The forced swallow.

  The fleeting glance between them.

  “Grafton Road is a shit area,” Chad says.

  “Well, that depends on what you want the land for, right?” I ask, knowing damn well why he’s steering me elsewhere.

  “True, but you haven’t lived here for long. That area has decreased in value a lot over the past few years,” he says.

  “Perfect. Buy cheap, sell high, right?” I say.

  “Yeah, but it won’t hold its value. What about the others?” Rhett asks, his eyes glancing down at the notes I have on the map. Notes that mean shit but I cover them up as if there is some big secret there.

  “Indifferent to the one on Highway 43. Really loved the one on Willow whatever, but then wasn’t thrilled to find out it’s sitting on contaminated soil.”

  You gonna take the bait, motherfuckers?

  Rhett clears his throat. “Contaminated? What are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, got an earful about how the ground has high methane levels that make the land fucking useless. I mean, you can mitigate it coming up through the soil with barriers and shit, but that’s a huge investment over and above purchasing the land.” I watch them closely. The pulse in Chad’s throat. The tapping of Rhett’s fingers.

  “Who told you that? The owner? The real estate agent?” Rhett laughs and glances at Chad. “Not very smart if they’re trying to sell the land.”

  “A concerned citizen apparently,” I say. “Not sure. The message came through to my broker.”

  “Out on WillowBend, you said?” Chad asks.

  “Mmm-hmm. It’s a fucking pity though. Nice piece of property. Perfect for what I needed it for,” I say.

  “There’s no methane in the land out there. Christ,” Rhett swears. “We had a friend—”

  “Nathan?” Chad asks.

  “Yeah, Nathan.” Rhett nods. “He had to deal with these Greenpeace-loving motherfuckers when he was trying to develop some land last year. They went around sabotaging every contract, contractor, even when he tried to buy the land. Tried to scare off buyers with the whole methane spiel.”

  “It was all about ‘save the land, don’t develop,’ and shit like that,” Chad says.

  “So you think that’s who contacted us?” I ask.

  Rhett shrugs. “Sounds par for the course.”

  “So you think these activists—”

  “Tree huggers,” Rhett snorts.

  “You think they are trying to discourage someone from buying the land and developing it by saying it’s contaminated?”

  “Yep. That’s what happened to Nathan’s company.”

  “Too much hassle. No, thanks,” I say and wait for the reaction.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “I disagree. That makes it the perfect time to buy in my opinion. The property has been slandered. No doubt your broker sees in the MLS listing that the price has been dropped several times to mitigate the hassle. Buy cheap, isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, but the methane—”

  “The lie can be proven baseless with an independent consultant, Holden. Have someone go out there. Do some tests, give you a reading to prove that the land is fine. Problem solved,” Rhett says.

  An independent consultant? That’s your fucking sales pitch? How much are you paying that consultant to lie for you? No wonder you’re drowning and taking your company down with you.

  “Aren’t you the solver of all problems?” I say.

  “What can I say?” He holds his hands up. “Whatever I can do to help. I can even get you the consultant that Nathan used if you want. He’s familiar with the land in that area and is knowledgeable in methane since he dealt with this shit for him. Once you have that report in hand, you’d be able to breathe easier about buying the land.”

  “Problem solver and referral artist. A regular jack of all trades,” I say. How does he keep a straight fucking face? “But, question, why doesn’t the current owner do that in the first place? Hand out the report debunking the crazies so they can keep their valuation as is?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Rhett says with a look to Chad. “Maybe they’ve already washed their hands of it.”

  “Their stupidity could be your gain,” Chad adds in.

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me to buy it? To save your asses? Maybe if you two read the fine print you could do that yourselves.

  Then again, maybe not.

  The two of them stare at me. “Was there something else besides your need to know where I was?”

  Rhett straightens his spine. “Just wanted to make sure we’re still on track with buttoning everything up on this deal in the next few weeks.”

  You want your money, don’t you, Rhett Rothschild?

  I nod. “We are. There will be a few changes based on some of the issues I’ve found.”

  “Like?” Rhett asks. I give a glance to Chad and then back to him. “You can say it in front of him.”

  “Some things don’t add up in the ledgers. Why we’ve picked up payments to Greatland when units are the same. Why we’re paying consulting fees when we don’t need consulting. Two and two isn’t equaling four in some aspects.”

  “Yeah, we’re still unraveling the damage our controller did. She screwed a lot up,” Rhett explains.

  Sure. Blame it on the controller. Fucking spineless prick.

  “So, what’s changing in the deal, then?” Chad asks.

  “Just a few more commands and controls set into place. The fine print is always important,” I say.

  “Agreed,” Rhett says. “But we’re still going through with it, money to be transferred and all that jazz?”

  “Yes, all that jazz,” I say wryly. “My lawyers have been in touch with your lawyers on all of this.”

  “Great. Perfect.” He fidgets some. “Some of the board members were asking is all,” he explains.

  I nod. You have payments coming due, Rhett, and no way to pay them. There’s not much more you can shift and then reshift to cover all your bases, is there?

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “No. I think that’s it,” Rhett says.

  “Make sure it is.” I shift my focus to my laptop and start typing to dismiss them.

  They hesitate before leaving.

  But it’s only when both of them enter the elevator and the doors shut that I let my guard down.

  Fuck, Knight. Just … fuck. I scrub a hand through my hair and lean back in my chair, staring at the cursor on my laptop taunting me to work, but my mind is lost somewhere else.

  To her. To moonlight in her hair. To her carefree laugh. To her dancing in the sand.

  To Leo. His wary eyes. His hopeful smile. His reminding me of a little brother I never got to see reach that age.

  To Rhett. His bullshit lies. To the freight train barreling down on him. To the warm, fuzzy feeling I have deep down inside knowing I’m the conductor on it.

  To one hell of a fucking day that really had nothing to do with work.

  I don’t know how exactly to think about that.

  I’m not slipping.

  I haven’t lost my edge.

  Fuck that Audrey thinks differently.

  Fuck that my solution to a weird day is wanting to go to Rowan’s house instead of my own.

  And fuck that my personal life is most likely going to crumble—when Rowan figures out the lies—at the same time everything else I’ve dreamt of doing for so long comes true.

  Fuck, man.

  Maybe I do need to pull on the reins a bit.

  Maybe I do need to mitigate expectations no matter how much I don’t want to.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Rowan

  “I need an update,” Caroline says the minute I answer the phone.

  “I’m at work. I can’t talk now,” I say and strain my neck to look down the hallway to see if Holden is in his office.

  “You’re always at work,” she snorts. “I have a feeling it’s because you’re doing more than banging out contracts at the office these days.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “I’m sure you’ve yelled that a few times too.”

  “Caroline,” I warn.

  “What?” she asks, the voice of an angel. “I’m just saying what you’re thinking.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t speak.

  “It must be good if you’re not talking. Like, mind-blowing, back-breaking, multiple-orgasm-inducing good.”

  “Perhaps,” I murmur.

  “AHA. I knew it. I knew your silence meant you were getting busy.”

  “I really have been busy at work trying to onboard some new suppliers.”

  “Suppliers, uh-huh. Someone to fill up that empty warehouse of yours.”

  All I can do is hang my head and bark out a laugh. “Whatever.”

  “So…” she says.

  “So?”

  “Is there more going on here than just ‘supplying the warehouse’?”

  “No. God no,” I say quicker than I should. If I can hear the panic in my own voice, I know Caroline can too.

  “Uh-huh,” she murmurs. “Well, if supplying the warehouse should turn into … I don’t know, something more, that’s more than okay.”

  “Caro—”

  “Don’t Caroline me. I know you have to keep this quiet because you have your reasons, but sometimes when there is no public pressure or bright spotlight on you, it’s easier to figure things out.”

  “Things?”

  “Feelings. You know, the thing you never talk about.”

  “Noted.”

  “And she’s all business, once again,” she mutters.

  “She is. And she has to go because someone is heading this way.”

  “Desk sex is fun. Just saying,” she says seconds before I end the call and Holden strides into my office with a definite purpose.

  He has on a light gray shirt today and black pants. His sleeves are rolled up and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone when he usually is wearing a tie.

  I have only seconds to act on the fantasy that just popped into my mind before he sets the black velvet box down on my desk with force.

  Guess he found them.

  “I warned you about this,” he says, eyes meeting mine, hands bracing on the front edge of my desk so we are face-to-face.

  “Holden.” I hesitate because the look on his face is intense. Irritated. “I can’t accept them.”

  His smile is quick, disarming and disconcerting at the same time. “And I told you what I’d do if you tried to return them.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  His eyes drift down to my cleavage, which I’m sure he has a great view of from his vantage point. They linger for longer than is appropriate. Good thing I know how incredible Holden’s inappropriate is.

  “I gave you a gift. End of story.” He drags his eyes back up to mine. “That’s your one and only warning or else Monday’s meeting next week is going to be awfully enlightening about what we’ve done on the table we’ll all be sitting at.”

  My eyes shock open wider and I reach my hand out and slowly drag the box toward me and put it in my drawer.

  “That’s a smart decision, Sunshine,” he murmurs in that low, husky voice of his that has me biting my lower lip in reflex.

  “Yes, Mr. Knight,” I murmur. Two can play this game.

  And I get the reaction I want. The flare of his nostrils. The twitch of his fingers as if he’s itching to touch. The clench of his jaw followed by the slow, seductive crawl of a smile onto his lips.

  “Should I be worried that your mother called me today?”

  That statement is enough to knock me out of my lust-induced haze. “She what?”

  “Yep.” He helps himself to a seat at my desk. Something I don’t think he’s ever done before. “Surprised the hell out of me too.”

  “She invited you to the barbecue, didn’t she?” Damn it. My two worlds outside of work are going to collide. I mean, they have at the country club, but not at my family home. Not with the people who know me better than anyone watching the two of us interact.

  “She did.” He nods. “Invited me and offered for me to bring a plus-one. Any suggestions on who that might be?”

  We haven’t had any discussions about exclusivity when it comes to whatever it is that we’re doing here. At the same time, his whole “I don’t share” routine pretty much said that’s what we are—exclusive … and yet even the idea of him bringing someone else has me rolling my shoulders in irritation.

  “If you were a smart man—and I happen to know for a fact that you are—you won’t be bringing anyone.”

  “No?” He lifts a single brow and offers me a lopsided, taunting smirk. “Why not? It might be a nice time for a good society lady. An event where she can step out and let Westmore know she snagged the new eligible bachelor.” I snort. “God knows I’ve had plenty of open invitations from them.”

  “I don’t think that would be a wise decision.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest, raising one eyebrow to match his.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I’m more than certain by the”—I look back and forth down the hallway through my office window and then lower my voice—“way you were fucking my mouth last night, that you know exactly where your bread is buttered.”

  His laugh is low and rich. “Sunshine, I do believe you are trying to get a reaction out of me.” He looks down at his lap, grunts, and then back up to me. “For the record, it’s working.”

  I shake my head but the grin—god, the grin is automatic. It always is around him. “Then again, maybe you should bring someone.” I shrug and play along. “A Junior League chair who likes her mint juleps strong, her picket fences white, and who would probably accept a pair of sapphire earrings and wear them to a run-of-the-mill barbecue without batting an eye.”

  “Probably,” he says as Audrey calls him from down the hall. He rises from his seat, his eyes still locked on mine. “But I prefer a woman who argues with me over accepting said sapphires and chooses to wear them with nothing else on.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Holden

  She’s been avoiding me since I stepped foot into this backyard.

  A cursory hello. A polite smile. An absent glance my way.

  But that’s about it.

  I don’t like it one bit. It’s total bullshit.

  And it’s fucking killing me.

  Her short sundress. Her sun-kissed legs. The strappy sandals.

  The dirty things running through my mind are endless.

  Her hair is pulled up. The curve of her neck exposed. Her lips a pale pink.

  Does the need for her ever wane? Her mouth? Her body? Her mind?

  “So it seems like things are going well. On track,” Rupert Rothschild says, pulling my attention back to him.

  I give a measured nod. During my dive into the Rothschild digital footprint, I didn’t find much and that’s almost as telling as finding a treasure trove. Dear old Dad doesn’t know his son has bargained away both the business and the family trust.

  Doesn’t have a fucking clue. Duped bank statements can go a long way.

  I look at Rupert and smile. “It is. Coming right along.”

  “Good. Good.” He pats me on the back, and I grit my teeth. I’m not one of your good ol’ boys. Far fucking from it. “My retirement thanks you. My family thanks you.”

  My smile is sharp and fleeting. “Of course.”

  This will be the third time Rupert has brought up the purchase of TinSpirits during the party. The third time he’s sought me out and woven it into our conversation.

  He’s curious.

  Rhett’s not telling him shit and for good reason. Daddy can’t know the family company is bleeding money—among other things.

  And so, he’s coming to me for answers on whether his return is coming. Do I detect a hint of doubt in his golden child?

  “Your date. She’s stunning. I had no idea you were … taken. The Westmore women will be crying in their pillows tonight.”

  “Hmm,” I say as I take a sip of my scotch. I have no interest in responding.

  And maybe because I’m not 100 percent thrilled with that development either.

  I glance over to where Mallory stands amid a circle of other Westmore women. She’s the exact opposite of what Rowan looks like—or rather, she’s exactly what Rowan used to look like, the TinSpirits spokesmodel Rowan. All blond hair and wide, innocent eyes.

  By design of course. No doubt Audrey thought of that when she surprised me with a date for today’s event.

  To get rid of the distraction said her text.

  Mallory looks over to me and smiles a smile any man would appreciate.

  And any other time, there is absolutely no fucking doubt I’d act on it. On her. On the opportunity that she’s put out there.

  “I know it’s none of my business even though it is technically my business,” Rupert says, pulling me back to him as he chortles at the pun. My face remains impassive. “When it comes to the deal, are there any sticking points that might cause a delay or a problem?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me for saying this, Rupert, but I can’t discuss the specifics of the deal with anyone. Rhett and I are under a nondisclosure agreement, and I take those very seriously.”

  In other words, no, you can’t know anything other than the memos the board members get—and those are scant on details.

  “Yes. Of course. Ever the consummate professional.”

  My smile is there but disingenuous. “Always.”

  He continues to stare at me as if he thinks that will make me talk even when his questions don’t. It’s awkward for him. A shift of his feet. A clearing of his throat. I just continue to stare back, waiting for him to get the hint that nothing more will be said.

  “Well, it was great talking to you,” he finally says. “So great. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” I say with a nod.

  You’ll be back. You’ll rephrase the questions. You’re Rupert Rothschild. You’re used to people doing what you ask.

  Not me.

  Not when it comes to them.

  Fuck that.

  I lift my beer to my lips and look around the Rothschilds’ lavish backyard. People I’ve come to learn are the who’s who of Westmore society stroll about. It’s old money—subtle and unassuming with classic style—beside new money—loud and obvious with everything on trend. Regardless, the guests are decked out as extravagantly as the yard.