“Inside?” Yoselin asked.
Nelle put both feet on the step. “I’m on the property.”
“Get up those stairs,” Yoselin commanded.
Nelle laughed. “Are you spying on me?”
Two flights above her, the silhouette of a figure wearing a pirate hat and a billowy blouse over knee breeches appeared. “Yes,” Yoselin said into the phone, then lifted her hand and waved. “Hurry up! It’s cold outside. I’ll wait for you inside the door.”
As if in response to Yoselin’s words, a breeze blew across Nelle’s cheeks. She shivered. The calendar said late June, but winds off the bay meant San Francisco could be wintry even in high summer. She took a deep breath, bracing salt air filling her lungs. The first real test of Project New Nelle would come at the top of the stairs.
She squared her shoulders. One small step to take, but it would be a giant leap forward into her new life. Not even Yoselin knew what a big jump it would be. It had taken all the strength Nelle had to smile and say yes to attending when she learned tonight’s gala would be honoring Grayson Monk, venture capitalist, philanthropist, and the subject of several breathless media profiles that started off praising his business acumen but ended up extolling his athletic physique, blond-surfer good looks and piercing dark eyes.
Grayson Monk, the son of the man who’d nearly destroyed her father.
Her phone rang again, and she laughed. “Almost there,” she said and clicked Disconnect. She was being ridiculous. She was in San Francisco, not New York City. She now worked in fundraising for a children’s charity, not personal financial planning for a boutique firm like she had back East. She was an invited guest, not the disgraced target of a jealous coworker who was also her ex. There was no need to fear anyone at the ball. Grayson Monk included.
No matter what their family history was.
She started up the stairs, her heels clicking with purpose. As she neared the top, she caught a glimpse of the decorated venue and a gasp of amazement escaped her. “I’m not in Kansas anymore,” she whispered under her breath. “This would be amazing even for Oz.”
The Ferry Building was a historic Beaux Arts structure, one of the few survivors of the 1906 earthquake and fire that had destroyed most of San Francisco. Its grand hall was a wide, rectangular concourse interrupted in the center by an atrium that allowed guests to look down on the market stalls below. The ceiling soared high above her head, the barrel-shaped steel supports dotted with bright, globe-shaped lights. There were also enormous half-moon windows covered by latticework that resembled rows of stars. The mosaic tile floor was dotted with cocktail tables draped in festive colors, matching the bright costumes of the mingling guests exchanging conversation and laughter. A stage set with a podium and various musical instruments occupied one end of the hall, with a space in front of it left clear for dancing. The theme of the masquerade was “Venice by the Bay,” and flowers, twinkling fairy lights and shimmering cloth drapes completed the transformation from staid city landmark into a festive, carnival-inspired dreamscape.
Yoselin waved her over to the check-in table, her dark eyes sparkling behind a black half mask decorated with white skulls and crossbones. She looked like Captain Jack Sparrow, if Jack had been a woman with golden brown skin and tousled mahogany curls. “Finally. I was beginning to wonder if your shoes were glued to the stairs. The speeches are about to start, and I’ll point out who is who.”
The woman seated behind the table smiled at them, a pen poised above her clipboard. “Welcome to the Peninsula Society’s Carnival by the Bay! May I have your names?”
“We’re guests of Octavia Allen,” Yoselin responded. Octavia was on the board of directors of Create4All, where both Yoselin and Nelle worked. It had been her brainstorm for the two to attend the gala in the hopes of garnering more money for the children’s nonprofit. As the executive director, Yoselin had been invited to help Mrs. Allen charm their current donors into increasing their pledges while Nelle, as the new development director, was tasked with bringing in sizable donations from people who had previously resisted Mrs. Allen’s arm-twisting.
The woman’s smile deepened as she made a check mark. “Mrs. Allen is already here. You’ll be seated at her table. Number seventeen, the first row in front of the stage to the right.” She looked up at Nelle and her gaze sharpened. “Did you bring your mask?”
Nelle held it up. The children who took art classes at Create4All had decorated every last millimeter of the plain half-mask bought at a party store. Silver sequins, opalescent crystals and seed pearls created an ocean-inspired fantasy that made up in exuberance what it lacked in sophistication.
“How...original,” the woman said. “Don’t forget, guests are asked to maintain the masquerade until the party ends at midnight.”
“And then we turn back into our everyday pumpkin selves,” Nelle said to Yoselin.
Yoselin laughed. “Let’s find Octavia and the open bar. Not necessarily in that order.” She strode into the party, her sword swinging in its scabbard at her side.
Nelle put on her mask, took a deep breath and followed in her friend’s wake.
* * *
Grayson Monk waited in the wings of the makeshift stage and listened to the crowd noises coming from the other side of the heavy velvet curtains. The gala seemed to be going well. The food was top-notch, provided by world-renowned chefs. The wine and champagne as excellent as one would expect from Napa’s and Sonoma’s best vineyards. The crowd was glittering, the conversation scintillating, and smiles were plentiful. In short, it was what he’d come to expect from a Peninsula Society event. The usual.
But something was different. Off. What was it?
It took him a minute to realize the difference was him.
Previously he viewed his attendance at the annual gala as part of the cost of doing business in Silicon Valley. Anyone who was somebody—and those who wanted to be somebodies—made it a point to show their faces at the party. And not to be egotistical, but he knew they were there in part because they wanted his attention. Hungry entrepreneurs, hungry investors: they all hoped to dine off the high returns of Monk Partners, the private equity firm he’d founded right after graduating from Stanford.
Tonight, however, would change all that.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our philanthropist of the year, Grayson Monk!” Applause sounded, and a young man wearing a headset motioned for Grayson to make his entrance.
He strode onto the stage and shook hands with the Peninsula Society’s president and gala chairperson. Then he faced the crowd, and after thanking the society and complimenting them on a successful evening, took a deep breath and went directly to the reason why he’d agreed to accept the award.
The speech.
“As some of you know, I’ve managed Monk Partners for the last fifteen years. We’re proud of our record of helping the audacious and the intrepid build industry-leading companies. Some of today’s biggest names in technology received the capital they required to become the successes they are from us. Like our most recent unicorn, Medevco, which under Luke Dallas and Evan Fletcher’s leadership has changed the medical technology industry as we know it. And we’re more than honored to give back to the community we’re privileged to call home.”
He swallowed. So far, so boilerplate. These were words he’d said a hundred times over, at various events and conferences. The next part of his speech, however...
“But all good things must come to an end at some point. So, with the permission of the Peninsula Society to take advantage of my brief moment in the spotlight, I’m announcing I’m stepping down from Monk Partners.”
Audible gasps echoed in the cavernous space. Grayson held up his hands and smiled. “Hey, don’t worry, Monk Partners is still in the same smart, savvy hands as before. Philip Adebayo will be taking over for me, with the rest of the team remaining in place. They’re as committed as ever to
the firm, our portfolio companies and our limited partners.” He paused. “They might change the name, however.”
That got him some laughs. Not many, but a few. He relaxed. The worst was over. It was like pulling a plastic bandage off—it stung for a second, but the anticipation of the announcement had been worse than the reality.
Of course, now he had to deal with the fallout. “I know you all want to get back to the party, so I’m going to leave it there. If you have questions, my office is more than prepared to take them in the morning—”
“What are you going to do next?” The shouted question came from the back of the room. Grayson held his right hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the lights as he tried to focus on the crowd. But even if he could see the questioner, the masks made it difficult to tell who was who.
“I see someone can’t wait until morning.” He smiled. “I believe most people know my father recently had a serious health scare. I know it’s a cliché, but I’m going to focus on family for the near future.”
He paused, expecting to receive muted murmurs of understanding. After all, spending time with family was often used by CEOs and others as an excuse when their professional lives took unforeseen swerves. But the crowd’s reaction was subdued, the chatter so light he could make out individual words. Including a snippet of conversation coming from a table near the stage.
“—eah, right, focus on family. Focus on taking over the family seat in Congress is more like it. But El Santo doesn’t need another Monk in Congress. The people deserve better than—”
Then the crowd noise surged, and the rest of the words were lost.
He blinked. The voice was feminine. Young-sounding. And...hostile. Very hostile.
That was not the reaction he expected.
“So, um.” Damn it. He never fumbled for words. He cleared his throat to cover his confusion. “I’ll miss every single one of you—well, maybe not you, Vikram and Helen.” He pointed at where he knew his fiercest competitors were standing, and the crowd laughed. He relaxed. He was back on track. “Although I will miss how you both kept me on my toes. But as everyone in this room knows, start-ups are pretty common. Fathers are one of a kind. Thank you for the award, but most of all, thank you for your friendship and support.”
Applause, accompanied by chatter, bounced off the stone floor and high ceilings, filling the room. Grayson gave a short wave and returned to the backstage area, glad to see who else was there. There was a reason he’d mentioned Medevco in his speech. Not only was it his most profitable investment, but the two men running the company had become his closest friends in the year since he suggested they work together. He was even happier to see that one of them, Luke Dallas, had a highball glass containing two fingers of whisky waiting for him.
“Congratulations,” Luke said, handing him the drink.
Grayson downed the dark amber spirits, his adrenaline ebbing as the alcohol sent warmth flowing through his veins. “On the award? It half belongs to your wife. She was the one who bargained a half hour of your time if I matched her donation to the society at last year’s gala.”
“I’m happy to let you have the award.” Luke’s wife, Danica, appeared at her husband’s side. “After all, I have Luke.” The two smiled at each other, oblivious to everyone else in their vicinity.
Even though Luke and Danica had been married for over a year, it still stunned Grayson a little to see the taciturn Luke be so open with his emotions. True, Danica was a great partner for him. Smart, highly capable and attractive, she and Luke just...clicked. Like LEGO pieces you might not think go together at first, but join to create a solid structure.
Luke was lucky he’d found his complement in Danica. Grayson wasn’t sure he would ever find his. And he wouldn’t settle for anything less than permanent. Casual dating didn’t work for him.
Not that he was looking. Especially not now.
“Luke meant congratulations on being the sole topic of conversation for the evening. You’re all anyone wants to talk about.” Evan Fletcher, Luke’s partner in Medevco, joined the small group. He handed a glass of water to Danica, keeping a very full stem of red wine for himself. “I could barely make it backstage, so many people wanted to stop and talk about you and your announcement. As soon as you step outside these curtains, prepare to be pounced upon.”
Grayson stared at the bottom of his glass. Why hadn’t someone invented a perpetually refilling whisky tumbler? He would invest in it. “And so it begins,” he said into the glass.
Evan took a sip of wine and made a face. “What begins? Your retirement at age thirty-five? Living the dream, my friend. Please tell me you’re buying an island with room for a guest. Who would happen to be me.”
Grayson shook his head. “I’m not retiring. Not the way you think.”
“Then why the whole...” Evan waved the hand holding the wine, causing it to come dangerously close to the rim. A few drops splashed over and landed on the floor.
Grayson eyed him. “Are you going to drink that, or just use it as a threat?”
“What do you mean—oh.” Evan looked at his glass, and then glanced around for a place to put it down. He settled on the low table next to the sofa. “Next year, I want to be on the gala committee so I can choose the vintage.”
“I want Grayson to answer Evan’s question. If you’re not retiring, then why the announcement?” Luke frowned in Grayson’s direction. “Retirement is the logical explanation why you would walk away at the top of your game.”
He might as well tell them. It wasn’t as if this would be a secret for much longer. “This isn’t for public consumption. Not yet, anyway. But my father is about to announce his resignation from Congress. And when he does, it will trigger a special election to fill the seat for the rest of his term. There’s over a year left in it.” He inhaled, the burn of the whiskey nothing but a fond memory. “And I’ll be running.”
Danica gasped, while Luke grinned and shook Grayson’s hand. “Congrats. You have our support, of course. Although you could have let us know.”
“To be honest, I’m surprised you’re surprised.” Whoever he’d overheard in the audience certainly wouldn’t be. “It’s always been my intention to follow my father into politics.”
“Hello, hello!” The cheery greeting came from behind them. Grayson turned to see Bitsy Christensen, the gala chairwoman, bustling into the backstage area with her ever-present phone in her hand. Behind her followed several people carrying musical instruments.
“I thought for sure you’d all be sampling the food stations by now.” Bitsy indicated the musicians. “The band needs to set up, so I’m afraid we have to take over this space.”
“Of course.” Grayson motioned for Luke and Danica to go ahead of him, and then turned to usher Evan out. Evan bent to pick up his glass of wine. Bitsy looked down to scroll through her phone.
The next few seconds played out in slow motion.
Evan moved toward the exit, frowning into his wine glass. Bitsy walked farther into the backstage area, fully engrossed in her screen. Neither of them looked up to see where they were going. Until they collided. Right in front of Grayson.
The phone sailed into the air. So did the glass of wine.
Grayson dove and caught the phone before it could hit the stone floor. Unfortunately, the wine hit him. His white tuxedo shirt became splotchy pink. His black jacket and tie showed no damage, but he smelled as if he had bathed in a barrel of Napa’s finest.
There was no way he could go out and face a room full of the Bay Area’s brightest and smartest—all curious about the bombshell he’d dropped—appearing as if he’d just gone on the bender of all time backstage. He tried to blot the stains on his shirt with a paper cocktail napkin, but it was useless. The wine had soaked through the fabric to his skin.
“Oh, dear!” Bitsy appeared glued to the floor. “Oh, dear,” she continued
to repeat, as if on a loop.
“I’ll ask the catering staff if they have dish towels,” Evan volunteered. He disappeared behind the curtains.
Bitsy shook herself out of her shock. She took the phone Grayson held out to her and began to scroll through the screen. “We have extra costumes,” she said. “In case someone forgot this was a masquerade. Always be prepared, right?” She fixed Grayson with an assessing stare, then fired off a text. “My assistant will be right here. I told her the Pierrot ensemble would be best, as it will hopefully accommodate your frame.”
Pierrot? Great. Just how he wanted to appear to people he would soon be hitting up for campaign donations. A clown in baggy white pajamas.
He found a corner out of the way of the musicians and waited for the costume to arrive, his mind going over his goals for the rest of the night: talk to potential campaign donors, reassure nervous investors about his departure and—
“The people of El Santo deserve better.”
The overheard words looped in his head, like the hook of a pop song turned earworm, despite his best efforts to concentrate on other thoughts.
Sure, there were people out there who were less than pleased with him. The entrepreneurs whose pitches he’d declined. The CEOs whose companies weren’t right for an acquisition offer. His last girlfriend, who didn’t appreciate having their week in Bali cut short by five days because he had to fly home to save a deal.
But in general, Grayson enjoyed a good working relationship with people. He’d been a leader since childhood, when he anchored his ten-and-under swimming relay team to a state championship. He’d started his own small venture capital fund in high school as a way to fund his swim meets, and when he decided to give up the pool, his skill at persuading entrepreneurs to work with him had led to the formation of Monk Partners. Now it had one of the best track records in Silicon Valley of picking winning investments.
But he’d always known he would follow his father into public service. It was the family tradition, after all. His great-grandfather had been Governor of California. His grandfather sat on the state supreme court. Taking over his father’s seat in the House of Representatives would be the culmination of everything he had been raised to be.
Marriage by Arrangement Page 17