The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans Book 4)

by Nikki Sloane

  That should never have happened. Pay attention.

  Sometimes, one mistake was all it took to lose everything.

  Thankfully, I was able to get back on track after a few turns, and her eyebrows pulled together in dismay as I took her bishop. She recovered quickly and squared her shoulders, pretending I hadn’t undone all the plans she’d made.

  It was impossible to tell if she were making conversation, or if there was an agenda buried in her question. “Are you ready for this weekend?”

  Confidence ran through my words. “Of course.”

  I’d invited HBHC’s board of directors and their spouses to my home for a morning of skeet shooting on the grounds, followed by a luncheon where I’d announce my return to headquarters.

  Immediately after the events of Alice’s death, I’d stepped back from the company and put as much distance as possible between us. But I was still the president and the chief shareholder of Hale Banking and Holding, and I would resume working at headquarters, offering my guidance and expertise in a management role.

  If any of the men took issue with it, I expected them to make it clear. They could tell me to my face, in my home, how exactly they found me unfit to work for the company bearing my name. I’d use the afternoon to remind nearly all the men who had given them their board seat, and tripled shareholder earnings during my tenure as CEO.

  This new position didn’t come with much power, yet Royce’s reaction had been tepid when I’d explained it to him. However, that didn’t mean anything. Like me, my son was excellent at guarding his thoughts. He’d been the one to suggest I wine and dine the board before delivering my news, hoping to make it go over easier with them.

  “I’m curious of your thoughts,” I said.

  Marist’s fingers paused on her queen. “About you returning to HBHC?”

  “Royce wasn’t as receptive as I would have liked.”

  “Gee, I can’t think why that would be.” Her voice was dry as she pushed Athena forward, trying to bait me to go after her. But doing so would leave my king vulnerable to an attack by her knight in another set of moves. She pinned her stare on me. “What game are you playing? Are you hoping to get back on the board?” Her voice went shallow, like the idea was so distasteful she could barely utter it. “Are you doing it to try to get close to me?”

  “No.” The word was forceful enough it disturbed the cat, and its ears went back. “No,” I repeated, calmer. “I’m not playing a game.”

  She didn’t believe me. “You’re always playing a game.”

  I used my pawn to take her queen in one swift, deliberate action. Marist’s eyes widened as she took in the board, stunned I’d fallen for her simple trap. When excitement flashed through her blue eyes, weakness momentarily took hold. She was so stunningly beautiful, and my son was unworthy to have stolen her heart.

  Stop. Enough.

  “Check,” she said, quickly moving her knight into position.

  I could have attempted to run, but I despised wasting time. The outcome was set. I slid my king over one square, and as soon as I lifted my fingers off the piece, Marist was up out of her seat, eagerly moving her rook into position.

  Her word was breathless like she’d run a marathon. “Checkmate.”

  I toppled Zeus over and sat back from the board.

  The thrilled smile on her lips froze awkwardly, then died as realization dawned in her. “You . . . let me win.”

  “Perhaps you give me too much credit.”

  She shook her head. “I know you let me win.”

  “How is that?”

  She sank into her chair, pleased with the result but not that it’d been given to her. “You’re not upset you lost.”

  I blinked slowly, not confirming or denying it. The girl was clever, and I turned my gaze toward the black ball of fur that would once again be a resident of my home. “Maybe I’m a different man than I was before.”

  “Maybe you are,” she said softly.

  The cat sensed I was looking at it and cast its wary eyes on me. It still found me lacking somehow.

  Like it didn’t believe I’d changed at all.

  THREE

  MACALISTER

  ROYCE STOOD AT THE BASE OF THE FRONT STEPS outside the house, his brown hair ruffling in the late April wind. The sky was overcast and would be a perfect backdrop for spotting the orange clay discs against, and the wind wasn’t that strong. Unless it picked up, it was unlikely to disrupt our game.

  My son looked tired as he waited for our guests to arrive. He had one arm slung around his wife and his hand sliding up and down her sleeve as if to keep her warm. It was brisk, but not intolerable, and her tailored jacket was wool, so I suspected Royce’s gesture was more for my benefit than hers.

  He used every opportunity to remind me who she’d chosen.

  Lines crinkled at the edge of his eyes. Not with age, as he had just turned twenty-nine—but with exhaustion. The demands our business placed on him would only increase as he climbed in the ranks. I’d done my best to prepare him, or at least what I believed was the best. He’d received far more instruction than I had, but I’d made up for my lack of experience with my drive and determination.

  I glanced at the team of staff waiting beside the golf carts to drive my guests down to the field once they’d arrived, and I scowled. The invitation had clearly stated the game was to start at ten. I expected people to be early, and yet no one had arrived.

  Royce noticed when I glanced at my watch. “It’s early,” he said.

  Annoyance ran through me. “I’m aware.”

  “Here comes a car,” Marist said, glancing beyond the fountain at the center of my circle drive and down to the long driveway lined with trees.

  A black Bentley prowled toward us, and I straightened my posture. Some of these men I hadn’t seen since my ousting. A lesser man might have been intimidated, but I was not a lesser man. I was eager to put the past behind us and return to the level of respect I’d once commanded.

  I was pleased when the car pulled to a stop and Damon Lynch stepped out, followed by his wife Kristin. Damon had been a fiercely loyal ally when I’d been the chairman. He’d voted with me no matter what because he’d understood his role.

  When I went away, he never visited, but I didn’t take it as a slight. Partly because we weren’t close friends, but mostly because seven months ago, he’d declared he was running for Congress. It was a smart decision to keep his distance from me until I’d paid my debt.

  Damon delivered a practiced smile, and it was nearly convincing. He’d make an excellent politician. He was packaged correctly with wealth, looks, a strong background, and little moral conviction. He shook my hand firmly. “It’s good to see you again, Macalister.”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I wonder if there’s any space for Vance at your campaign headquarters.”

  I didn’t mince words, and when I reinforced my point by not releasing my hold of his hand, the smile faded from the future congressman’s eyes. “Sure.” His voice was less convincing than his smile had been. “We’d love to have him as part of the team.”

  “Excellent.” My youngest son hadn’t inherited my head for numbers, but instead his mother’s charm. We’d long discussed Vance’s future in politics, and my aspirations for him reached toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Working for Damon’s campaign would be the perfect first step in his career.

  More cars arrived, and after Royce and I received them, the board members and their wives were ushered to a golf cart and whisked down the lawn, disappearing behind the stables in the distance.

  We were only waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Powell when a silver BMW barreled up the drive and sped around the fountain, braking to a hard stop beside me. Displeasure dug into me, and I seized the passenger door handle to reprimand the driver—

  The woman who stepped out of the back seat was dressed head to toe in black. Her long coat was wrapped around her, belted at her narrow waist, and poised over a pair of heeled boots that lo
oked as expensive as they were impractical. The single dark hue of her clothes exaggerated the contrast of her honey-colored hair and ruby lips, but I ignored how striking she was. Exasperation twisted so violently inside my chest it was difficult to find words.

  “Ms. Alby,” I leveled the full power of my gaze on her, “your trip is wasted. My decision on your proposal was final.”

  Her red lips spread into that dazzling smile I found both enjoyable and infuriating. “I’m not here to change your mind.” She skewed her mouth to one side momentarily, reconsidering her words. “I mean, I might be. But that’s not why I came.”

  I still had a grip of the car door, and my fingers tensed to the point of discomfort. My voice was colder than the wind playing with the tendrils of her hair. “What reason brings you here, then?”

  “I invited her.”

  I turned to glare my surprise at my son. Once, he would have lowered his gaze in response, but Royce had found his footing with me. His days of bending to my will were over.

  “Why is that?” I asked in careful words, the edges so sharp it made Marist look away.

  But Royce wasn’t fazed. “She mentioned she was looking for work, and you need an assistant.”

  I ripped my hand off the door handle so I could ball it into a fist. Ms. Alby and Royce had worked together to orchestrate this setup, and I wouldn’t abide. “No.”

  It was as if she hadn’t heard me. Her driver pulled a long bag from the trunk of the BMW, and she took it from him, tossing a polite thank you to the maniac who’d screeched to a stop in my driveway. The bag looked designed to carry a shotgun, likely borrowed from her father.

  “Why do you have that?” I demanded.

  She paused, and her gaze darted to both Marist and Royce. “Aren’t we shooting skeet today?”

  “Only the men,” I said. “The women don’t.”

  “Why?” She blinked. “Afraid they’ll beat you?”

  Marist made a sound like she’d strangled back a chuckle, but my tone patronized. “Hardly. They’re never interested.”

  “Well, I’m interested. Are you any good?”

  Ms. Alby’s cavalier question bordered on rude. Of course I was. I excelled at whatever I put my focus on. “No,” my chest lifted with pride, “I’m excellent.”

  “Yeah?” Her attention dropped to the bag, her hands gripping the straps, and she appeared lost in thought. Abruptly, her head snapped up and her gaze locked on mine. “How about a deal? We can play each other. If I beat you, you accept my offer.”

  Interest sparked inside me, but I squashed it down. “What will I get when I win?”

  It was as if she hadn’t considered that probable outcome. “Then . . . I won’t make my offer again.”

  “And you’ll leave,” I added.

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  I strode toward her and slipped a hand around her elbow, not caring that I didn’t have permission to touch her. Her coat was a thick barrier between us, and my touch wasn’t harsh, but her blue eyes widened as she stared up at me. She’d shown up uninvited, as far as I was concerned. This was my house, and therefore it would be my rules, and I could kill two birds with one stone.

  My voice dipped low. “And you’ll tell me whose secret you were hoping I’d reveal.”

  Her breath caught and hung between her parted lips. Leaving was one thing, but the stakes were suddenly much higher for her. Of course, they were nonexistent for me. In the unlikely event I lost, I’d be saddled with an assistant who I would immediately find cause to fire.

  I didn’t make deals unless I knew I could live with either outcome.

  For a moment, she considered retreating, and my curiosity intensified. At best, she could put off the inevitable. I’d find out her secret, one way or another.

  I tipped my head down toward the bag in her hands. “Have you shot that thing before?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  It was as I suspected. She’d shown up with her father’s shotgun wearing heels the spring sod would devour, making for poor footing. The recoil from her first shot might knock her right off her feet.

  That thought caused a strange feeling, and I didn’t care for it. I wanted to win, but for once it seemed unlikely I’d find enjoyment in humiliating someone else. I appreciated her tenacity; that had to be all this was. I respected Ms. Alby for not accepting no the first time she’d presented me with her offer.

  Her expression firmed up with determination, and she shook off my hold. “All right. Let’s go.”

  We’d made a wager, and it was important to me it be sealed properly. I tugged off my glove and extended my hand.

  She gazed at it like it was a trap. But she slipped her soft hand into mine, and as I clasped her palm, an odd thrill radiated out from where we were joined. Electricity buzzed as I held her hand longer than I meant to, and far longer than was appropriate. But it pleased me when a flush washed across her cheeks and her gaze broke away from mine.

  Whatever this energy was between us, it affected her even more than it did me.

  I let go, tugged my glove back on, and turned toward the waiting golf cart so I could savor her reaction without her witnessing it. It was incredibly flattering to know I could still cause that type of response in a woman, especially one so young and attractive.

  “Royce,” I said, “stay here to greet Mr. and Mrs. Powell and come down with them.” I tilted my head back toward the girl standing awkwardly beside her car, holding on to the bag as if it were already becoming heavy and tiresome. “Come along, Ms. Alby. This won’t take long.”

  My son’s face was flat. “No, it won’t.”

  She followed me, her boots clacking against the stone pavers set in my driveway, but when the driver on my staff tried to take her bag to stow it in the back, she pulled it tight to her chest. “No, thank you.”

  The man couldn’t help but grin at her when she flashed her radiant smile. I did my best to avoid it and took the passenger seat up front, leaving the entire space of the back seat to her. Once we were off, rolling quietly down the path that sloped across my lawn, that odd feeling returned.

  It was bad enough I was going to embarrass her, but I’d have to do it in front of an audience as well.

  “May I give you some tips?” I asked.

  Confusion crowded her voice. “Tips?”

  “On shooting. It may look easy, but it isn’t.”

  When there was no immediate response, I craned my neck to look back at her. Distrust filled her pretty eyes. “You want to give tips to the person you’re playing against?”

  I frowned. “You said you hadn’t shot before.” I gave her a logical reason for my concern. “I’d prefer you not injure yourself on my property.”

  She didn’t just smile, she grinned—and it left me with an uneasy feeling. “I think I’ll be okay.” She pulled her bag across her lap. “But, yeah. I’d like to hear your tips if you don’t mind sharing them.”

  I explained to her how to determine her dominant eye, and that she’d need to keep both open while shooting so she could track the targets as they moved across the field. I told her to lead. “Shoot for where the target will be, not where it is.”

  I detailed the rules of skeet and how we’d each get a chance at breaking twenty-five clay targets from different positions around the field.

  Normally, I enjoyed instructing. But as she listened, she unzipped her boots, pulled a pair of slim sneakers from her bag, and slipped them on. Then her blonde hair was collected in her hands and pulled back into a ponytail.

  The uneasy feeling I’d had before intensified.

  We rounded behind the stables, and the playing field came into view. Staff had placed outdoor couches, tables, and portable heaters in a semi-circle for the audience of the game, and currently my guests milled about the area, the wives grouped together and the board members evaluating their equipment and safety gear. The golf cart hadn’t yet come to a stop before I stepped out and strode quickly toward the board.


  “Gentlemen, take your time. I’ll be playing separately first until everyone arrives, and then we can start.”

  Mitch Vanderburgh peered across the grass and spotted my opponent. “Is that Stephen Alby’s daughter?”

  Damon’s critical gaze focused in on her. “What’s she doing here?”

  “We have something to settle, but it will only take a few minutes.”

  I didn’t give the men time to protest—not that they would—and when I turned back toward Ms. Alby, a band of worry lashed across my chest. There’d been more than just shoes and a shotgun in her bag because she was currently threading her ponytail through the back of a black baseball cap.

  She’d set her bag on one of the tables, and I watched with wary eyes as she fished out more items and donned them. Fingerless gloves. Sound protective earmuffs. Anti-glare shooting glasses. The final item was the shotgun, long and black with one barrel stacked on top of the other, and the white Perazzi logo gleamed along the black tubes.

  My shotgun and safety gear were already nearby, as I’d warmed up this morning with my staff, and I hurried now to ready myself. Her practiced efficiency told me I’d made a critical mistake, and when she opened the break-action and loaded two shells into the gun, I grew angry.

  “You said you’d never shot before.”

  She stared at me through her yellow-tinted glasses, and a smug smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Not this gun. It’s new. It was a birthday present from my parents.”

  She closed the break with a loud click, the sound putting a period on the end of her statement, and my stomach knotted. People didn’t give a thirty-five-thousand-dollar shotgun as a present unless they were sure the recipient would know how to use it.

  I clenched my jaw. “I’ve already warmed up. Would you like to take a few practice shots?”

  “Nope.” She pointed the barrel to the sky and rested the butt of the stock against her hip. “As host, you’re going first.”

  My mind was filled with outrage at her command and the way she’d mislead me. But my body ignored it and flooded with a much different emotion—pure, hardwired lust. On a basic level, it was the visceral male response to an attractive woman holding an impressive weapon. But above that, it was the power and confidence she exuded. Her expression screamed she planned to destroy me.