Her nearness affects the both of us. It’s in the hitch of her breath and the sudden jump of my pulse. Her lips part ever so slightly as we stand frozen for the briefest of seconds.

  Distractions, Holden. Stay the fuck away from them. Especially in this crowd. Particularly her.

  Her lashes flutter before she gives a quick shake of her head and takes a step back. “Sorry.” She holds her hands up. “It’s been a rough week, and this”—she lifts her glass up—“is how I’ve chosen to cope tonight.”

  “Enjoying yourself that much, are you?”

  “Yes. Having the time of my life, can’t you tell?” She rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath but then she meets my gaze again.

  “No,” I retort. “Don’t you have somewhere else you should be? Someone else you can bore?”

  “Nope. I already did my duty for the night.”

  “And he got rid of you that quickly after? That’s … embarrassing.”

  Her glare is lethal. Good. Maybe she’ll leave me the fuck alone, because the longer she stands here the easier it is to justify the distraction that is wanting her. Wanting a woman who is most definitely off-fucking-limits.

  “This is where I return the jab and say if you’re trying to insult me, you’re going to have to try harder.”

  “The difference between you and me is you care. I don’t.”

  “For the record, it was my brother I was talking about. The duty I had was in regards to him.”

  “How cute. You still have to hold his hand to cross the street.”

  “No. I have to take up residence anywhere that won’t upstage my perfectly positioned sibling. It’s every woman’s dream, isn’t it?” She motions to one of the servers who is walking around with a tray of martinis and trades her empty for a fresh one. She takes a sip, her eyes meeting mine above the rim.

  “I don’t claim to know what every woman’s dream is.” But I can sure as fuck fulfill most of them.

  “You should. Here in Westmore—”

  “You keep talking like I care, sweetheart. I’m sure there are plenty of people in this room who’ll pat you on the head and give you the attention you’re craving. But it’s not going to be me.”

  “Definitely have the classic prick thing down pat.”

  I nod and take another sip of my drink. “Yep. Sure do.”

  “What charity are we benefiting tonight?” she asks, throwing me for a loop.

  “Why?”

  “Just trying to figure you out.”

  “Figure away.” I tip my glass in her direction. “No doubt another martini will help with that.”

  “Don’t mind if I do to both.” Her smile has a chill to it, but even its iciness is hot. “Let’s see, you spent a ridiculous amount on a painting you’re going to destroy. You paid twenty-five thousand for a plate of food from a Michelin-starred chef that you’re not eating. And you’re standing out here enjoying the fact that everyone is talking about you because you get off on it.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about what I get off on.”

  And Christ if the little smirk on her lips and challenge in her eyes doesn’t reel me in when I need to be taking huge steps back.

  “So the question that begs to be answered is: What are you doing here, Holden Knight?”

  “Raising money for a charity just like everyone else.”

  She studies me, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, as if she’s trying to figure out if she believes the facade I’m putting on. “And that’s where you’re either full of shit or naive as hell if you think anyone here actually cares about the damn charity. They care about themselves. About being seen. About posting on social media that they were here with the who’s who of Westmore, making it known they run in the same circles. Perceptions matter. Optics matter. Status matters.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” I murmur and take a step toward her, the temptation of her way too strong.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Then maybe you should grow a backbone so you do have one.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Can you leave me be now so I can drink my scotch in peace and enjoy the view?”

  I take another sip, welcoming 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.

  Are you there, Mason? Are you watching?

  I let the ghost of a smile come, even if momentarily, before opening my eyes and looking at the city that took everything from me.

  The same city I’ve returned to, intending to get a piece of it back. The same city I’m now staring at as the auction’s after-party carries on behind me.

  It feels weird to be back. And perfectly right.

  “My family has been a pillar in this community forever.”

  “You’re still here?” I lift an eyebrow but don’t look her way.

  “They are, you know.”

  “Awesome. Good for them. No doubt you throw your name around as often as possible to show that too. I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I look her up and down, surprised by her response and rather liking the grit to it. Pretty and polished but blunt and tenacious all at the same time. “Nah. Not my type. But, uh”—I motion to the room full of people at our backs—“be my guest. Maybe you’re one of theirs.”

  “Charming.” She holds her hand out for me to shake. “Rowan Rothschild. I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but…”

  FOUR

  Rowan

  Yeah, that Rothschild.

  There’s the slightest hitch in his movement when I say my name. A cough over his sip of scotch to hide his embarrassment that he was talking like that to me. A Rothschild from Westmore.

  I may be buzzed, but I saw it.

  What did my brother do now?

  That’s my first and only thought as Holden’s glance lingers on my hand before he decides to take it. The shake is slow and thorough, his eyes never leaving mine as he does.

  I never throw my name around. I never use it to get access or gain clout, but Mr. Holden Knight needed his ego checked. I knew that would do it.

  Is the man gorgeous? Oh my god, yes. In all the best, most mysterious ways.

  Is he a prick of epic proportions? So far, it’s looking like he is.

  He’s intriguing but aloof. Reserved but talkative. Enigmatic but—

  “Rowan Rothschild,” he murmurs as he studies me with that pensive intensity he wears as easily as his tuxedo.

  “Perfect daughter and Stepford sister, at your service,” I say with blatant sarcasm and a mock curtsy.

  “I knew you looked familiar.”

  “Two seconds ago, you were telling me to take a hike, but now that you know who I am, you’re not so eager to see me go.”

  “Call me curious.”

  “I think I’d call you opportunistic.”

  He shrugs. “Always. Is there a problem with that?”

  Yes.

  No.

  At least he’s honest.

  “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs in that deep rumble of a voice that sounds like gravel dipped in honey. Smooth with a little grit to it.

  “So that’s why you’re here? Opportunity? To throw your money around and let it be known you’re here to play?”

  “Why are you so concerned with how I throw my money around?” Holden asks but then looks over my shoulder and surveys the crowd. There is something about the look on his face—a bristling, a distaste, a … something that I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s there when he meets my eyes again. “It’s benefiting the charity you’re championing, is it not? Or do you not care about the cause and are simply here to see and be seen?” He tilts his head. “My bet’s on the latter.”

  “And your bet would be wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest in a defensive position. “The money being raised is pretty much the only positive thing happening tonight.”

  “And here I thought you were going to say the only positive tonight was meeting me.” The dry sarcasm in his voice has a smile tilting up my lips.

  “Of course. Forgive me.” In a move that even surprises me, I reach out and run a hand down his bicep. His arm tenses beneath the fabric of his jacket. Our eyes hold, challenge, and then that smile playing at the corners of my lips curves wider. “I forgot the proper response to all of your flattery was to fall at your feet.”

  “There’s only one reason I like women at my feet and it’s not because they fell.” He quirks an eyebrow as his eyes darken and nostrils flare ever so slightly.

  The comment is crude and unexpected, but hell if it doesn’t have me wondering about the man beneath the suit. It’s not like I needed prompting. I’ve been wondering that since our eyes first met. “I’m sure you get all the women with lines like that.”

  “You’re still standing here, aren’t you?” The muscle ticks in his jaw as his challenge settles between us.

  “Me being out here has nothing to do with you and everything to do with them.” I glance over my shoulder at everyone inside and my head swims. Guess that last martini hit me harder than I thought.

  “Them?”

  “Do you ever notice you respond to almost every comment with a question?”

  “Humor me, Rowan,” he says, and there’s something about the way my name sounds on his lips—almost an intimacy to it—that has chills chasing over my skin. “What is it about them that you’re wanting to avoid so badly that you’re standing out here with a man you don’t know and aren’t quite sure you want to?”

  He eyes me above his glass as he takes a slow sip. His tongue darts out to lick away an errant drop, and I have to force myself to meet his eyes again. He makes me uncomfortable and turned on at the same time. I’ve never felt that combination before, and I’m not quite sure that I want to.

  “I don’t like their rules,” I finally say.

  “I’m not one for rules much either but I have a feeling we’re talking about two completely different sets of them. Care to narrow this down for me?”

  “My family’s.” It’s something I shouldn’t admit, but god does it feel good to be able to say something to someone who doesn’t know us. Who doesn’t look at me as a bystander when that’s all everyone else in the goddamn town does. Who is new in town and not under the veil of their bullshit yet. A nervous chuckle falls from my lips, but it doesn’t stop my admission.

  “They have rules?” he scoffs.

  “To look pretty and keep my mouth shut.”

  He’s quiet for a beat and then he nods. “From where I stand, I’d say you’re successful at the first. Not so much at the second.”

  Something about his comment bolsters me. The gin probably helps too. “Well, this is as close as I get to being quiet. Take me or leave me.”

  “Apparently I don’t have a choice seeing as you’re still standing here, interrupting my scotch with small-town gossip I really don’t give two fucks about.”

  “Oh, you’ll fit in just fine around here,” I murmur. He makes those comments yet his eyes look like they want to devour me.

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing is what it seems in this place. And I have a feeling you are much the same.” I shrug. “Like why it is you’re here.”

  “To buy a painting?”

  “Bullshit. No one is here to just buy a painting. Everyone has another reason. What’s yours?”

  “My reasons don’t matter and frankly are none of your business.”

  I take a step closer. The scent of his cologne tickles my senses, a drug drawing me in when I don’t want to be anywhere near him. And yet I don’t step away.

  Maybe I like playing with fire—because I have a feeling that is exactly what he is.

  “You forget. Everyone’s reasons are everyone’s business in Westmore.”

  “Maybe it’s as simple as I’ve recently relocated here. An ‘all work and no play’ type of thing. Maybe I’m looking for some new friends.”

  “Friends? In this crowd?” I snort, not buying it for a second. “Be careful what you wish for—you might just become one of us.”

  He steps even closer to me. Close enough I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. “And who would that be?”

  “Pretentious. Incompetent. Self-serving.” Laughter erupts from the ballroom, and when I look at the circle of men making the noise—Rhett, Chadwick, Porter—the sneer on my face is as automatic as the derision in my voice. “Like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “My brother. Rhett. I figured you’d already met him seeing as you purposely upstaged him earlier during the auction.”

  “Rhett. Yes. I haven’t had the pleasure … or displeasure, it seems, if I were to put any stock in what you’re implying.”

  I chuckle. Of course he’s doubting me—I’m a woman with firsthand knowledge of how this town works. Why was I still hoping that he might be somewhat different?

  “Implying? Really? Look at him in there puffing his chest like he’s the king in his castle, ruling his world, when he’s really failing miserably at everything. He’s all smoke and mirrors, fooling everyone with his ruse, while everything that matters turns to shit.” I take a sip of my martini as I wait for Holden to defend Rhett.

  Isn’t that how this town works? Men stick together? Women have to kowtow?

  “Sounds like he’s an incorrigible fuck.”

  His words surprise me. Egg me on. Make me feel heard when normally my ingrained instinct is to protect my brother. I hate that I want Holden to like me over Rhett, despite not being 100 percent sure I like him.

  “At times,” I say cautiously but then realize this is my only time to make a first impression—to win Holden over to my side before the rest of Westmore tries to. So I expand. “Rhett acts like a prince when he’s really a pauper. It’s like no one cares but me that the company is hemorrhaging money and about to default on loans that will surely devastate us and lay even more people off. They’re blind to it all because he has a dick—” I stop myself. Eyes wide, lips pursed. Did I really just say that to a stranger?

  But that stranger’s laugh rumbles through the charged air and hits me harder than expected. “Why stop now? The floor is yours, Miss Rothschild.”

  “Never mind. It’s been a week, month, night … take your pick.”

  “No. I’m invested in this story now. Please. Don’t stop.” He leans against the railing beside me so that his hip brushes against mine. He lifts his chin to the crowd inside that we are both staring at now. “He’s the prized possession because he … has a dick, as you so politely put it, and … what else? You’re more qualified, more astute, and more demanding, but no one can see past the fact that you’re a woman? Am I reading this right?”

  I study him and try to figure out if he’s mocking me or agreeing with me.

  “Didn’t you know in coming to Westmore you’ve walked back in time? Where my only ambitions as a female should be to serve, support, prop up the prized son, and wear freaking ruby earrings all while smiling big and pretending I’m perfectly content.”

  “I think you need to work on the perfectly content part.”

  I level him with a side-eye and then come to my senses. I’m out here venting to a man I don’t know about personal shit I’m supposed to just accept. “Look. I apologize for the rant. Let’s chalk it up to it being a rough couple of weeks. You didn’t deserve to be bombarded with … all of that. I barely even know you and here I am—”

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Rowan.”

  “That’s not very comforting considering no one knows anything about you.”

  “If I wanted people to know about me, I’d tell them.”

  “Again with the dark, dangerous, and mysterious card, huh?” Anything to get the discussion off of me.

  “I’m more than certain half this party googled who I am after my winning bid. Should I assume you looked me up too before you decided to come out here and talk to me, or had you already heard the name but didn’t know the face?” He sets his glass on the railing before adjusting one of his cuff links. “The internet should tell you all you need to know.”

  He’s right about that. All of it. But I want more. “Facts. Figures. Rumors. Those aren’t the types of things that intrigue me.”

  “Then what does intrigue you, Rowan Rothschild?”

  My name rolls off his tongue but it’s more than his voice that has my breath hitching. It’s him reaching out to wipe a drop of my martini off my bottom lip with his thumb that has my heart thundering in my chest.

  It’s a simple action on his part and an extremely complicated reaction on mine. A visceral one that has my nipples tightening and a slow simmer of an ache burning. It’s confusing and fleeting, and I’m chastising myself the minute I comprehend the reaction.

  But he sees it too.

  It’s in the smirk on his lips and the arrogance in his eyes.

  He did that on purpose.

  And I gave him exactly the reaction he wanted. Fuck.

  I step back and shake my head. He thinks I’m going to fall for that? That I want to fall for that?

  “What’s your story?” I ask, needing to understand this. Understand him. Why I’m still standing here.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Everybody has one.” He lifts his eyebrows in response. “C’mon,” I say, trying to sound persuasive and not desperate, “I just told you mine.”

  “No. You told me your brother’s.”

  An exasperated sigh falls from my lips. “His story is mine. Sad, right? We Rothschilds are bound to duties and familial obligations that were predetermined way before we were born.”

  “But with two sets of rules.”

  “Yes, with two different sets of rules.” I nod, thinking of my brother at the reading of the will the other day. Of his expectation that Gran was going to leave everything to him and then his tantrum when she didn’t. What does the fact that this made me happy say about me? “You’re deflecting, Holden. I asked you first.”

  “And yet I don’t owe it to you to answer, do I?”