The Redemption

by Nikki Sloane

  ONE

  MACALISTER

  Frustration twisted my muscles into cords, making my clasped hands ache. Before the darkest day of my life, the one where I’d made a terrible mistake, no one would have dared miss a meeting with me. I’d had employees willing to sit in on conference calls while they were in labor or waiting for surgery.

  Today, Stephen Alby was eight insulting minutes late. It was long enough to send a message of how little he respected me, my time, and my enormous wealth. Of course, that was assuming he was late. I was beginning to wonder if he would materialize at all. I was easily his biggest client, and if this was how he was going to treat me, perhaps I needed to take my money elsewhere.

  I refused to let any of my irritation bleed out onto my face and held my posture neutral since I was out in public. It was noon, and the private penthouse restaurant was fully booked for lunch, and although the dining room wasn’t large, every person in the space was aware of my infamous presence. Conversations had paused at my entrance then lagged awkwardly as I was seated at my table.

  It wasn’t the one I preferred, the one by the window, which boasted a view of the harbor and its position of status to the rest of the room. I no longer maintained that level of clout. Instead, I’d been relegated to the smallest table by the door, away from the center where the most influential executives in Boston took their power lunches during the week. Like me, this table existed on the fringes. My money and the Hale name were enough to keep me on the exclusive guest list and earn me a seat in the room, but scandal had driven me to the outskirts.

  The din of conversation dropped once more as someone else unexpected appeared at the entryway and spoke with the maître d’.

  Clearly, the woman had never been here before. It wasn’t the way her curious gaze took in the floating chandelier at the center of the room that gave it away—it was the soft smile that teased her lips. If she’d taken lunch here before, she’d know this wasn’t a place for happy, friendly smiles. Deals were brokered over seared foie gras and scallops. Careers were made and broken by Boston’s elite while seated at these tables covered in fine white linens.

  Once upon a time, I was the king of this town, and I held court in this room.

  It seemed the palace intrigue had continued in my absence, but I was desperate to climb back onto my throne and rise above it, rather than play the game with everyone else.

  The young woman nodded as the maître d’ spoke, making the waves of her blonde hair shimmer. Her face was familiar, and although it had been years since I’d seen her, it took me only a moment to place the girl. Last time, she’d worn a pale pink bridesmaid dress at my son’s wedding. Today, it was a cashmere sweater dress in navy that covered her frame. It pretended to be modest, but the fabric clung provocatively to her breakneck curves.

  When she was led toward my table, I set my jaw.

  “Mr. Hale, may I join you?” Her tone was warm and confident.

  Mine was brusque. “Are you here to apologize for your father’s lateness?”

  Sophia Alby’s smile was unflinching. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Let me keep you company while you wait.”

  I didn’t appreciate how she lowered into the vacant chair across from me without my approval, but I wouldn’t voice my displeasure until the maître d’ had gone. I didn’t care if I was rude—only that I didn’t appear rude to the people around us, the people who mattered.

  The man nodded as she settled into the seat, then he flitted away. I lifted my unimpressed gaze and pinned it on her. “Miss Alby—”

  “You have a problem,” she interrupted. There was a strange, off-putting smile fixed on her face.

  One of my eyebrows arched so high, it nearly escaped my face. “Is it the girl who just sat uninvited at my table?”

  Her unsettling smile widened. “That depends.” She crossed her arms and leaned on the tabletop, manners be damned. It was a conscious decision. She’d gone to the same elite school as my sons, which meant she’d had the finest upbringing. Like my family, the Albys were one of the founding families of Cape Hill—the wealthy hamlet outside of Boston where we lived.

  How old was she? Younger than Royce, which meant approximately twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six. I’d invited enough scandal into my life, and the absolute last thing I needed was to be seen having lunch with a pretty girl half my age. Irritation swelled inside me like the bell curve of compounding interest, and it darkened my tone. “It depends on what?”

  The girl drew in a sharp breath. She wasn’t as intimidated by me as she should be, but she wasn’t entirely immune either. Her voice faltered. “On how you react to what I’m about to tell you.”

  My hot irritation cooled and thickened until I was frozen motionless by the warning in her eyes. It told me to brace myself. Whatever information she was about to divulge, I wasn’t going to like hearing it.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  Her pink lips pressed together while she assembled the thoughts in her head. She blinked when the decision was made, and the statement poured from her. “I think James DuBois is planning to write a book about you.”

  The sounds around us of conversations and cutlery against plates fell silent in my ears. I’d heard exactly what she’d said, but my mind refused to accept it. “Excuse me?”

  “James DuBois,” she repeated. “He wrote The School for Scandal, about the rich parents who bought college admissions for—”

  “I’m aware of who he is,” I snapped. It was impossible not to know. The marketing budget must have been six figures for the book because it was everywhere. It had spent weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.

  Moreover, I existed in the same circle as some of the people who’d been named in DuBois’s book. Not friends—because few people earned my respect enough to be considered friends—but they were acquaintances, at the least.

  The idea of anyone writing a book about me left a sour taste in my mouth, but the thought of James DuBois applying his considerable investigating skills to my life made my chest tighten to the point of discomfort.

  “No,” I snarled. I’d suffered enough scandal for three lifetimes, but there was more still hidden in my past. I wouldn’t let him near me and had plenty of resources to ensure he dropped it. “I won’t allow it.”

  Miss Alby’s face skewed. “You can’t stop him.”

  “My money says otherwise.”

  She sighed like I was being foolish. “I mean, sure, you can make it difficult for him. Send the cease and desist letters, get the lawyers involved. But the story will come out, whether you want it to or not.”

  The band around my chest tightened further, making my breath go shallow. I despised both my reaction and the truth I begrudgingly knew she was speaking.

  “How,” I kept control of my voice, since it was the only thing I could control at this moment, “did you come by this information?”

  She tipped her head down, tucking her chin to her chest, and stared at me with glittering eyes. “I’m not sure what it is, but people have a habit of confiding in me. They like telling me their secrets.”

  Despite my unease, an unavoidable spark of interest flickered in me. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hale.” The corner of her mouth lifted. It wasn’t enough to classify as a smile, but it threatened one. “I know everything that happens in Cape Hill.”

  There’d been a time when the same could have been said of me, but that awful morning years ago had changed that.

  “Which is why,” she added, “you have a problem.”

  I kept my face plain, but my heartbeat quickened.

  After my wife’s death, I’d been charged with involuntary manslaughter. The best attorneys money could buy had told
me I had a strong defense, even with the video of me pushing her over the balcony railing. They wanted to argue I was in emotional distress after the contentious boardroom meeting. That I feared both my son’s and daughter-in-law’s lives were in danger. Or that the shove I’d given my wife was simply aggression and a desire for distance, not to send her plummeting to her death.

  More than two years had passed, and I still didn’t know if any of that were true. I’d lost control of myself, and when I tried to remember that moment, it was only a hazy fog of chaos.

  The lawyers wanted to argue my case. They were confident they could get me acquitted, but instead I’d taken the plea deal to spare a trial. I’d already unleashed enough scandal to mar the Hale name—I couldn’t risk everything coming out and watch it destroy my legacy.

  Yet Sophia Alby was staring at me as if she’d already taken a thorough look at the skeletons hidden in my closet. It made my hand instinctively curl into a fist.

  “Whatever it is,” my tone was cool, “you think you know about—”

  She waved a hand to stop the threat I intended to issue. “What I know doesn’t matter,” she said. “But controlling what DuBois knows? That does.”

  It was rare when people surprised me, but she’d accomplished the feat. It took me several moments to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. “If he were to pursue a story about me, then, you’re correct. It would.”

  She nodded, seemingly to herself, making her golden hair shimmer once more. “So, I came here to make you an offer.”

  “Ah. This is where you extort me for money.”

  “Um, no.” Her eyes lit with amusement. “I’m an Alby. I have plenty of money of my own.”

  I was aware, as most of it had come from me.

  Money was the easiest solution. It solved all problems, so my patience wore thin. “Then what do you want?”

  Her gaze left mine and drifted around the room, taking in the power players of Boston who largely ignored us. When her focus finally returned to mine, there was a hard edge ringing her eyes. Her voice dipped low. “To the world, you’re a villain. What if you could rewrite the story and become the hero?”

  I drew in a slow, deliberate breath. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Ms. Alby, I’ll never be a hero.” The taste of the word was unpleasant.

  I’d accepted long ago that no matter what I did, I’d never be seen as anything other than a villain . . . not by the people who mattered to me. I’d saved Marist’s life on more than one occasion, and still she hadn’t chosen me.

  “You don’t actually have to become a hero,” she said, as if it were easily solved. “History is written by the winners.”

  “That may be true, but I fail to understand what you’re suggesting. Why would I care about being a hero?”

  She grinned. “Because no one wants to read a boring story about a good guy.” Her shoulders straightened as she arrived at the heart of her proposal. “I know every secret Cape Hill is hiding. Let me use them to help you shift the spotlight away before DuBois finds all of yours.”

  I didn’t trust her bizarre offer. “And what would you get out of this arrangement?”

  Pride flared in her eyes. “I control what information gets out.”

  I was sure the faint smile that drew across my lips contained no warmth. She wanted to control the narrative so she could weaponize it, and I could respect that. “You want to shift the spotlight,” I said, “so you may focus it on someone else.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, telling me not only was I right, but that I’d caught her off guard.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  I was curious to know who she disliked enough it made her willing to face me down. “Who?”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “That’s not important.”

  “And yet your non-answer tells me otherwise.” Annoyance slid hotly down my spine. I didn’t care for the way she tried to lure me with information like a worm on a hook.

  Her gaze slid away from mine. “Maybe we can talk about it if you say yes.”

  I cut off my dry laugh before it escaped. “No.”

  Her attempt to brush off my statement was decent. “You need an assistant.”

  This was true. My previous assistant was no longer available, and I hadn’t found anyone to replace Nigel since I’d been released. But this girl sitting before me was . . . unacceptable. She was too young, too spoiled, too distracting. “No. Tell me who you want to destroy.”

  She frowned, and I found it displeasing on her pretty face. “I don’t want to destroy anyone.”

  I waved a hand to push away her statement. “Tell me who you want to shift the focus to.”

  She sighed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  The desire to know was strong, but my irritation outweighed it. “While I appreciate the information you’ve passed along about DuBois, if you wanted a job, Ms. Alby, you went about it the wrong way.”

  Finally, the fear I was accustomed to seeing in other people’s eyes seeped into hers. “I can help you.” She amended her plea by adding, “We can help each other.”

  This time I didn’t bother stifling my incredulous laugh. “You?” I shook my head as my tone filled with condescension. “I don’t have any interest, plus I don’t need help. Even if I did, I highly doubt you could do anything for me.”

  Fire burned inside her, narrowing her eyelids. “I have a lot more power than you think.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her ruby red manicured nails flashed as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you remember when HBHC’s stock fell right after Royce got his seat on your company’s board?”

  I clenched my jaw. Of course I did. When I’d been the CEO of the Hale Banking and Holding Company, I’d led my family’s company out of the Great Recession and tripled the shareholders’ investments. Even now, I monitored every dip and peak in the stock price religiously.

  Ms. Alby’s expression was proud. “I caused that.”

  This girl was taking credit for something so far beyond her capabilities it was utterly ridiculous. My voice froze over. “HBHC is the eighth largest bank in the world. If you believe you—in any way—manipulated its stock price, you’re not only mistaken, but delusional.”

  She didn’t blink. “I did it,” she said, “and it was easy. I repeated one conversation I’d had with Marist to a few key people, and that rumor? It sent your shares tumbling.”

  My daughter-in-law’s name was a trigger, and anger welled inside me, pushing against the dam I’d created to keep myself from losing control. Pressure was building, but I’d have to find release elsewhere later.

  I drew in a deliberate, calming breath. “Even if that’s true, it’d be foolish to try it again. I still control the largest stake in HBHC, and as I’m no longer on the board, I have more time to pursue my interests.” My gaze drilled down into her, and she wilted beneath it. “You do not want to become my focus, Ms. Alby.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said.

  It rankled that I couldn’t do anything about what she’d done. There was no punishment or retaliation I could dole out. It was likely she’d been a pawn in Marist’s game, anyway, and I should direct my anger there. Not that I could. My daughter-in-law had done whatever she could to outplay me, and I respected that. We Hales understood it was win at all costs.

  My tone was measured and even. “If you’re half as smart as you think you are, then you know I’ll come after you with my considerable resources if you meddle in my family’s business again.”

  Ms. Alby’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “I get it. I just wanted you to understand what I’m capable of. What I can bring to the table.”

  I clenched my fists tightly then let the tension release, using the action to disperse emotion. “I’ve heard your proposal.” I straightened in my seat and s
poke with finality. “And I decline.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. This was not the answer she wanted, and without it, she looked lost. Until this moment, she’d been so sure of herself, and when her confidence flagged, it exposed her raw innocence beneath. Her father wasn’t an attractive man, but luckily, Sophia Alby had always favored her mother and now surpassed her. The uncertainty in the girl’s eyes made her look younger, and vulnerable, and the man I’d been before would have exploited it in every way possible.

  Instead, I forced myself to ignore her stunned look and glance down at my Cartier watch, which had been an anniversary gift from my first wife. “How much longer does your father intend to keep me waiting?”

  “He doesn’t know you’re here yet,” she said softly. “He thinks he’s meeting you at twelve-thirty.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d set this lunch appointment at noon to maximize visibility to the rest of Boston’s elite and remind them I still existed.

  She pushed back from the table and stood, and I was already halfway out of my seat before I recognized habit had forced me to give her this courtesy I wouldn’t have otherwise. At least it allowed me to use my height to my advantage. I towered over her, and it drew her gaze up.

  “My father will be early for a meeting with you, so I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” She licked her lips nervously. “You’ll change your mind, Mr. Hale. You’ll find I . . .” She tilted her head and gave in to a shrug. “Well, I tend to get my way. Like when I asked my father’s assistant to push his schedule thirty minutes. Or when the maître d’ sat me at your table when I didn’t have an invitation.”

  Her words hadn’t finished settling on me before she pulled a card from her purse and dropped it on the table.

  Brightness lit her eyes, and her mouth widened into a soft, disarming smile. “My phone number and email, for when you’re ready.” She turned to leave without a farewell.

  Competing thoughts warred in my mind as she departed, but when my gaze latched on to the bare sliver of her back, everything else faded. The dress she wore was professional and demure from the front, but like her, it held back a secret from me. I couldn’t stop myself from admiring the strip of pale skin and the long line her spine carved down the center of her body.