by Alisha Rai
“Difficult how?”
“Saying that having potential buyers come to my home is excessive and over-the-top. That it’s not what Jennifer would have done.” The lines around her mouth deepened. “Tina told me not to tell him about the glitter-gram I sent Rhiannon, she said he’d be even more scornful.”
“You know, you are his boss. You don’t have to put up with this.” The reminder was gentle, though his annoyance was not.
Aunt Belle waved that away. “It’s fine, really. What did you want to talk about, if not Trevor?”
Samson ran his tongue over his teeth, her diamond ring winking up at him. He didn’t want to tell her, not now. She had enough on her plate. Let her have the weekend. “Nothing.” He forced a smile, and it took all of his energy. “Don’t work too hard. And don’t listen to William. I’m sure anything you’ve planned will be great.”
“Why don’t you go have a drink and relax on the porch for a while? I had the chef put some delicious virgin cocktails on the menu for tonight.”
The last thing he felt like doing was sipping a nonalcoholic margarita in the sunshine, but he nodded and left. At some point, he’d have to have a more serious talk with Aunt Belle about giving his personal information out to his nemesis, but not when both their emotions were running high.
He turned sideways in the hallway so a maid could scurry past him. His shoulder brushed a framed painting. It was an amateur seascape, the initials A.L. in the corner.
He studied it for a moment. His dad had painted this, in one of the classes his mom had dragged him to, back when she’d been convinced his depressive episodes had simply been a matter of too much free time.
Samson remembered when Aleki had gifted the painting to Joe over dinner at their house. What the hell am I supposed to do with this crap? Joe had barked. The brothers had always been growling at each other, though their tight bond had been more than obvious to anyone who spent any time with them.
Aunt Belle had taken it from him and exclaimed like it was a piece of fine art, and to her, it may very well have been. Hush, Joe. It’s the view from our house, can’t you tell? I’ll cherish it forever, Aleki, thank you.
Samson scrubbed his hand over his face. The majority of the people around that dinner table were gone now, him and Belle the only ones left.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. Rhi. Her text popped up under the photo of his hand.
LOL. Dork.
A ray of sunshine threatened to pierce through his fog of grief and loneliness, and his brain beat it back, even though a part of him was aware he needed it right now.
What is wrong with you? You knew this diagnosis was coming.
He shook his head, but he couldn’t dislodge the darkness, the vast emptiness that waited for him if he took a step toward it. He tucked the phone away without answering, and wished he could tuck his emotions away as easily.
The guests would be arriving soon, including Rhi, but he was in no shape to mingle with strangers now. He’d work out, go for a run on the beach.
Perhaps then, he could outpace his feelings.
Chapter Twenty
ARE YOU texting Samson?”
Rhiannon glanced around guiltily, but Lakshmi was in her ear, not in the chauffeured town car whisking her to Annabelle’s home. She switched from her messages back to the video call with Lakshmi. “No.” Not a lie. She hadn’t been texting Samson. She’d been ogling the photo he’d sent of his hand. Silly, yes, but still so fucking sexy.
“That is one goofy grin you’re sporting there.”
She consciously wiped her face clean of any kind of grin. “Fuck off.”
Lakshmi chuckled. “Can you thank him for the food and massages, if you do happen to text him?”
No one had been more grateful for the extravagant gesture of week-long lunches than her. She’d basically been sleeping at the office for the past week. Eating had been the furthest thing from her mind. She rolled her neck. The massage therapists he’d sent today had been nice too. “You don’t know where the food came from.”
“Girl, please.”
Her staff had grown curious after she’d shook off their thanks for the free lunch the first day, except for Lakshmi, who had cast her knowing looks. They’d started calling their mysterious benefactor Santa. How had Samson known that the way to her heart was to also take care of her too-dedicated employees?
Wait, not her heart. The way to her . . . sincere admiration. Yeah, that was right. She admired him.
Him and his sexy almost-dick pic. She, who could have given a keynote speech on how much she hated dick pics, had stared at the outline of his penis in his sweatpants for longer than she cared to admit. Guess it mattered who the dick was attached to.
Damn it. She liked him more today than the last time she’d seen him, when they’d had sex. How was that possible?
For all you knew, he was chatting up sweet, kind, loyal Janet when he wasn’t sending you food.
So? He had the right to do that.
Lakshmi sobered. “By the way, I’ve had all my feelers out for the past week. I still can’t get any intel on if that bastard will be there.”
For a second, Rhi thought Lakshmi was talking about Samson, but then she realized Lakshmi didn’t know about the now discarded hashtag BeachBastard. Peter. That was the once and always bastard king. “Oh, he’ll be there. Peter won’t miss a chance to fuck me over.”
Lakshmi uttered a disgusted noise. “I don’t understand how you stayed with him for as long as you did.”
Rhiannon faltered. She might be oversensitive right now, but it was painful to hear that. “He was very, very good.” Peter had been a master manipulator. She’d been like a frog in a pot of water, the temperature on the stove nudged up and up and up by tiny degrees.
It was easy to see danger when someone flung knives at you. Harder when they quietly, subtly poked you full of holes.
“No doubt. I didn’t mean to imply you should have known or anything,” Lakshmi reassured her. “Anyway, we don’t know if he’ll be there. It’s a worst-case scenario.”
“No, he’ll be there. I’m sure of it.” She forced a smile to her lips. “And we’ll beat him.” Yes. Those were the right words to say. Strong, tough words. I’m scared to be face-to-face with my ex for the first time since he ran me out of his company were not strong, tough words.
“Damn straight we will.” Lakshmi tossed her head. The shaved sides of her head were new. A rush of affection filled Rhiannon when she realized the pink and yellow of her hair was a perfect match for Crush’s colors.
She clutched that close to her. She had people in her corner. Lakshmi and Katrina, via her phone.
Samson. Right there in the house.
She wouldn’t be facing Peter alone.
The driver turned off the small local highway to navigate the town’s internal roads, and soon Annabelle’s house came into view. It was a magnificently large mansion with huge windows, nestled in a row of luxury homes. She knew at least one of those houses well, a few doors down. It had been the place she’d rented, where she and Samson had had their night together.
She said her goodbyes with Lakshmi as the driver pulled into the circular driveway. An older man in a suit walked out of the house and up to her vehicle as if he’d been watching for her.
“Welcome,” he said as he opened her door and offered his hand. His voice was low and deep, his cheeks hollowed. “Ms. Hunter?”
“Correct.”
“My name is Logan. I oversee the house here. I will take your bags to your room. Lisa is at the door, she will escort you to the drawing room where the guests are gathering.”
“Am I late?”
“Not at all.” He pronounced it At-Tall. “The itinerary does not have anything on the schedule for the next hour.”
A smiling woman in a Mrs. Potts aproned outfit met her at the door. “Hello, I’m Lisa,” she said warmly. “Would you like me to take your jacket, Ms. Hunter?”
&nbs
p; “Call me Rhiannon, and no.” She adjusted the blazer at her wrists in a nervous flick. She’d tried to anticipate what would please and impress Annabelle and had ended up going with a simple black pantsuit. She’d subbed the button-down shirt Lakshmi had picked out for her with a snug white T-shirt. It wasn’t as comfortable as her normal wear, but it would do, especially paired with plain black flats.
The hell she’d wear high heels all day in an unfamiliar environment. Charlie Bucket hadn’t won the factory by teetering around on heels.
The housekeeper gestured to the left. “If you need to freshen up, I can show you to your room first.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She followed Lisa through the winding hallways of the mansion. The walls were crammed with decor, frames touching other frames. Rhiannon’s art education was lacking, but she recognized more than one expensive artist. Those artists were side-by-side with amateur art, mass-produced prints, and even children’s crayon-scribbled drawings. It was as if the owner of the home had slapped up anything that caught her fancy.
It should have been overwhelming, but the eclectic collection combined with the bleached wood floors, expensive worn rugs, and the hint of sea salt in the air was oddly homey.
“Here we go.” Lisa’s cheery smile widened and she gestured to a set of open French doors.
Rhiannon murmured her thanks, which the housekeeper took as her dismissal. Multiple voices spilled out of the drawing room. Tina, she recognized, and two men.
Neither of them were familiar to her. Don’t get too relaxed. It was early yet, she had to be braced for Peter’s presence.
Rhiannon tugged at her blazer and straightened her shoulders, then walked in. She surveyed the three individuals, unable to halt the relief that Peter wasn’t one of them.
Or the disappointment that Samson was missing as well.
Tina spotted her first and split off from the group. “Hello, Rhiannon.”
“Hello.”
“I see you got all the glitter out of your hair.”
Rhiannon fluffed her hair and smiled at the teasing. She liked Tina. “It was a trial, but yes.”
“Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”
Tina led her across the large room to the small group and gestured to a slender, dark-haired young man in his twenties. “This is Rhiannon Hunter, the creator of Crush. Rhiannon, this is—”
“Martin O’Donnell.” Rhiannon nodded at the man.
He grinned, revealing expensive caps. “Have we met?”
“No, but I know of you.” O’Donnell was a vulture, had picked up a couple of smaller regional dating apps recently. If he bought Matchmaker, it would be so he could strip it down, siphon its assets.
On the other end of the spectrum was Chris Hwang, the Asian man in his fifties standing next to Martin. “I know we’ve met.” The lines around Chris’s eyes crinkled, and he inclined his head. British-based, he headed up a powerful conglomerate of apps and sites across Europe. He’d been one of the only people who had reached out to Rhiannon when she’d left Swype, had even offered her a job on his marketing team. She would have seriously considered it, if it hadn’t meant a move to London. She’d been too raw at the time to consider hopping across the pond solely for a job offer from a powerful man, even if that man was as well-respected as Chris. “How are you doing, Rhiannon?”
“Well. Quite well.”
“Rhiannon . . .” Martin tapped his finger over his lip. “Did you used to work at Swype?”
“A long time ago.”
Speculation entered the younger man’s gaze, and Rhiannon knew he must have heard some talk about her. “Uh-huh.”
“Wasn’t that long ago.”
She stiffened at the too-familiar voice behind her. Goddamn it.
She counted to three, with Mississippis in between. He deserved to wait for her time and attention. If there was no one in the room, she’d make him wait longer.
She’d make him wait forever.
She turned, her movements slower than usual, aware that he’d hate having to conform to her time table. The man behind her was tall and lanky. He’d been a swimmer in college, and he’d maintained both his physique and his boyish good looks well into his thirties. His brown hair was sun-kissed, his normally pale skin tanned, which meant he’d probably been on his yacht lately.
She’d been there when Peter had bought his yacht. She’d been so excited for him. They’d had sex on that stupid boat.
This was happening. She’d known it was coming. She was prepared.
She was Charlie fucking Bucket, and she’d kill this.
He didn’t look at all surprised to see her, and she immediately did her best to match his expression. Blasé. Uncaring.
Like this man hadn’t slowly isolated her until she feared she had nothing but him. Like he hadn’t harassed her and made her professional life miserable when she finally managed to break things off. Like he hadn’t started a whisper campaign to smear her name to make sure no one would believe her if she did come forward.
Like he hadn’t forced her out of a company she’d loved, one she’d helped build from the ground up without so much as an iota of credit for her contributions.
A snarl started deep in her throat, but she reined it in. She arched her eyebrow at Peter, and inclined her head slightly. “Peter. Good to see you again.”
“You as well.” He clapped her on the shoulder and she barely refrained from flinching. Especially when he kept his hand there for a moment too long before he turned to Martin and Chris. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure.”
She sidled away, her gaze drawn to the large shadow in the doorway.
Samson.
Her relief at seeing him would have worried her, if Peter didn’t worry her more. She smiled as he walked toward them.
It took her a second to realize his return grin was missing. Actually, everything was missing. The light in his face, the eagerness in his step, the little lines crinkling around his eyes.
Her smile faltered. What was wrong?
“Who’s this?” Peter’s booming voice dragged her attention back to him. Which was what he’d meant to do, she realized, when she beheld his frown as he looked back and forth between the two of them.
He didn’t like that she’d smiled at Samson. She didn’t give a fuck what Peter liked, but there were other ways to establish her dominance that didn’t involve Samson.
Before Tina could introduce Samson, Rhiannon took up the cause. “This is Samson Lima,” she said smoothly, speaking to the other men. “He’s the new face of Matchmaker. He and I have been working on a little project together.”
Samson shook hands with everyone. “Hello.”
“I’ve seen the campaign,” Chris enthused. He winked at Rhiannon. “Wholesome. Very much what the internet needs right now. It’s that kind of thinking that would have made you a great CMO for my company, Rhiannon.”
“It was Samson’s idea, and I personally think I make a better CEO of my own company.” Her words were firm, but kind. Chief marketing officer at Chris’s megaconglomerate would have been a big step up from Swype, but her step was bigger.
Chris laughed, not taking offense, and her liking for him grew. “Absolutely right.”
Martin eyed Samson with the kind of hero worship children usually reserved for their sports heroes. “I’m sorry to hear about your uncle,” Martin said. “I’m a big fan of your family.”
Samson’s lips curled up at the corners, but his eyes remained dull and blank. “Thank you. Everyone’s here, right, Tina? I think we can go in to dinner.”
“Yes, everyone’s here.”
Samson placed his hand on Rhiannon’s elbow. It was a light, platonic touch, but a frizzle of excitement went through her when she thought of the photograph he’d sent her a few hours ago, of that very hand.
The photograph he’d sent her yesterday, of the same hand holding something else.
“You okay?” she murmured, when everyone else we
nt ahead of them.
“Sure. How are you?”
“Fine,” she responded automatically, though that wasn’t true. A formal response to a formal inquiry. Rhiannon studied him, worried about his uncharacteristically subdued greeting and affect. It was like someone had sucked every ounce of charm out of Samson, leaving only an automaton. She’d never seen him look so expressionless, especially when greeting new people. Had he gotten some bad news or—
She glanced away, her stomach tightening when she met Peter’s gaze. He swiveled his head around, but she inched away from Samson.
What was wrong with her? She didn’t have time to dwell on why Samson’s smile was missing, or analyze his mood. She was here to work, damn it.
Eye on the prize, and that prize included no man.
Chapter Twenty-One
FROM THE time Samson was ten until Aleki had started to decline, Samson had gone on barefoot runs with his father and uncle on the beach. At first he’d lagged far behind his elders, but as he’d grown, he’d easily caught up with the two star athletes. They’d jogged for miles, until sand covered their bodies, until they could taste it in their mouths. In the colder months, the three of them would return home with their faces tight and immovable.
He hadn’t run far enough when Tina had texted him Chris had arrived, but his face was still frozen. Which was a little worrisome, because he had to be on, but it was also a blessing, because his stew of feelings were ice-cold too.
Samson glanced across the dining table. Rhi didn’t know it, but that numbness was a blessing for her too. Had he been in his right mind it would have been difficult not to grab her up in a hug when he’d spotted her, especially when she looked so tidy and businesslike.
She would have murdered him. She was here to work, after all, and he intuitively knew she’d carve him up with a rusty spoon if he let on that they knew each other intimately in front of her competitors.
The French doors to the dining room opened, and Annabelle appeared. She’d elaborately curled her red hair and giant black glasses perched on her nose. She changed caftans from when he’d seen her last, opting for a flowing red one, and matched it to the red paint on her lips. His aunt posed in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “Hello, everyone! Welcome to my home. I am Annabelle Kostas.”
