Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “He’s not in the office at the moment, but if you want to sit down a spell, you can tell me what he’s done to piss you off. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

  “Do you have a piñata shaped like him and a bat? That would help.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and I think he’s about to throw me out on the street. That would probably be the right thing to do considering he doesn’t know who I am. Instead he throws his head back and laughs. “I like your spirit, even if I can’t condone your methods. My business partner has many annoying qualities, but even so, I would like him intact.”

  “Your business partner?”

  “Sutton Mayfair,” he says, standing as he introduces himself with old-world manners. There are stacks of papers surrounding him on the glossy conference table. Clearly I’ve interrupted him at work, but he doesn’t look impatient in the least. There’s something deceptively casual about him in his slightly rumpled suit and blond hair an inch too long. The kind of deception that would make his enemies underestimate him.

  “So you must know where I can find him.”

  “You can leave a message at the front desk.”

  “And lose the element of surprise? I’d rather not.”

  A small smile. “I know where he’ll be tonight. There’s some party happening, and we’re supposed to go. I wasn’t looking forward to wearing a penguin suit for the rich and powerful in Tanglewood, but the evening will be a whole lot more interesting if you’re there.”

  My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why would you help me?”

  “Perhaps I want to see you in an evening dress.”

  I’ve been asked out a hundred times before, but never with the blunt self-assurance that this man conveys. It’s a strange combination of courtesy and outright lust. “Are you taking advantage of the situation, Sutton?”

  His blue eyes dance with humor. “I’m an opportunist, and I think you might be one too.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it.”

  “I’d much rather pick you up. Maybe have dinner first.”

  Have a date with Christopher’s business partner? He would probably have a heart attack at the idea that anyone would treat me as a woman instead of a child. “A gentleman would add my name to the guest list.”

  “Did I give you the impression that I was a gentleman? My apologies.”

  “Now I can see why Christopher went into business with you.”

  He places a hand on his heart, and even a few yards away I can see the roughened skin of him, the calluses and the faint white scars. Those are the hands of a working man, for all that he wears a suit and works in a high-rise now. “Ruthless,” he says.

  “If that means I have my own invitation to the party.” There’s something alluring about Sutton Mayfair. If I met him in New York City, if he asked me out in a bar, I would say yes. But I can’t trust him knowing he’s tied to Christopher Bardot. Not even for one night.

  Really, there’s no end to the things Christopher will ruin for me.

  “On one condition,” he says. “Show me what you’re holding.”

  The paper. I’m wearing my power boots and a T-shirt that says, Feminist AF. Of course he would have noticed my one weakness. It’s the reason I’m here in this office. Here in Tanglewood. The reason I need an invitation to the party tonight.

  Swallowing down my shame, I toss the crumpled ball onto the cherrywood. He picks it up and smooths it out, his large fingers unerringly gentle with the worried bill.

  “Looks like someone didn’t pay this,” he says, one square-tipped finger running down the credit card statement. I have a prickling sensation that tells me he would be able to recite its entire contents despite his good-old-boy demeanor.

  “And that someone will have to answer to me. Tonight.”

  He folds the paper carefully in half, and then half again. When he hands it back, it’s almost completely flat. “Do you need money?”

  “I have money.” Not the ability to spend it—one of life’s ironies.

  He takes a step toward me, and suddenly I’m taking a step back. How did this man go from accommodating to dangerous in one second flat? “Christopher mentioned you.”

  My mouth feels dry. I tell myself I don’t care about what Christopher says, that I don’t care what this man thinks of me. “Did he?”

  “He made you sound about this high. A child.”

  There’s acid in my throat. “Of course.”

  “Now that I see you, I think he was holding out on me.” Those blue eyes look at more than just my body; they look inside me, finding the sensitive places—pressing on them, only a little. Enough to make me gasp when his gaze catches mine.

  “I’m not a child,” I say, which only serves to make me sound like a child.

  “No,” he says, his lips forming the word, almost soundless. “Do you think Christopher is really confused about that? Do you think he sees that mouth and doesn’t imagine all the things he could do to it? Do you think he doesn’t think about you when he comes?”

  My cheeks warm. “How dare you.”

  He gives me a smile that can only be described as indecent. “Maybe he is that blind.”

  I follow his stark blue gaze down to my chest, where my nipples have become hard at the E and the A. Even while my mind denies what this man is saying to me, my body already agrees. Christopher has always treated me like a child, but this man… he knows I’m a woman.

  “There can’t be anything between us. I hate your business partner.”

  “You think that’s a requirement for being my lover? Come to the gala tonight. Make him suffer all you want, as long as you don’t go home with him at the end of the night.”

  Surprise steals my breath, along with an unnerving rush of arousal. It’s pure heat between my legs, the opposite of the ice-cold Christopher leaves me with. Who knew I would find the caveman thing so hot? I blame evolution, an ages-old certainty that this man could protect me from saber-tooth tigers. “You have no right to say that.”

  He gives me a half smile that doesn’t quite dispute my words. Not yet, it seems to say instead. A caveman he might be, but he also has a sense of determined patience. Too bad I’ve had my share of men with ambition. Whether they’re brooding and reserved like Christopher or confident and possessive like this one, they have no place in my world.

  Chapter Two

  OLD-MONEY GIRLS

  “I’ve heard the strangest rumor,” says the familiar voice over the phone, “that my best friend is in the city. I said there’s no way because she didn’t tell me she was visiting.”

  I stare up at the crystal and gold chandelier that hangs above me, set in a thick crown molding. I’m staying at L’Etoile, a boutique hotel in downtown. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s complicated.”

  “So it’s about your stepbrother.”

  “You didn’t tell me he moved to Tanglewood.”

  She’s quiet a moment, and I know the accusation came out in my voice too strong. “I wasn’t sure he’d stick around, but Harper… he’s going to be in your life. There’s no escaping that, at least until you turn twenty-five.”

  “And not a second too soon.” I’ve mostly managed to avoid the trust fund altogether, besides the payments to Smith College, which were sent automatically.

  It’s obscene the amount of money sitting in a bank account under my name. It’s only gotten bigger under Christopher’s careful stewardship, his investments making me one of the richest women in the country. The man knows how to turn money into more money, that’s for sure. The Midas touch. I could buy a castle on every continent if I wanted one, but I can’t even write a check to charity.

  The biggest upside to graduating this past spring was never having to touch the trust fund again. Until the credit card bill was an exception to the rule. A time when I had actually needed the trust fund and the ridiculous amount of money inside it.

  Naturally, that means I couldn’t have it.

  “I’m at the Emerald
,” she says, referring to the gorgeous old hotel that Gabriel Miller bought her near Smith College while she goes to grad school. “But you can still stay at our place. I can call the security firm to let you in.”

  “Nah, I like L’Etoile. The way they’ve bastardized everything beautiful appeals to me.”

  She laughs softly and then sobers. “How’s your mom?”

  “In remission,” I say, my throat tight.

  “If you need help…” The offer hangs in the air, sharp enough to leave scratch marks on my skin. “You were there for me when my father was sick. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

  “And you didn’t take a cent from me.”

  “Harper.”

  “We’re managing,” I tell her softly, which is mostly true. My paintings are just shocking enough to sell for large sums of money through my Etsy shop, usually sold a few minutes after I post them on my Instagram account. That money has supported me and my mother, but the medical bills are a little too intense for even a bloodthirsty Calypso.

  “Have you talked to Christopher?”

  “Tonight. I have an invitation to the Tanglewood Historical Society’s Annual Gala.”

  She groans. “You’re going to run the gauntlet?”

  “It was the only way I could find him. He wasn’t at his office.” I hesitate, a little uncertain whether I want to ask the next question. There’s something intimate about my encounter there, more intimate than it should seem for talking to a stranger with the conference room door open. “Have you met Sutton Mayfair?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about him. He’s new on the scene, so naturally all the old-money girls are obsessed with him.” Her voice turns speculative. “Apparently he’s very sexy.”

  “If you like that Southern-boy charm.” Which apparently I do? I haven’t had much exposure to that in LA or New York City, but turns out it’s seductive in a visceral way. It was easy to friendzone the artists at Smith College. Easy to roll my eyes at the ambitious business students, enough like Christopher Bardot to make me hate them on sight.

  Harder to ignore the masculine confidence inherent in Sutton Mayfair.

  “It’s more than an act. He grew up on a ranch, so you know…” Her voice sounds like pure wickedness as the words trail off.

  “So he likes mucking stalls?”

  “He’s probably good with rope, I was going to say.”

  That makes me laugh when I didn’t think it was possible, not in my current mood. This is why Avery is my best friend. She can make me laugh even when I’m walking the figurative plank over a circle of rabid sharks. “I’m absolutely one hundred percent positive I won’t be finding out whether he’s good with rope.”

  “Never say never.”

  I remember the heat in his blue-sky eyes and shiver with remembered response. “I’m going to the gala to see Christopher. I doubt I’ll even talk to Sutton there, especially if he has the old-money girls flipping their hair to get him into bed.”

  “Okay,” she says cheerfully, clearly not believing a word.

  “And even if I did talk to him, I have no interest in going to bed with some overmuscled Neanderthal who looks amazing in a suit. I like my men more… enlightened.”

  “Mhmm. I’m going to have someone send over this dress I ordered online but haven’t worn yet. It’s red and shimmery and it will look incredible on you.”

  “I don’t need a dress,” I say, even though absolutely nothing in my canvas carry-on is suitable for a gala. There are sundresses and skinny jeans and paint-splattered pj’s.

  “Text me when you get home, or I’ll worry about you.”

  “You’re just hoping I give you dirty details, but there won’t be anything dirty. There’s only going to be me telling Christopher he’s an arrogant jerk face, and him bending to my will.”

  She laughs. “Okay, but text me anyway.”

  The dress arrives an hour later, even more gorgeous than she made it sound. There’s a red silk bodice that makes my modest breasts look impressive in the ornate gold-plated wall mirror. And a black wrap skirt that floats around me like liquid when I walk, revealing an impressive amount of leg. It’s a dress that a modern-day goddess would wear, along with the black and red Louboutins included in the box. In short I’m dressed to kill.

  Chapter Three

  TEARDOWN AND REBUILD

  The gala takes place in the Tanglewood Country Club, a place that charges enough money to its members that the carpet shouldn’t look quite as shabby as it does. It’s a place with more clout than taste, which probably says more about the historical society than they think.

  I can hear the gentle hum of voices and clink of glasses from down the hallway. The suited security guard makes me wait while he searches a printed guest list, which I’m not on. Do they really have a problem with party crashers hungry for dry quiche and dry conversation? Maybe it’s been too long since we moved in wealthy circles, because my hands start to sweat. I don’t belong here, at least not in spirit, and even this random stranger knows it.

  Only when he uses his phone to check his e-mail does he find my late addition.

  Holding my head high, I stride through the room. Avery grew up in Tanglewood, so I’m guessing she knows most of the people in this room. I know basically no one, and I don’t see Christopher anywhere.

  There are admiring looks because of the amazing dress.

  Curious looks, because of my anonymity.

  A familiar drawl slows my step. “Not sure it’s better falling down,” Sutton says, his back turned to me, speaking to an older woman who clearly does not appreciate his words.

  “The Tanglewood Library has an important history, and it’s the job of the society to preserve that. We aren’t going to give it to just anyone who moves in with money.”

  “It hasn’t been given away, Mrs. Rosemont. I bought it.”

  Her face flushes red, and I realize I’ve stumbled into the scene that every single person will be talking about in Tanglewood tomorrow morning. Unless I somehow stop it.

  “Do you think money counts for everything, young man? You’ll find that money can’t buy you everything. It can’t buy you a construction permit if we tell city hall not to give you one.”

  “He bought it because he values the foundation,” I say, tucking my hand through Sutton’s arm as if I belong there. He stiffens only slightly but doesn’t give me away. “Maintaining the historical integrity is an important part of the Mayfair-Bardot corporate philosophy. They plan to work closely with the society to ensure they do it justice.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Then why haven’t they contacted us before now?”

  I shake my head, commiserating with her at the cluelessness of men. “They’ve been overly focused on things like paperwork and permits. That’s why they’re here tonight, though. To meet you and ask for your help in doing this the right way.”

  “I see.” She looks pissed, but at least she stops threatening him. “The gala is hardly the place to discuss details.”

  Sutton clears his throat. “We would be happy to host you at our offices at your earliest convenience. We wouldn’t dream of moving forward without the society’s input.”

  “You need more than our input,” the woman says sharply. “You need our approval or you’ll never get the construction permits you need from the mayor’s office.”

  I manage to keep a straight face, even though it’s painfully clear that Sutton and Christopher had planned to move forward without the society’s input. It may not have even occurred to them that the society might object—or that they could put in place roadblocks with building permits. I may not know the specifics of Tanglewood, but I know high society. Even if the society itself doesn’t have any power, the husbands of its members certainly do.

  Sutton manages to use that Southern charm to win Mrs. Rosemont over, so that she’s blushing and trying not to smile by the time she’s called away by another woman.

  “You saved me,” he murmurs the second we’re alone.r />
  The words startle me, because I’m so used to being the one who needs saving. The one who gets saved again and again, even when I don’t want that. It’s an illicit delight, being the one who does the saving. No wonder Christopher likes it so much. “You would have figured it out.”

  “I’m a lot better with a construction crew than I am with women.”

  Considering the looks he’s getting from around the room, he’s underestimating himself. Even so I have to admit he wasn’t doing so well when I found him. “Were you really planning on restoring a historical site without consulting anyone?”

  “It was less of a restoration, more of a teardown and rebuild.”

  I groan. “City hall is going to block you so fast.”

  “We own the deed,” he drawls.

  “And they own the city. You can fight them, but that’s a last resort. Especially for people who are new to the city like you. It’s going to take a while before you have friends.”

  He looks at me, mystified. “You made friends with that woman.”

  “That’s because I’m interested in people more than money. You should try it sometime.”

  A rough laugh, the kind I can imagine beneath a vivid sunset in the country. “It’s always the people who come from money who think it doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s always the ambitious ones that crush everyone in their way.”

  He pulls me close, and only then do I realize I’m still holding his arm. That we’re locked together in the middle of the ballroom. Everyone is looking at us and pretending not to see. They’ll be talking about the mystery woman tomorrow. “Then I had better keep you nearby, so you can protect everyone.”

  My throat tightens. The idea that I can protect anyone… even metaphorically, it’s completely absurd. I’m the helpless one, aren’t I? At least that’s how Christopher Bardot sees me.

  A shiver runs through me. I turn to find him behind me, as if conjured from my thoughts. I yank my hand away from Sutton, which only makes me look guilty. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m allowed to be here, but Christopher always makes me feel like a troublesome child.