by Alisha Rai
Samson had seen this entrance many times. He dutifully rose to his feet and the others followed.
Annabelle swept into the room and grinned at all of them, clearly delighted with herself. She may not enjoy being the focus of large crowds, but Annabelle did like attention when it came in the form of small gatherings like this. Once upon a time, she and Joe had often hosted weekend soirees for their closest friends. “Please, everyone! Have a seat, have a seat. No need to make such a fuss over me. Rhiannon, Martin, Chris, Peter. Lovely to meet all of you.”
The ice on his soul melted, at least in one corner. He’d considered ignoring Tina’s text earlier and running forever, but that would have been an impossible option. Today wasn’t about him. He was here for Aunt Belle. He had a job to do too.
The butler held Annabelle’s chair out for her, and they all took their seats. “Did everyone have good travels?” she asked, in a deceptively sweet tone that didn’t give away the fact that the games had begun. She flicked her hand, and servers appeared with silver domed trays of food.
This was elaborate. The last time he’d come over to Aunt Belle’s, they’d grilled hamburgers and ate corn on the cob on her porch.
Martin leaned back for the server to place his plate in front of him and remove the dome with a flourish. “It was fine, thank you.”
“Coach always gets a little crowded on these transatlantic flights,” Chris said smoothly.
Annabelle smiled at the distinguished older man approvingly. She might be lavish at times, but she generally appreciated frugality in the rich. Chris had done his homework.
“And you, Rhiannon?” Annabelle picked up her fork and knife.
“The drive was fine.”
Samson cut into the chicken he didn’t want. Annabelle didn’t believe in a salad course. An entrée and dessert were the only two meals a person needed to survive, she’d once told him.
“Oh, my, I have been remiss. Does everyone know everyone else?” Annabelle surveyed the table like a queen with her subjects. “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? Let’s do . . .”
Samson eyed his aunt. Whenever she’d come over, she’d done exactly this. Gone around the table and had them all answer a question she posed. It had driven his father crazy. Aleki had always just wanted to eat, had barely been able to wait long enough for grace.
But he’d indulged Annabelle, because as he’d explained to Samson, the woman allowed me to meet your mother. If she wants us to talk about our favorite memory or whatever before we carve the turkey, then that’s what we’ll do, damn it.
Before the Switch. Of course.
Don’t think about the Switch, don’t think about your father or your uncle or CTE or the future. You’re here. Focus on the here.
“Name and a bit about yourself and one of your greatest fears. Here, I’ll do me. I’m Annabelle—hopefully you all already know that since you’re here to put in a bid for my company. My greatest fear is . . . dogs.” She shivered. “I was bitten by a large dog as a child.”
When the guests appeared varying degrees of perplexed, Samson roused himself. “I’m Samson, I’m a close friend of Annabelle’s, as well as Matchmaker’s current spokesman and a minority shareholder. And, uh, my greatest fear is . . .” He stalled. He wasn’t about to tell this room of strangers and Rhi his actual fear. “Clowns. Hate ’em.”
Martin introduced himself and skipped talking about his fears entirely, and Chris chose something as generic as Samson’s.
Rhi commanded his attention. Her voice started out thready and rocky, but it strengthened as she spoke. “I’m Rhiannon Hunter. I created Crush. And my greatest fear is . . .” She hesitated. “Not having options, I suppose.”
It was a good answer and sounded sincere. Annabelle smiled approvingly and turned to the only man left. “And you, sir?”
“I’m Peter Roberts. I created Swype, the first swipe-based app—”
“In America,” Chris quietly interjected, and Samson wondered how often he had to step in with that correction. He’d read up on Chris. The man had many companies under his belt, and his apps were number one in multiple Asian and European markets.
Peter flashed a brilliant smile. He was a good-looking man with a face some people might call trustworthy, but Samson wasn’t impressed.
This was Rhi’s former boss, the head of the company that had spread rumors about her. He’d be watching the man.
“Yes, I was going to say that. The first swipe-based app in America. I suppose one of my greatest fears is the dark.” His brow wrinkled. “I’d rather not talk about why, but I can’t stand to be in dark rooms now.”
Samson ate a bite of his chicken and considered Peter. That sounded sincere, but there was something odd about the too-innocent look in Peter’s eyes, the earnestness in his face, like it was a mask constructed by someone who understood those concepts but had never actually practiced them. Samson might be a little biased in Rhi’s favor, but he didn’t think this man was on the up-and-up.
“Of course you don’t have to discuss that, Peter.” Annabelle dabbed the corner of her lips. “It’s an honor to have such distinguished guests here. The best and brightest in the industry.”
“You would top that list, Annabelle.” Chris beamed at Annabelle. Samson added him to the list of people to watch. Samson would not have the guy try to influence Belle with flirtation.
His aunt tittered. “Why, thank you.”
“You’re not going to, like, use our fears against us or something, are you?” Martin looked around. “Is this one of those sick horror movies where the doors all lock and the windows shutter now?”
“My, no.” Annabelle daintily ate a bite of mashed potatoes. “I don’t have the energy for that. I’ve found you can really get to the heart of a person when you catch them off guard with an unexpected question.”
“What did you learn about me? I didn’t answer your question.”
“It told me you’re a nonconformist, who perhaps cannot stand having a probing question aimed at you.” Annabelle cocked her head. “Am I wrong?”
Martin shrugged.
They occupied themselves with food and small talk for a little bit. Samson noted Rhi was still on the quiet side, though she conversed fine with Chris next to her and Annabelle when spoken to. Samson grimly ate and went through the motions of talking football with Martin, conscious of his aunt’s eagle eyes. He didn’t want Annabelle to notice his mood had deteriorated since he’d come to her office and wonder why.
The waiters took away the remnants of their dinner entrées and placed lemon syllabub in front of them.
Ah. He almost pressed his hand over his heart for a second to dull the ache that threatened to pierce through the fog. Joe had loved lemon anything.
His aunt took a single bite of the syllabub and closed her eyes. The lines between her eyebrows deepened. He wished he was close enough to reach over and touch her hand.
But he wasn’t, and they weren’t alone, so instead he cleared his throat. Aunt Belle put her spoon down and straightened her shoulders. “Why don’t you all check under your seats? I’ve left a present for you there.”
“Under our seats?” Martin repeated.
Samson didn’t entirely blame him for his confusion. Rhi might be the only one here with a more intimate idea of Aunt Belle’s theatrics, and having them grope under their chairs like they were on a daytime talk show and about to win a car was pretty much peak theatrics. Samson reached under his seat.
He straightened with an envelope in hand and opened it, the others doing the same. When he reached inside for the cardstock, a bunch of glitter fell into his hands and lap.
“Oh, look,” Rhi said with no inflection. “More glitter.”
If Samson could feel anything, it would have been amusement.
Annabelle cleared her throat. “This is an itinerary for tonight and tomorrow.”
“Eight p.m. until question mark, exam. Saturday, ten to four, feats of strength. Five, rose gar
den ceremony. Exam? What is this exam?” Chris asked.
“When you go back to your room, you’ll find tablets so you can complete your Matchmaker questionnaire.”
Chris crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them to pick glitter off his well-tailored suit jacket. “Are we here to find love interests or to submit a bid for your business, Annabelle?”
“The quiz is nothing more than a personality test,” Belle explained. “I want to know who you are, in your heart of hearts.”
Martin scowled at Annabelle. “What the hell are feats of strength?”
Annabelle smiled thinly at him. “Please don’t swear,” said his aunt, who could swear like a sailor. “To answer your question, you will all be pitching me and my CEO, William, when he arrives tomorrow. When you aren’t doing your individual presentations, you may make use of the property as you see fit. I have boogie boards if you’d like to see how cold the water is, an exercise room, a well-stocked library, and multiple places to stretch out and relax. Feats of strength implies physical strength, but I am quite aware there are all kinds of strength. I wanted to accommodate everyone, even those who may have issues with activity.”
“I have no issues with it,” Peter said, his smirk annoying. “I’m very fit.”
Samson stirred. “As am I. But I also tweaked my back last week, so I’ll probably be taking a rest tomorrow, if anyone wants to join me on a lounge chair on the deck out back.” His gaze flitted over Rhi’s bowed head.
Aunt Belle beamed approvingly at him. “Yes, son, listen to your body. Anyway, before you leave tomorrow, you’ll know whether I wish to pursue a business relationship with you.”
“Is that the . . . rose garden ceremony?” Rhi asked.
“Yes. Correct.” Aunt Belle’s curls bobbled when she nodded. “It’s a lovely environment and will make bad news easier to digest.”
Rhi tucked the card back into the envelope and brushed the glitter on the table into a neat pile. “This is quite an experience.”
“This is bullshit,” Martin said flatly and came to his feet. He tossed his napkin on top of his uneaten syllabub. “I don’t need to play games to scoop up a slowly dying company. I’ll snag Matchmaker for pennies when it goes under. The rest of you can’t possibly want to put up with this either, right?”
No one else moved, and Martin rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. See you all at the next conference, suckers.” He stomped more than walked out, and Samson half rose from his seat. He didn’t quite trust the man-child to not tip over a vase or something on his way out the door in his annoyance, but Annabelle waved him back down.
Probably for the best. He wasn’t the type to needlessly fight, but in his current void of an emotional state, he wasn’t fully in control of how he might respond to a spoiled rich guy.
“Well,” his aunt said with a secret smile. “That makes my decision easier, eh?”
Peter tossed his longish hair. “Martin has always been impatient. Good things come to those who wait.”
“Oh, certainly.” Belle steepled her fingers under her chin. “So now, I suppose . . . there were three. May the games begin.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
ONE OF my greatest fears is the dark.
What a fucking lying sack of shit. She should have blown up his yacht when she had the fucking chance.
Forget Peter. You can’t murder him. It’s an isolated house party, you’ll be the first one they arrest.
She took a deep breath, then let it out. The best revenge is success. The best revenge is success.
She curled her legs up under her in the armchair and struggled to focus on the last few questions of this stupid questionnaire. In the beginning, she’d tried to answer the questions as she thought Annabelle might want her to but had quickly realized that a lot of the hundred points in the hundred-point questionnaire were the same questions masterfully reworded, making it difficult to game the system.
She clicked the last button with a satisfied sigh and tossed the tablet onto the side table. The room she’d been given, while not lavish, was decorated expensively, in soothing ocean blues and greens. The walls here, too, were groaning with the weight of multiple frames, but these were all photographs of the ocean.
Rhiannon switched one screen for another and pulled out her phone. There were texts from Katrina and Lakshmi, but none from Samson.
That was fine. Absolutely fine. Totally fine.
She scrolled up through her texts, to confirm that he’d sent her that kissy face and the silly photo of his hand earlier today. There could be a good reason for his coolness and distance since she’d arrived. Perhaps he was self-conscious, here in his aunt’s house. She wanted to keep their relationship, temporary or not, low-key too.
He could have texted her, though.
Running hot and cold is a red flag.
Catch and release was the name of that game. Lure someone in, then as they were getting comfortable, toss them aside because the thrill was gone.
He played you once. This is why you don’t trust a ghoster.
No, no. She wasn’t going to torture herself like this, with her brain running through every possible scenario of bad dating behavior. She’d shoot him a message and ask him if everything was okay.
Even if she had been the last one to message, leaving her committing the cardinal sin of the double text.
Before she could type anything, though, a knock came on the door. She launched out of the chair. It was a sign of how much she hoped it was Samson on the other side that she didn’t first check to see who was knocking—to her regret.
She opened the door and took a step back in surprise. A tactical error. That was all it took for Peter to muscle his way into her room, closing the door behind him so fast she didn’t have a chance to stop him.
Fucker.
Show no weakness. She lifted her chin. “What do you want?”
He spread his hands out. She’d once thought those hands were sensitive, the fingers long and slender, like a pianist, but they were a predator’s hands. “We haven’t had any time together, alone, in so long. I thought we could talk.”
“Have your assistant call mine.”
“Very funny.” He leaned back against her own door and perused her. She was abruptly very aware that she’d taken her blazer off. Her T-shirt didn’t cover her arms, and she couldn’t even cross them and hug herself in front of him. That wasn’t a power move.
He met her gaze. “Look at us, both competing for the same company. Isn’t that funny?”
“I wouldn’t say funny, but you always had a terrible sense of humor.”
“Did you finish up the absurd test?”
“I did.”
Peter snorted. “Imagine, this company making any money when people’s attention spans have shrunk to .06 seconds.”
“Imagine. Imagine being the sucker who buys it.”
His thin lips curled up. She glanced around the room, instinctively seeking escape. She’d left the windows open. She could jump, if she had to. Second story, but sand below.
He’d never been violent with her. But then again, she hadn’t thought he would systematically try to ruin her career and life’s work all those years ago either, and here they were.
How did you stay with him for so long?
Because he hadn’t shown her this side immediately. She hadn’t gone on her first date and looked for exits. She hadn’t woken up from their first overnight together fearful for her safety. A frog in slowly boiling water. “Spit out whatever you want to say, Peter.”
“Have a seat.”
“No.”
His face darkened. “You—”
Her phone chimed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.
“You’re talking to me, put your damn phone away.”
“It’s for work,” she lied. Peter might be wholly lacking in empathy, but he would understand work.
It was, actually, a text from her mother, with something silly about the engagement party. She ignore
d it and, listening to her instincts, clicked on Samson’s name.
Please come to my room. Right now. If I don’t answer, open the door, no matter what you hear or don’t hear.
It didn’t matter if Samson barging in would confirm Peter’s assumptions about the two of them. She didn’t want to be alone with her ex. She tucked the phone away and hoped Samson would get the text soon and that his recent coolness wouldn’t extend to ignoring her now.
“You want to work on our presentations together?” Peter’s smile was smarmy.
She snorted.
“Please, Rhiannon. It’s been years. Can’t we put this unpleasantness behind us and be colleagues? I’m sorry for the way you felt you were treated when you left Swype.”
The way she felt she’d been treated, and not the way he’d treated her. Ugh, this asshole. “Peter. Get out of my room. Go away.”
Once when they’d been dating, he’d told her that men thought in black and white, that they were literal creatures, and she’d taken issue with the flip-side assumption of that statement: that women were emotional, wishy-washy, shades-of-gray ambiguous creatures. Funny enough, he didn’t seem to have enough self-awareness to understand his argument was full of holes pierced by his own behavior. He’d never been able to take simple, direct orders. Not from her, at least.
He ignored her literal go away now too, though his mask slipped. “Bet you wouldn’t tell Samson to go away. You seem chummy.”
Aw shit. “We’ve been working together.”
“You’re closer than colleagues.”
“You’re hallucinating.”
“Am I? I think you’re sleeping with him. If so, it’s unfair you have an inside track on this bid.”
“It’s not an in. Samson doesn’t have enough ownership in this company to make any kind of difference. I need to prepare my presentation for tomorrow. Now please leave.”
The smile dropped, and so did any illusion that he wasn’t an asshole. “If you think fucking that idiot football player is going to get you anything but a lousy lay, you’re as stupid as I always thought you were.”
