The Redemption

by Nikki Sloane

  I adjusted my stance on the temporary flooring that had been put down over the newly green grass. Spring had come, and the flowers in the gardens were beginning to bloom, and I’d considered ripping them all out and paving over the colorful reminders of the wife who’d planted them there. I forced the distracting thought from my mind. The only thing that mattered now was winning. I wasn’t about to be embarrassed in front of my own people.

  The shotgun wasn’t heavy, but tension clung to my fingers as I visualized my shot and stood in the ready position with the gun angled in front of me. I wasn’t allowed to bring it into firing position until the bird had launched. I steadied my breathing and focused on the high house.

  “Pull,” I said loudly.

  The orange disc streaked through the sky, and I brought the shotgun up against my shoulder, tracking the bird’s path until I understood it, and squeezed the trigger. There was a puff of orange dust as the clay shattered, but I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until the low house launched its target, I pulled the trigger, and a second cloud of orange burst in the sky.

  I broke open my shotgun, pulled the empty shell casings out, and reloaded. This time when I called for my shots, they’d launch at the same time, which would cut down on how long I’d have to spot them. Ms. Alby’s watchful gaze was locked onto me, but she said nothing.

  I settled into my ready position, let out a steadying breath, and called for my targets.

  The high house shot was easy, but my tempo was off on the second. I swung the tip of my gun to the right, trying to keep up, but lagged behind the bird. So, when I squeezed the trigger, there was no burst of orange to follow my gunshot. I glared at the gray, overcast sky, trying to will it into existence.

  I’d missed.

  It meant I had to exercise my option immediately—essentially a do-over—from this station. If I’d shot a clean set, my twenty-fifth shot was supposed to come from the center of the field at the end. It was intolerable I had missed, not to mention degrading to have to shoot again from the same spot.

  I reloaded, readied, and called, and this time I didn’t miss when the single skeet from the low house arced across the field.

  As I stepped out of the way, Ms. Alby moved past me to take her position, her determined gaze focused on the field. It was as if I didn’t exist and what I’d shot didn’t matter. This was what I enjoyed most about the sport—you weren’t playing against others so much as yourself.

  It always ensured I had a worthy opponent.

  The girl’s stance was flawless, and I watched with envy as she practiced her nimble switch from ready to the firing position. She repeated the action several times, like a dancer walking through her routine, moving with an efficiency and grace that had undoubtably taken years to master.

  There wasn’t a sound from any of my guests as Ms. Alby prepared. Not even the birds in the trees nearby dared sing. The entirety of Cape Hill went silent when her shoulders relaxed, her gun resting in front of her like she’d been born that way.

  Her voice was strong and clear. “Pull.”

  She moved so quickly, it was inhuman. I’d seen great shooters before, but the precision she displayed was on a different level. One explosion of orange was immediately followed by another.

  Her reload and reset were as fluid and methodical as everything else she’d done.

  “Pull.”

  In less than two seconds, she misted the sky in the same shade as the tulips growing on the west side of my gardens.

  A second game of skeet played out inside me, a series of shots launching simultaneously. Concern I was going to lose volleyed against my interest at discovering her enormous talent. Perhaps interest wasn’t the right word. It felt more like . . .

  Desire, a dark voice whispered.

  No. Absolutely not.

  For one thing, she wasn’t Marist, and another was my commitment to myself. I was no longer infallible—any hint of impropriety would further damage my reputation and possibly push it beyond repair.

  It was undeniable the way my blood burned through my veins, but it was merely my sex-starved body yearning for what it couldn’t have. All cravings left unsatisfied went away eventually.

  My shotgun seemed unbalanced as I carried it toward the second station, weighed down with the unfamiliar feeling of playing from behind, and the scrutiny of the board of HBHC. The men were solemn, perhaps not wanting to break my concentration. They were aware I had to focus now. On the ride down, I’d worried about embarrassing her, and now I was in danger of looking like a fool.

  Or perhaps the men were in awe of her, as I was, and were enjoying the show.

  The second station repeated the same pattern as the first, only in a new location, and this time I hit each of the four targets.

  As did Ms. Alby, and despite the cool weather, sweat clung to my temples.

  We moved around the stations, laid out in the shape of a half-moon, shooting efficiently and not speaking during the transitions. Neither of us missed. Anxiety grew in my center as the number of shots we had left dwindled. I needed her to make a mistake if I had any hope of winning.

  “You’re quite good,” I remarked as she squared her shoulders to the field and began her process. The shotgun moved from her ready position swiftly to her shoulder, and she spotted the places in the sky where she anticipated her targets would be.

  It was absolutely a routine meant to clear her mind, like how baseball pitchers often groomed the mound and took a deep breath before delivering a pitch. Consistency was key, so I did my best to derail her concentration . . . but it was wasted. The girl had shut the world out, including me, as determination burned in her eyes behind the yellow-tinted glasses.

  Once she finished filling the air with orange powder, she turned and delivered a glowing smile in response to my compliment. “Thank you.”

  Two golf carts rolled down the path, one carrying the Powells and the other Royce and Marist. The two pairs climbed out and made their way toward the party watching from the couches.

  “What’s the score?” Royce asked.

  “Macalister missed L two,” Mitch said.

  If that surprised my son, he didn’t show it. “And Sophia?”

  “She hasn’t missed any.”

  Marist’s expression skewed and while the volume of her voice was normal, she might as well have announced it loudly for all to hear. “Macalister’s losing?”

  “At the moment,” I growled and stomped toward the seventh station beside the low house.

  There were six shots left for me, and the game was more mental than it was physical. All I had to do was stay steady and focused, and I would be fine. Ms. Alby would miss; I was sure of it. Things had a way of working out for me, and if they didn’t, I found a way to ensure they did.

  “Pull,” I called.

  The shotgun was reassuring when it was firm against my shoulder, and I squeezed the trigger, enjoying the kick of the weapon when it fired. Overhead, the target split in two. I swung the barrel to the left, sighted the next bird and fired.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from behind me. As she’d already demonstrated, Ms. Alby’s reaction time was faster than mine. It meant she knew what had happened a fraction of a second earlier than I did.

  I’d missed.

  Again.

  Rage poured through my veins like lava, choking up my system and forcing a red blaze to sear across my mind. How the fuck had I missed? I broke open my shotgun with a violent crack and yanked out the empty casings, fisting them uncomfortably in my hand for a moment while I tried to compose myself. The discomfort helped center me.

  I could live with the consequences of losing our wager, but defeat? That was much harder for me to handle. There wasn’t anything I hated more than losing. All the sins like incompetence or betrayal or death were simply different types of loss.

  Ms. Alby’s feminine voice broke through my haze. “Do you want me to give you a tip?”

>   It wasn’t clear if she meant her offer in earnest, or if she was rightfully throwing my earlier hubris back in my face. It didn’t matter. I slammed new shells into the barrels and closed the break with a sharp snap, issuing the word as cold as the weapon in my hands. “No.”

  My mindset wasn’t right. There was likely a voice inside me warning me to slow down and reset, but my pride was an open wound, and the only way I knew how to cover it was to reestablish my skill. To control and dominate.

  “Pull.”

  The game was mostly mental, and she’d already beaten me. When the target from the high house slipped past me—my third missed shot—it solidified my loss for everyone else. Unless she missed four out of her next seven shots, the great Macalister Hale was going to bested by some twenty-six-year-old girl.

  I hadn’t shot this poorly in years.

  No matter how quickly she moved, time dragged by, slowing with each shot she made. We shuffled to the final position in the center of the field, situated directly between the two trap houses. I finished out the round by hitting my final two targets then stood to the side to watch her as she completed her series.

  Her legs were wrapped in black leggings, and the hem of her long black coat flapped subtly in the breeze. When she was my assistant, I’d instruct her to wear skirts and dresses. It wasn’t just that I liked my employees to look a certain way, but she had a nice figure. She should be using it to her advantage.

  Men became weak around beautiful women.

  Even I wasn’t immune, and Sophia Alby was a beautiful woman. She was focused and hard now, but once the game was over, I suspected she’d return to the bright, infectious girl I’d met at lunch earlier this week, with curious eyes and a mouth that could twist into debilitating smile.

  I wanted to despise her as she made her final shots then exercised her option at the end. A perfect twenty-five, which I’d only completed a dozen times in my life. This girl had done it with so much finesse she’d made it look easy.

  Across the lawn, the crowd of guests clapped for her. She nodded her appreciation while her spent casings were removed, and the bent, unloaded shotgun was placed across her shoulders. She pulled down her earmuffs to hang around the back of her neck and removed her shooting glasses, fixing her gaze on me.

  As she spoke, her gloves were tugged off and pocketed. “Good game, Mr. Hale. Or should I say, boss?”

  She thrust her hand out.

  I’d lost, and my stomach was a bubbling cauldron of unpleasantness, but I refused to show it. I warmed up my tone just enough to keep the bitterness out as I took her offered handshake. “It’s Macalister. Congratulations, Ms. Alby.”

  That same spark was there when we touched, and her voice went uneven. “It’s Sophia. And thank you.”

  When she tried to pull away, I locked my fingers tighter around her. “Will you play another round?”

  Sophia’s lips parted like she was going to speak, but she produced no sound. My hold on her seemed to have a paralyzing effect. It gave me a moment to solidify my plan. The only other person here who had skills like us was Damon.

  Was she worried I was going to ask to redo our wager?

  “Perhaps we can talk Mr. Lynch into joining us,” I added.

  She practically jolted with excitement, and it broke loose her tongue. “I’d be happy to.”

  I ended the handshake, turned, and strode toward the crowd. I’d lost the bet, but I’d do all within my power to even the score. If I couldn’t defeat her, someone else eventually would, and I’d enjoy seeing it. “Damon, you’ll play this next round.”

  The scowl that crossed his face was unexpected, but no more than his response. “No.”

  I pulled up short, stunned. I’d issued an order, and although I was no longer his chairman, I still owned the company where he sat on the board. How dare he refuse? “Excuse me?”

  “As fun as it was to watch you do it,” he said, “I have zero desire to be beaten by a girl who competed in the Olympics.”

  My heart thudded erratically as his statement hit me, and my accusatory gaze flew to the blonde standing beside me.

  Sophia shrugged as if this revelation wasn’t important. “That was a while ago.” She tried to continue her blasé attitude, but it came out forced. “I didn’t qualify for Tokyo.”

  I heard every ounce of ache buried in her words. She hadn’t qualified, but she’d wanted to badly. Her unachieved desire was . . . relatable. My life’s ambition had been to chair the Federal Reserve. Now, it was a goal I would never attain.

  “Which Olympics?” I demanded. She hadn’t medaled. If she had, Damon would have said so, and moreover, I would have known about it. It was stunning I’d overlooked this detail, but perhaps I was destined to miss more than just targets today.

  “London,” she said.

  There was a vague, familiar feeling like I’d known this once, but everyone’s children in Cape Hill were exceptional. They were landing full scholarships to Ivy Leagues, or winning equestrian competitions, or becoming Rhodes scholars. I hadn’t begun using her father as my wealth manager until 2014, either.

  “She was also an alternate for Rio,” Marist said, her gaze focused on the blonde.

  How fitting. My daughter-in-law was fascinated with Greek mythology, occasionally comparing our family to the gods on Mount Olympus, but her friend Sophia was an actual Olympian.

  “Well, I suppose I don’t feel as bad losing to you now,” I lied.

  Her red lips peeled back into brilliant smile.

  She didn’t believe a word of it.

  FOUR

  SOPHIA

  Macalister Hale was just a man, I reminded myself for the third time this morning as I stood in the hallway outside his door at HBHC headquarters. He needed food, and water, and sleep just like the rest of us humans. If I cut him, he’d bleed the same red as I would.

  But he was a legend in Cape Hill, and two years of prison hadn’t changed that. If anything, his absence had made the idea of him grow larger in my mind. When he walked into a room, heads turned like a goddamn king had just entered.

  And now the king was my boss.

  His office door was only halfway closed, but I banged my knuckles on it and waited for an invitation anyway.

  “Yes?” a very male, very irritated voice came from inside.

  “It’s Sophia Alby.”

  He sounded annoyed that he had to say it. “Come in.”

  The office was large, and the view of the harbor out the floor-to-ceiling window was impressive, but the space inside was barren. The shelves in the bookcase behind the desk were empty, as were the walls. There was a sitting area to the right with two gray couches and chairs gathered around a low table, but the neutral colors only added to the vacant feel.

  Although the office hadn’t been used recently, I wouldn’t call it unoccupied. Macalister’s larger-than-life presence filled every square inch. He gazed at my black Chanel suit, and a scowl twisted on his lips.

  “You’re late.”

  I glanced at my Apple watch. “You said eight, right?”

  It was eight a.m. exactly.

  “Yes,” he said. “Which means you’re late. To be early is to be on time.”

  I pressed my lips together at his lecturing tone and reminded myself I’d signed up for this. I tried to sound remorseful. “It won’t happen again.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, because he pointed to one of the couches. “Sit down.”

  As I did, Macalister grabbed a leather portfolio off the desk and made his way to join me. He moved with confidence and ease, looking far more comfortable today in his office and a three-piece suit than he had at home wearing a sweater and slacks.

  He was as terrifying and exciting as he’d been before Alice Hale fell from the rooftop of this building. The only difference was his once dark hair was now deeply threaded with gray. I suspected he’d been coloring it before, and after the accident he’d decided to le
t it go. Or maybe he couldn’t touch up his gray when he was in prison.

  Either way, the look was totally working for him. Macalister was a bona fide silver fox.

  He unbuttoned his black suit coat before taking a seat on the couch across from me, put the portfolio down on the cushion beside himself, and set his gaze on me.

  Christ, his eyes. They were slightly more blue than gray, and fucking intense. I’d told Marist a long time ago that Royce and his brother Vance were hot, but Macalister was the best of the Hale bunch, and it was still true today.

  Of course, I’d always been into older men.

  Not always.

  I frowned at that unhelpful thought. I needed to focus. The first part of my plan was complete, and now it was time to roll out phase two. I laced my fingers together and set them in my lap as I crossed my legs. “Before I tell you the plan, we should talk about my salary.”

  I might as well have told him I was illiterate. His broad shoulders pulled back, and he looked down his sharp nose at me. “You are getting way ahead of yourself, Sophia.” He picked up the portfolio, tossed it down on the table with a loud thump, and it slid to a stop in front of me.

  “What’s this?”

  “A non-disclosure agreement.” He settled back into the couch and cast an arm along one of the cushions, looking like a beautiful advertisement for men’s bespoke suits.

  I opened the folder. It wasn’t unexpected he’d present me with one—well, I had assumed it’d come from someone in human resources and not him personally—but this document was surprising. It was excessively long. I paged through it and shot him a glance that read, seriously?

  His ice-blue eyes narrowed a degree. “This is not negotiable. If you want to work for me, you’ll sign it.”

  Was this a tactic to scare me off? It wouldn’t work. “I get it. I know things you want kept secret.”

  The muscle running along his jaw flexed. Was he grinding his teeth? “Whether or not that’s true,” he said coolly, “anything we discuss or any conversations you might witness during my employ cannot be repeated.”