Bombshell (The Rivals Book 3)

by Geneva Lee

  Also by Geneva Lee

  THE RIVALS SAGA

  Blacklist

  Backlash

  Bombshell

  THE ROYALS SAGA

  Command Me

  Conquer Me

  Crown Me

  Crave Me

  Covet Me

  Capture Me

  Complete Me

  Cross Me

  Claim Me

  Consume Me

  THE SINNERS SAGA

  Beautiful Criminal

  Beautiful Sinner

  Beautiful Forever

  BOMBSHELL

  Copyright © 2020 by Geneva Lee.

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Quaintrelle Publishing + Media

  www.GenevaLee.com

  First published, 2020.

  Cover design © Date Book Designs.

  Image © New Africa/Adobe Stock and pvstory/AdobeStock..

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Adair

  2. Sterling

  3. Adair

  4. Sterling

  5. Adair

  6. Sterling

  7. Adair

  8. Sterling

  9. Adair

  10. Adair

  11. Sterling

  12. Sterling

  13. Adair

  14. Sterling

  15. Adair

  16. Sterling

  17. Adair

  18. Sterling

  19. Adair

  20. Sterling

  21. Sterling

  22. Adair

  23. Adair

  24. Sterling

  25. Adair

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Sophie,

  Our favorite bombshell

  Prologue

  It doesn't make sense. I read the certificate in my hands again, my eyes skipping over the boxes where someone typed up the vital statistics. Four entries stand out to me:

  Adair Anne MacLaine.

  The woman standing across from me. The woman I didn't know before this moment. The woman I'm not sure I'll ever know.

  November 1.

  The day after her birthday. Four years ago. A day I was drunk on leave with Jack and Luca.

  Elodie Anne MacLaine.

  Her niece. They have a club for Sagittariuses. Sagittari? She likes hot chocolate.

  Unknown.

  But I know what name belongs in that box. Adair knows. More importantly, Adair knew, even then. It should have been my name in the box next to Adair's name—the box marked father.

  Adair

  The Past

  We make our way back down the thickly carpeted steps of the Valmont Country Club. If I look away for a moment, my heart swells like a wave cresting at high tide when I see him again. And his eyes? They crash over me, pulling me under until there’s only him and the promise of a life I was sure I’d never reach. I’m lost in him, and I never want to be found.

  Thankfully, no one seems to have noticed we were gone. I’m even more thankful that I can feel my tipsiness wearing off. We practically float into the Valmont Country Club ballroom, anchored to the earth only by our clasped hands and make our way to the dance floor. Sterling’s eyes glint, catching the last, dying ember of sunset streaming through the large windows

  God, he’s handsome. God, I love him.

  “Are you ready to dance, Lucky?” he says, but before I can answer he spins me against his body, catching my hand in his and pressing the other to the small of my back.

  “If you put your hand any lower, we’ll have to find another closet,” I tease.

  The adoration on his face transforms to something darker, sending my own mind to thoughts of another stolen moment alone. He pulls me even closer to him, twirling us between two other couples, and bends down to kiss me.

  Pop.

  The energy in the room changes, and I sense the people around us stop dancing as though we’ve actually become the center of the world instead of just feeling like we are.

  Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

  Flashes of light fill the ballroom, and this time, even I stop. I look around, half-expecting to discover some well-intentioned, but soon-to-be-unemployed server has turned on a strobe light.

  Boom!

  A shower of sparks ricochets over the lake outside, and a split second later, another loud boom fills the room. Orbs of pale pink and champagne bloom in the night sky, the water doubling the effect of the fireworks. The ballroom lights dim above us as the next firework goes off bathing everyone in flashes of pastel light. Around us, the people ooh and ahh as the flashes keep coming, now without any big, booming explosions.

  The piano in the corner, unused all night, begins playing. I know everything about the wedding plans—and this isn’t part of them. My eyes scan the crowd, hoping to find a glimpse of Ginny. There’s no way she okayed this. I would know.

  “There,” Sterling says, guessing who I was looking for and pointing to a spot by the glass wall.

  Ginny’s brow is crinkled, her mouth agape. For a second, I’m sure she hates the disruption, as her gaze flies around the room, from DJ to wedding planner, finally coming to rest on Malcolm’s face beside her. For an anguishing second, I think she’s about to widow herself until my brother gives his new wife a sly grin. She softens into a swoon, and he bends down to whisper something in her ear. As he does, a small group of violins and cellos start playing next to the piano, sending another titter through the audience. I’m not into classical music, so I can’t place the composition. But it’s lovely—soft and rich, with big swells that take my breath away.

  “Debussy, I think,” Sterling says, his face dancing almost as much as Ginny’s.

  It’s pure magic.

  A man dressed in a black-on-black suit stands in front of the musicians, cupping his hand over a black earpiece. He must be coordinating between them and the fireworks people. When the next swell hits, it reveals another surprise. An entire small orchestra has filed into the back of the room as everyone looks out on the fireworks, and they all begin playing as an incredible flurry of fireworks burns the sky nearly as bright as day.

  Two huge fireworks soar above the others, and when they explode I can feel my breath catch, waiting for the sound to make its way to us. Crashing cymbals join in time with the thunderous boom of the explosions, and the surging triumph of the music sends a collective ahh through the crowd.

  I see Ginny looking up into my brother’s eyes, her face a portrait of adoration.

  “Being here with you—I feel like I’m in a dream,” Sterling says softly. We watch, his arms wrapped around me and his chin on my shoulder, the music rising and falling as the lights of the fireworks burn arcs in the sky before collapsing towards their reflections. They match the swell and crash of my heartbeat. With each, I become more aware of him. With each, I fall a little more in love until I no longer want to see the fireworks themselves—only how they are reflected in his eyes.

  “Count on my family to go big,” I say, and for once I’m nearly proud of my brother. As far as I know, he has never had to plan so much as what to eat for lunch—and this definitely took a lot of planning. Of course, he might have done it just to impress people. It’s the kind of thing our father would do for
a party. But I’d rather believe he did it for love. I’m proof that even a MacLaine can fall head over heels.

  “I’m beginning to see what you meant when you said you wanted a big wedding,” Sterling says, an easy smile stealing across his face.

  “I knew you’d come around,” I pull his chin towards me and kiss him, his stubble lighting my skin on fire.

  The final crescendo is intense, the horn players discarding their stops and playing at full volume as the cymbals crash over and over again. Two final booms bring the orchestra to its final flourish, and the strings draw quickly to one last, soft run of the melody, bringing the room to silence.

  By the end, my ears are ringing from the noise. I see Sterling’s mouth move but can’t make out what he says. Although his lips seem to form the word champagne before he releases me to disappear into the sea of people, all applauding with the same contented grin he wears.

  “And he had a hell of a time,” says a young man a few feet away, talking as loudly to his date as only the recently deafened can. I recognize him as one of my brother’s friends from prep school.

  “She couldn’t make up her mind about the colors until just a couple of weeks ago, and he had to send them to China so the fireworks would match exactly,” the man explains. His date looks rapt, like she would have his children on the spot if he promised to do something like this for her. “He hired the company who did last year’s Fourth of July fireworks over the White House to deal with it. I guess he didn’t dare upset the bridezilla with the wrong color scheme.”

  So much for romance. It seems my brother bitched about having to wait on his wife, then made a phone call. I wonder how many minutes it took him to arrange this. Five? A whole ten? Not that it stopped him from bragging to his buddies. It’s just another wealthy pissing contest between billionaires. If he couldn’t use it to make himself look good, it would be a bad investment.

  The deejay begins playing something much softer, and my eardrums appreciate it. When another couple of minutes pass without Sterling’s return, I search the crowd for him. The ten-foot-tall champagne fountain, lit with an artist’s care, shows no sign of him, nor does the table holding the remnants of the wedding cake.

  Just then I hear something that makes my blood run cold. It’s a sound I’ve heard often at Windfall, and my ears catch it despite the noise all around me. No one else seems to have noticed, but I do. Somehow—even at a distance and through thick walls and carpet—the spite in my father’s voice carries all the way to me. Everyone at Windfall has felt his voice cut through them. It had been that way since as long as I can remember. My body’s conditioned to respond to it like a survival mechanism.

  I whip around, now desperate to find Sterling.

  But he’s not here.

  Sterling, who is in love with me. Sterling, who is completely caught up in the romance tonight. Sterling, who wouldn’t leave me, isn’t here in the ballroom.

  And my father is spitting venom.

  2

  Sterling

  I want to give Adair a night like this.

  The thought turns over in my mind, again and again. She deserves to be the center of attention, to have everyone care about what she thinks and what she wants—exactly what her family will never give her. The problem is that I can’t imagine how I’d do it. I told her earlier that I imagined a small wedding, attended only by people we care about. But what would that actually look like?

  Me, her…and Francie? Who else is there? Maybe Poppy and Cyrus? In a room rented by the hour from the rec center near our place in Queens? Or maybe we could do it in Central Park, fast, so no one will be able to ask if we have a permit?

  She says it doesn’t matter to her, but that’s a lie she’s telling herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like for her stomach to grumble with hunger, or to be bone tired but unable to sleep over worries about money. Her heart means well, and she loves me, which is something like a miracle, but she doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.

  What I know.

  I duck into the men’s room, considering what major I should declare. Economics or business? They’d help me make the most money. But something steady, like medicine or law could give us a nice life, too. It’s the only shot I have at keeping her: becoming a man who deserves her. I’m no nearer the answer when I toss a hand-drying towel in the bin by the door, and shoulder my way back into the hallway.

  “I’d like to have a word,” a croaky voice says behind me.

  It’s Angus MacLaine.

  His wheelchair is almost baroque—trimmed with carved wood, upholstered with green velvet, and tasseled with gold thread. It’s motorized, of course, and I can’t help noticing how he sits on it, like it’s a throne, rather than in it. He twiddles the carved marble joystick that controls his chair, already turning his back to me and making his way to an office room farther down the hall.

  I hate that he thinks I’ll just come along because he said so. I hate even more that I do.

  I’ve always known this was inevitable. I had to meet him in private at some point. I’ve managed to avoid it purposefully mostly because I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t haul off and hit him. Now? I’m not ready. I haven’t thought enough about how to play it. Should I be defiant? Honest about how he treats his family? Or should I be cordial, like all that matters is avoiding the worst outcome? I just don’t know. When he asks me my intentions, do I tell him the truth?

  I slide into the room behind him, resolved to talk as calmly as I can, until I get a better feel for how he sees me. The room is a cheap approximation of something at Windfall, with slightly warped wood coverings on the walls, and thin, industrial grade carpet on the floor. A wood-veneered desk sits squarely in the center of the room, and Angus wheels his way behind it, his lip curling into a sneer as the sharp edge of the desk catches the fabric of his suit near his elbow and nearly ripping it.

  “Fuck!” he says, he eyes flailing for someone to complain to, but there is only me. He shifts in his chair and turns a bug-eyed glare on me. “Having a nice time at the wedding, boy?”

  Boy? Five seconds in and I’m already fantasizing about hitting him.

  “It’s a very nice wedding, sir,” I say, starting with something neutral but respectful. I’d much rather tell him that he needs to treat me with some respect. But I get the sense that he doesn’t take verbal orders. If I want respect, I’m going to have to demand it through actions.

  “Been spending a lot of time with my daughter?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s very special—”

  “Of course she’s special! She’s a MacLaine.” He says it like he can’t believe he has to tell me the sky is blue.

  “Right, I—”

  “And what do you hope to gain by seeing her?” he asks, his eyebrow raised. Otherwise, his face remains neutral and business-like. It’s his poker face, but a man like him doesn’t gamble. He buys, sells, and takes—that’s what he’s really hiding behind that mask.

  This is a negotiation.

  “Nothing besides her company,” I say, trying to deflect his suspicions while pretending I’m not afraid of the consequences of my answer. One wrong step and the discussion portion of this chat will be over.

  “Bullshit,” he says casually, then sniffs.

  He’ll have to do better to unbalance me. “Believe me. Don’t believe me. I can’t change that.”

  His dark eyes narrow to slits, studying me like a boa constrictor regarding a mouse, his full attention on me for the first time. He takes stock of my appearance, his eyes raking my expensive tuxedo, my shiny Italian shoes. Does he see the price tags that go along with each? Does he wonder how I paid for them? Does he know she bought them for me?

  “I see why she likes you,” he says, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You clean up alright, anyway, and you don’t mind playing the part you’re given, do you?”

  A pregnant pause unfolds, both of us refusing to break eye contact.

  “Meaning?” I say.

  “
You know EXACTLY—” his voice roars out of his mouth, moving the air around me and making the hair on my neck stand up, “—what I am talking about! Who paid for that tuxedo you’re wearing? ”

  I tried to tell Adair it wasn’t a good idea. And it turns out we were both right. I was right to think her father—who forces everyone at Windfall to live under his surveillance—would not approve. But she was also right. Because she can’t let this ugly toad’s whims control everything. We can’t.

  I grit my teeth, trying to calm my temper by reminding myself of her, of the importance of salvaging as much as I can from this conversation. He doesn’t like me. Now. He might not ever like me. But he doesn’t get a say in how she feels about me.

  “Adair paid for it,” I say. There’s no point in lying about it. Then, I’ll just be what he wants me to be: a gold digger and a liar.

  “Suddenly stupid, boy?” Angus roars again. “No. No. You’re not, though, are you? If you took a swing at me—and I can tell you want to—this would all be over in a moment. Better to play the part you know she wants: the misunderstood pauper, the diamond in the rough. Stick to it, you think, keep yourself under control, and the door to all of this will stay open.” He waves expansively, meaning the wedding, the country club, everything he has that I don’t.

  “I don’t want anything of yours.” I shrug, hoping it will get under his skin. He wants me cowed. He couldn’t do it if he tried. Not after what I’ve been through in life.