In other words, it’s a typical Westmore function. Pretentious and overdone. Flashy and superfluous.

  “So, who are we watching tonight? Who would Gran shake her head at while wanting to call them out on their bullshit?”

  I can picture Gran’s voice saying those exact words. Can see her searching the crowd and sighing.

  “Everyone.” My remark draws a laugh from her.

  “She was the best at that. Putting you in your place with a beguiling smile so you didn’t even realize she was doing it.”

  “She was.” My smile is bittersweet.

  “Too bad she’s not here to manage Chad and how he will no doubt become your shadow at some point tonight as if that’s the proper way to charm a woman.”

  “Him and his mother.”

  “A double shadow.”

  “Lucky me,” I say.

  “Yes, it wouldn’t be a proper Westmore event if Mrs. Williams didn’t pile on the ‘you’re going to marry my son’ pressure. Publicly, I might add. Be warned, though, that Chief Williams might put out an APB for you if she presses him hard enough.”

  “I’d love to say you’re full of shit, but we both know differently.” I shrug. “And I can run my own interference on that.”

  “I know you can, but Gran always added a flair of ‘don’t fuck with me’ to her suggestion that people actually listened to.”

  Here’s the thing with Caroline. She’s a Southern girl through and through. Cotillion Queen, engaged to a man their families matched her with years ago. A chair in the women’s club. A gracious host. She ascribes to everything that my mom wants me to be—and she’s perfectly okay with it. In fact, she wants it. And while we are wildly different in that respect, our opposites attract, and years of having grown up together only serve to help us have the best time together.

  “Then there’s Rhett,” she says with a purse of her lips. “No doubt your gran would give him that cold-as-ice stare tonight when he tries to assert himself as being on equal footing with some of the big players in attendance.”

  “When does he not?” I snort. The image of him throwing a tantrum the other day at the lawyer’s office is still fresh in my mind.

  “Especially now that he’s thinking of running for office … he’s going to be insufferable.”

  “You mean more than he already is?” I roll my eyes, hating this new development in Rothschild land. “Is that even possible?”

  “What do you want to bet that he’s going to make a scene trying to win the featured item tonight? He’ll do some kind of bidding war or cause a commotion so that all eyes are on him.”

  I open my mouth to refute her, to defend my brother, but know she’s spot-on. “I’m not taking that bet. We both know that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” I concede as we both glance toward the painting she’s referring to. “It’s hideous.”

  “It is.” She grins. “It looks like someone swallowed five colors that have no business being together and then sneezed onto the canvas.”

  “No shit.”

  “Just think. When he wins it, he’ll most likely hang it in the office so everyone can see just how rich and important he is.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Yup. How else is he going to cement his status as the Rothschild in charge now? Poor guy is so sick of everyone telling him how Daddy used to run the place when Daddy stepped down well over two years ago.” She tips her glass in my brother’s direction where he just so happens to be standing beside our father—carbon copies of each other right down to the drinks in their hands and the puff to their chests. “In his eyes, though, buying the prized painting might just do that.”

  “That’s a very sad but true observation.”

  “Then there’s you, who could run TinSpirits blindfolded with your hands tied behind your back, and no grandiose statement needed to hide your inadequacies behind because you don’t have any.” She taps her glass to mine as a warmth of appreciation spreads throughout my body.

  “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” Is it sad that my close friends recognize my capabilities when my own family doesn’t?

  She nods. “You know I believe in you. I’m sorry that belief isn’t going to save you from your mom pushing you to stand beside Rhett, though, while he’s bidding.”

  I groan.

  “Yep. She’ll make sure a photographer is lined up, front and center, to capture your undying love and support for your brother.”

  She’s right, and I hate that she is. The Rothschilds stand together. My mom’s motto makes an unwelcome appearance in my thoughts.

  “I think I’ll hide in the corner at that point of the evening.”

  “At least that will keep you safe from Chad and the APB the chief puts out for you.”

  I snort. “Always looking for the positive.”

  “Always.”

  I catch a glimpse of a feathered dress in the corner and lift my chin, welcoming a change in topic. “Looks like Muffy Johnson is on the hunt again for a new husband.”

  “Would that be number six—”

  “Seven,” I correct.

  “Seven. Wow. Bless her endurance. Or rather”—she holds a finger up—“bless whoever she snags this time around because they’re going to need it.”

  “No doubt.” I laugh. It feels so good to have someone to commiserate with who understands this screwy world we live in.

  “I know you’re going to argue on this one, but we should probably mingle some before the official auction starts.”

  “Caroline,” I groan.

  “I know, but ooohhhh…” she purrs. “Who do we have here? Hello, gorgeous.”

  “Who?” I ask casually because anyone who is new to our society circle garners that response from her. But when I follow her gaze, the martini I’m lifting falters midway to my lips. “Oh.”

  “Oh is most definitely right,” she murmurs as I take in the man who has captured not only my but the entire room’s attention.

  He’s tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and an immaculately tailored suit that stands out in a room full of them. Even at this distance, it’s clear he’s handsome in every sense of the word, but it’s the air about him—brooding, aloof, untouchable, regal—that has me instinctively taking a step closer.

  He’s standing alone, swirling a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his attention on a scrap metal sculpture that’s on the auction block.

  He looks like something I’m not supposed to have, and that makes me attracted to him all the more.

  A quiet murmur has spread throughout the room as everybody else begins to take notice of the outsider. They feign interest in the auction item he’s studying, needing to stare a little longer at the man whose presence is overshadowing it.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “Damn. Oh … it’s him.”

  “Him?” I ask, clueless but unable to take my eyes off him.

  Her smile is a slow crawl across her lips. “The man everyone is talking about. Men and women alike. Holden Knight. Now I can see why.”

  As if on cue, the object of our attention looks up and meets my eyes from across the room. I smile reflexively but receive nothing more than a stoic, assessing stare in return.

  Well, well, well. I don’t think my mom has to worry about me being the center of gossip tonight. It looks like someone else just took that crown for the time being.

  TWO

  Holden

  They all want to know who I am.

  This outsider in their otherwise insular world.

  It’s in their furtive glances. Their whispered murmurs. The subtle lift of their chins in my direction. They’re supposed to be paying attention to the auction. To the money being raised for the charity they claim to support.

  But mystery sells better.

  Intrigue has a stronger pull.

  Who is he?

  Where is he from?

  How’d he get an invitation?

  Who does he know to get in here?

  No doubt their list of questions and speculations is long, but they’ll know soon enough.

  I glance around again as bidding begins on the final item of the evening, and my gaze lingers on the woman who caught my eye earlier. She’s stunning and I’m more than intrigued. Or maybe my intrigue has to do with the fact that I’m not exactly sure how she fits into all of this just yet.

  Soon enough, though, I will.

  As the auctioneer begins, I focus my attention where everyone’s should be—on the painting displayed at the front of the room.

  Much like the people in this room, it’s an eyesore of contrasting colors, bright and clashing, flashy but meaningless. The lights shining on it, highlighting it, do it no favors, and it evokes absolutely nothing from me other than revulsion.

  The oohs and ahs cutting through the room around me as paddles are raised to bid on it say otherwise.

  It’s just like the people here to put a ridiculous value on something that doesn’t matter. On something that elevates their social status but does nothing for their moral compass.

  Then again, who am I to talk, especially with the events I’m here to set into motion? The events I’ve been planning for years.

  “Two,” a man calls out from across the room.

  I know who he is. I know what he is. He’s arrogant, immature, and I know the money he just bid isn’t exactly his.

  He’s already in my sights. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t even know it yet.

  But why should he? He’s a Rothschild. An untouchable figure in this town.

  If anyone knows that, it’s me.

  Well … that’s all about to change.

  The auctioneer scans the room to see if there are any more bidders for the painting. His gavel lifts. He glances around again, giving one final chance. He begins to lower it as all gazes shift to Rhett Rothschild and his apparent winning bid.

  Smug fucker.

  “Three million.” My voice is clear. Commanding. Unwavering. And offering a million more than the last bid. Rhett’s bid.

  Gasps replace the murmured whispers that have been following me all night.

  The glances that were sly for the better part of the evening now become unapologetically blatant.

  Rhett glares at me. That’s right. I’m stealing your thunder.

  “Three million?” the auctioneer asks, astonishment painting the edges of his tone.

  “Three.”

  He starts to talk but then looks my way again as if to make sure I didn’t misspeak. I nod to let him know I didn’t. “Do I hear three million one thousand?” he asks, his gavel already raised as silence permeates the room. “Sold, to one Mr.…?”

  “Holden. Holden Knight.”

  It’s my turn to look now. To ignore the auctioneer’s stare and scan the room that is completely focused on me, the new man in town who’s made sure his name is already known. The one who’s paid top dollar to rent out the penthouse at Indigo Towers, the most exclusive building in town due to its steep price tag, endless views, and prime location. The newest member of the Westmore Country Club. The one who has made a point to be seen dining with every important politician in town.

  I meet the eyes of those who I know want to meet mine, waiting for a flicker of recognition on their faces or a pause of hesitancy. Neither comes.

  Why would they remember someone like me?

  Their lax lips morph into warm smiles. Women’s cleavages are adjusted. Men’s chests are puffed out. The need to suddenly cozy up to the wealthy outsider paramount.

  As I expected.

  It’s amazing what money can do. How it changes perceptions. How it can open doors. How it can ruin your life.

  I return the smiles now given openly with nods as I make my way through the crowd that parts for me.

  That revenge I’ve been waiting years to exact?

  That starts now.

  And the man they’re all suddenly wanting to know?

  They forget that they already do.

  THREE

  Holden

  It’s suffocating.

  The room. The pretention. The pandering for my attention that began immediately after my winning bid and the realization that I’m the Holden Knight that I’ve made sure they’ve been hearing about in their circles but have never really seen.

  My sigh is heavy as I close my eyes and let the aged scotch sit on my tongue. I welcome its burn as it works its way down my throat. As the memories that are always on the periphery move to the forefront of my mind. As the men who cemented them there mill about this room without even knowing it.

  A few keystrokes got me into the charity’s server. It was child’s play after that to make sure my name was on tonight’s exclusive guest list. To set the wheels in motion.

  Winner takes all.

  From here on out, though, it won’t be as easy. Far fucking from it. But isn’t this the game I’ve prepared for most of my adult life? The one where failure isn’t an option?

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the most talked-about man of the hour.”

  So caught up in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize I had company. Company that’s way too close on this expansive balcony.

  That means she only wants one thing.

  “The circles you want to mingle in? They’re inside,” I say, prepared to blow the woman off and let her know I’m not interested in whatever it is she’s selling—most likely her—but when I turn to face her, the remainder of my smartass remark dies a quick, shameless death.

  It’s her.

  And the pieces fall into place.

  Rowan Rothschild.

  I’m met with a pair of expressive green eyes. They hold mine with a sincerity I don’t deserve, and a challenge I don’t particularly want.

  “Who said I wanted to mingle at all?” she counters with a dismissive laugh before taking a long sip of the martini she holds.

  I take her in.

  The olive skin. The defined cheekbones. The dark, caramel-colored hair that falls in waves over her shoulders and is tucked behind one ear. The toned arms and more-than-impressive body filling out the elegant and curve-hugging dress.

  To be intrigued by her is one thing.

  To be attracted to her? That’s a whole other Pandora’s box I’m not ready to open.

  She lifts a lone eyebrow as my eyes come back to hers again. “Like what you see?”

  My smile is cold despite my natural reaction to a gorgeous woman. “I don’t think it particularly matters what I like.”

  Her laugh is throaty and rich and begs for my attention. “That’s where you’re wrong and you know it.”

  “Is that so?” I murmur, not fully committed to wanting this conversation yet.

  “It is.” She turns to face me, her hip now leaning against the railing, the emerald of her eyes glinting. “You’re a man who knows what he wants, what he likes, and makes no apologies in taking it. Case in point: most men would have tried to hide the fact that they were just checking me out. You on the other hand? It seems that you like doing things and being seen while you do them.”

  Her smile comes out in full force and would drop a lesser man to his knees. She’s stunning, simply stunning, with an elegant beauty that would be hard for anyone to refute.

  “Perhaps.” I take another sip of my scotch and turn back toward the darkened skyline, all but dismissing her.

  Distractions. They’re the last thing I need right now. And she—standing here, talking to me, becoming more attractive by the second as she does so—with her sass and lack of intimidation is promising to do just that.

  “And the painting?” she asks, not getting the hint.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  My chuckle is low and unforgiving. “Clearly you think highly of yourself.”

  “Then it seems we both do.”

  A smile toys at the corners of my lips. She’s got some fight in her. I respond despite myself. “What about the painting?”

  “You just spent a pretty penny on it.”

  “I think most people here have plenty of pennies available for spending.”

  “True. We do. And yet the mystery man who no one quite knows just one-upped all of us with that show he put on.”

  “Hardly.” What’s her angle? There’s no way she can know what’s going on. Can she?

  “What do you plan on doing with it?” She ignores my question. Her heels click as she moves closer.

  I watch the liquid I’m swirling around in my glass. “Throw it away. Burn it. I haven’t decided just yet.”

  She freezes. “What am I missing here?”

  “Nothing. You heard me perfectly fine. Art’s just not my thing.”

  “Then why buy it?”

  “I have my reasons.” Anything to prevent them from having it.

  “So, buy it then destroy it? Just like that?”

  “Hmm. Yes.” I lean forward, rest my elbows on the railing, and slide a glance her way. “Just like that.”

  Out of all the reactions I was expecting, her throwing her head back and laughing is the last of them. But that’s exactly what she does.

  For a woman I had no interest in talking to, she now has my undivided attention.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’ll fit in well at Westmore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You have the ‘classic prick’ thing down pat.”

  “If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re going to have to work harder.”

  She snorts and that composure of hers crumbles some with the stumble that follows. Her hand reaches for the railing to steady herself, while mine reflexively grabs her arm to do the same. Her proximity affords me a closer look. The glassiness to her eyes. The ease of her smile. The empty martini glass in her hand that was full only moments before.

  Her body. Christ, her body.