballroom, and the announcer asked the gentlemen participating in the auction to report to the captain’s room.
I started to move past her, but Sophia’s hand gently grasped my arm and made me hesitate. “Hey,” she said in a hush. “You don’t need it, but good luck, Macalister.”
There was a rush inside me, a sensation similar to falling unexpectedly. It was both frightening and exhilarating at the same time. My voice wasn’t as steady as usual, but hopefully she’d hear the weight I put behind it. “Thank you.”
We parted, her going
into the ballroom to join her friends and me taking the long way around the building to avoid the crowd. The gift shop and offices were closed and dark. I walked past them, planning to cut through the restaurant which was also closed due to the event, but there were pictures lining the hallway, and I paused at one of them, recognizing the face.
It was last year’s regatta winner, likely taken moments after he’d crossed the finish line. Vance’s brown hair was wild in the wind, and the bright sunlight bounced off the hull of his boat and made the water around him a vivid blue.
He was smiling ear to ear. Happy.
My heart felt heavy, sinking in my chest. I hadn’t seen him look like that in years. Was it my absence and, with it, the lack of the enormous pressure I put on him that made this possible?
There were voices in the restaurant, both male, laughing and speaking far too loudly for the topic they were discussing.
“Come on, man,” one of them joked. “They should have used his mugshot for his picture.”
“Like it’d matter.” The second voice was bitter. “Macalister makes more money in a year than we’ll make our whole goddamn lives. And, hey, you know what likes money? Pussy.”
“Uh, speak for yourself, dick. I’m already making mid-six, and I’ve never had a problem getting pussy.”
Chair legs squealed across the floor like they’d risen from their seats. “You are so full of shit, Lynch.”
This had to be Duncan Lynch and not his father Damon. The voice was too young, and Duncan was one of the bachelors participating, not to mention, as a board member, the older Lynch made far more than six figures a year.
“You never had a problem getting pussy?” the other man continued. “Then I’ve got two words for you—Sophia Alby.”
My muscles solidified upon hearing her name, turning me into stone.
Duncan scoffed. “Okay, that was all her. I tried a couple times, but she always looked at me like I had a disease. I got tired of how she acted like she was better than me.”
With what little evidence I had, I concluded Sophia’s assessment had been correct. She was far better than Duncan Lynch.