I don’t say anything. I can’t. And what would be the point? I have no say in anything.
“And Gigi will take good care of you. You listen to her. You father trusted her with your life. I do, too.”
“My life?” I ask.
“I mean that you are your father’s only child. If you die without children or a wife, your uncle inherits,” he explains.
My jaw drops. “Die?” I ask in horror.
“I’m not saying he would try to kill you,” he says dismissively.
“Just that if something happens to you, the entire family’s future will be in his hands. And he is not fit to hold it,” he says in a display of temper that is rare and telling.
“I don’t know. None of this makes any sense,” I mutter and drop my face into my hands and try to think.
“One more thing,” he says, and I don’t even look up. One more thing—a million more things. I don’t think things could feel any worse.
“By virtue of being a Rivers, you’ll have people who try to get close to you just to use you for money or access to something they perceive you as a gatekeeper of.”
This speech, at least, is familiar. My father drilled that into me from an early age. Not because he didn’t want me to have friends but because it could never be at the expense of the family. It was first. For him and for me. He married Eliza after a very short time dating. She was a recent widow. Dare, my youngest brother, hadn’t even been one year old.
They never loved each other. He married her because she was young, from an old family, and had her own wealth to bring to the marriage. Just like my mother had been. He told me that the woman I chose had to be someone just like that. “Love grows where there’s commonality of purpose. And if it doesn’t, at least you will always have that to hold you together. But you must never yield your family duty to anything else.”
“All of this is your legacy.” Swish waves his arms around the vast room that’s been his seat of power for the last forty years. “You have to come back and make sure the Rivers name, mission, values, and ethics remain intact. Your family isn’t respected just because it’s wealthy. It’s because they use that money to do good, to create opportunity. They have been to Houston what the Medicis were to Europe during the Renaissance. And you’ve got to remember everything your father taught you. Gigi will do a good job keeping your feet on the ground.”
“What does she know about running a business?” I ask bitterly. I resent her already.
“The running of the business isn’t your role—the stewardship of the family’s foundation and money is. Your father died too young. You’re not ready, but I’m going to make sure that when your time comes, you are,” he says. There’s a calm in his voice that tears at me. How can he be calm? In less than two weeks my entire world has been ripped to shreds, and I’m being sent halfway across the world to live with a woman I don’t know.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, and I wish again that my parents were here.
I think about my brothers. They’re so little still. Stone, the closest in age to me, is only ten. But we’re close. Despite their mother’s attempts to put distance between us, we have always gravitated toward each other.
“I bet Eliza will be happy,” I mumble to the floor.
“Sadly, I agree. But even more reason why you should go.”
I listen to everything he’s saying, and with each word, a piece of my world goes dark. I promise myself that when I have the chance, I will be ready. I’ll do what I must. Go where I need to and when it’s time, I’ll come back and make my father and Swish proud.
Part I
16 YEARS LATER.
CASTIGNIOCELLO, TUSCANY
ITALY
HELLO
HAYES
“Can you hold the door, please?” a voice calls from down the hall. This is the third time the doors have attempted to close and someone has stopped us. I’m standing by the button panel and have no intention of pressing the “Door Open” button.
“Excuse me,” a woman behind me says and then a feminine finger complete with a short, but perfectly manicured, light pink fingernail slips around my side and presses the button just as the door is about to close completely. I was reading emails when I stepped onto the lift, so I didn’t see who was standing right behind me. But, now I can feel her. Her breasts press into the back of my arm and her perfume, something with roses, wafts up my nose.
If there were a single inch of space in the elevator I would turn around to see who she is. But there’s not. As soon as her finger disappears, I press the “Door Close” button and keep my finger on it.
“That was rude,” the woman behind me says as the door shuts in the face of the woman who called out for us to wait.
“Oh, well,” I say in return. I look up at the top of the mirrored elevator ceiling. I can only see the tops of our heads. Hers is crowned by a mass of blonde waves that appear to tumble down her back. It’s pushed off her tanned, delicate shoulders. Each one is bisected by two skimpy black strips of fabric holding up what must be a very lightweight shirt.
As the elevator stops on consecutive floors and people step off, it becomes less and less crowded. But she stays pressed to my back, and her hand moves, like she’s fidgeting with something between us.
I wonder briefly if she’s a pickpocket, and just as I start to turn around to ask her what the hell she’s doing, she speaks.
“Please don’t move. My necklace is snagged on your shirt,” she says with enough alarm in her voice to halt my movements.
The elevator reaches the next floor and a couple gets off. She and I are the only ones left.
“Shit, I can’t get it loose,” she mutters. I start to turn again. “If you move, it’ll break the chain,” she says again in her voice which calls to mind smoke. And rain. And sex.
“Yes, got it,” she says right as the door to my floor opens. She steps back and the rush of cool air between us isn’t refreshing. It’s just a very sharp contrast to the warm, soft heat that had just been there. I step off the lift and turn around. I stop in my tracks. Her eyes are wide set and almond-shaped. Their color is a medley of the same blues and greens of the sea that surrounds this villa. Not clear, but compelling and inviting. They make her face, which is a very nice face, completely extraordinary.
Her gaze is direct and questioning while our eyes are locked. Then, it travels down my chest, lingers at the waist of my low-slung shorts before they skim my bare legs and my sneakered feet.
I cough, and she looks back at my face. The muscles in my chest tighten at the naked admiration in her eyes.
“Hello,” I say and extend my hand. She flushes the prettiest shade of pink and tucks her hair behind her ear.
Damn.
She’s got the doe-eyed, sex kitten look down to a science. Her eyes are wide with surprise. Her lips are parted … fuck, her lips are perfect.
She looks like a fucking snack—the perfect portion of everything I like. But it’s the one thing I know about her that corrals the compulsion I have to find out if that sweet pink mouth is as soft as it looks.
“Hello,” she says slowly, a tentative smile spreading across those lips. Her voice is even sexier when paired with the vision standing in front of me.
She holds out her hand and shakes mine. When our palms touch, my pulse jumps and every one of the thousands of nerve endings that run along the surface of my skin wake up. She flushes even darker as our fingers wrap around our hands. We hold hands for a beat longer than necessary before she gasps softly and pulls her hand away.
“My necklace,” she says as if she’s explaining. She holds her open palm out to me. A delicate gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a raindrop hanging from it sits in the center of her hand.
“Is it broken?” I ask and cup her hand in mine and lift it up so I can see better. It’s not necessary, but I like touching her. She steps closer to me.
“No, but I had to unfasten it to get it unhooked from your shirt.” Sh
e pulls her hand out of my grasp and drops the chain into my still upturned palm. “Would you mind?” The heat in her voice turns that question into a not-so-subtle ‘come hither.’ The unmasked attraction in her eyes hits me like a fist to my chest, and I have to clear my throat before I can respond.
“Of course,” I say. She turns her back to me and bows her head. Those tumbling curls spill down to the middle of her back. Her black camisole skims her waist and exposes a bare slice of smooth, tanned skin.
She’s short, a whole foot shorter than my six foot three—and petite.
Well, except for that ass.
Shit.
I’m an ass man and that is one of the finest I’ve ever seen. Clearly genetics and exercise have been making magic back there because it’s fucking perfect. Her hips flare and then bam! There it is!
She cups the curtain of hair and sweeps it off her neck and lays it over one shoulder. I step forward and take in the creamy soft expanse of skin that covers her back and neck. She glances over her shoulder at me. Her lower lip is captured between her teeth and her eyes are hooded as she looks up at me through her lashes. “You okay?” she asks when I don’t move or say anything.
Get your shit together, Hayes.
“Sorry.” I shoot her an apologetic smile. “Turn around,” I say and she nods before she does. I reach over her and drape the chain across her neck. I look over her shoulder. The teardrop is resting in the middle of her chest. I drag it slowly up and into place. I watch, transfixed, as it glides over her skin like I imagine my own fingers would. When it slides into the small hollow between her collarbones, I draw the clasp together at the nape of her neck.
I fumble with the tiny closure a few times. “My hands are big.” I apologize as my fingers brush the soft skin of her neck. She exhales sharply and gooseflesh ripples over her skin. There’s no air conditioning in the hallway. I smile to myself. Maybe this weekend won’t be as mundane as I’d feared. I manage to close it and she turns around and rewards me with the prettiest fucking smile I’ve seen all year.
The loud trill of my phone fills the air like a siren, and she jumps back. I glance at the phone in my hand and grimace. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I say and send her an apologetic smile.
She smiles understandingly. “Of course. I’m on this floor … maybe I’ll see you later,” she says.
“Absolutely,” I respond before I turn toward my room and answer my phone.
“Hayes, honey, you there?” my aunt Gigi asks as I walk into my room.
“I’m here. How’s my favorite girl?” I ask.
I flip the switch on the air conditioner, pull my shirt over my head, and go stand beneath the wall unit that’s perched above the south facing window.
“You sure know how to make your Gigi feel special, Hayes. How was your flight?”
“It was good. I worked,” I tell her.
“Of course, you did. Now, before I get down to business, I want you to make me a promise,” she says.
“That’s not fair. I can’t agree to promise if I don’t know what you’re going to ask,” I cajole her. Even though I know exactly what she’s going to ask.
“Don’t be smart, Hayes,” she chides me in the way only she can.
“Pardon me,” I apologize sincerely.
“I want you to promise me you’re going to try and have a good time. Don’t scowl so much. That face of yours is so handsome when you smile, honey,” she coos.
“Okay, sure thing. I promise,” I say.
“You’re lying, but I love you for humoring me,” she says airily.
“It’s what I live for,” I return dryly.
“Don’t be smart. I’m helping the movers sort boxes and they can’t find the box with your crockery.” She sounds distressed.
“What’s crockery?” I ask and lean against the door of my room and gaze out the window at the copse of pine trees that provide a natural border for the property and perfume the air all year round.
“Your plates, glasses, bowls,” she explains.
“Oh, that’s because there are none. I never eat at home. I didn’t see the need for them,” I answer honestly.
“Oh, Lord, Hayes. People will think you were raised in a barn,” she cries.
“No one will think I was raised in a barn,” I say dryly.
“I’m going to the Crate Barrel in Highland Village to place an order. I don’t know if they deliver, so you’ll need to pick it up when you get back. I’m just going to go over the list of things I’m getting,” she says.
“Thanks for doing this for me, Gigi,” I say.
“Well, it’s the least I can do since I won’t be here when you actually move in. And I should be thanking you for going to the wedding for me, honey. I know he’s a pretentious little shit, but his mother was my dearest friend in Positano. I would have hated to not have anyone there. And maybe,” she drawls conspiratorially, “you’ll meet the girl of your dreams,” she ends hopefully.
“Have you seen Thomas?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No.” She sniffs like she smells something bad. “He and I haven’t been in touch at all. I just shudder to think what the foundation would look like if he had even one more year with it. I’m so glad you’re moving back here,” she says.
“Nice to know you’ll miss me,” I say dryly.
“Of course, I will, baby. But I’m glad you’re getting on with your life,” she says. But I can tell there’s something on the tip of her tongue by the way she catches her breath at the end of that last sentence.
“What’s going on?” I ask and brace myself. My aunt is the most direct human being on the planet. The only thing she’s ever been hesitant to talk about is Renee. “What did she do this time?”
“She accepted your offer,” she says.
“How do you know that?” I ask. I put her on speaker and open my email application.
“Well, I was at that lovely restaurant in your new neighborhood … oh, Hayes, I love it here,” she says dreamily.
“You were about to tell me how you know about Renee,” I say impatiently.
“Oh, sorry, I just get so carried away talking about this place. The Wildes have done such a good job—”
“Gigi …”
“Okay, sorry,” she says like she’s being put upon.
“Just tell me about Renee,” I say with feigned patience. She doesn’t like to be rushed. And slows down purposely sometimes when she is.
She clears her throat, and I can just see her, tucking her feet underneath her and sweeping her dark, salt-and-pepper hair off her shoulders before she speaks. “Well, like I said, I was at a restaurant. Her lawyer was sitting at the table right behind me!” she says triumphantly.
“How did you know he was her lawyer? I don’t think I’d know him on sight, and I’ve sat across the table from him at least a dozen times in the last two months,” I say.
“Hayes, you know I never forget a face. Also, I heard him say her name. It’s why my interest was piqued in the first place and then I realized who he was and what he was talking about,” she explains. “Stop interrupting and listen,” she says impatiently.
“Excuse me, go on,” I say sarcastically.
“Of course, he had no clue who I was. He was celebrating. His thirty percent is more than you should have given that disloyal little bitch all together,” my aunt says in her most severe voice.
“I’m just glad it’s done.” My voice is toneless. Renee, my ex-wife and my biggest regret, sued me two weeks ago. Gigi introduced us. We were all in Carmel for an annual party one of her friends throws every Fourth of July. I had just finished my MBA at Wharton and was working for a KPMG in Rome. I’d come out for the party because I was turning twenty-five and had somehow managed to let Gigi convince me that I needed to find a wife. This party she said would be crawling with women who would be suitable. Suitable meant she’d be from a wealthy family and a well-trained socialite who never put a foot out of place publicly.
Renee—on paper— was perfect. That she was sexy was icing on the cake.
I learned early on one of the hazards of having a lot of money. Your worst impulses have all the fuel they need to turn into your biggest regret. We were married within weeks of meeting each other. Our alcohol and sex-fueled dash down the altar had lasted a grand total of twenty-two days. Once the booze wore off, the sex got boring. Once that was gone, we realized we didn’t even like each other very much.
When we divorced, everything I’d earned during our marriage was half hers. That was barely anything considering we were officially separated less than thirty days after we found each other.
Our divorce finalized on my twenty-fifth birthday. The same day my inheritance from the Rivers Trust, and what Swish had been setting aside for me for the last ten years, all vested. She’d never known the details of it. There was never any need for her to.
I gave her enough money to get settled in a new place by herself and to give her breathing room until she could find a job.
She found a new husband before she found employment, and I was off the hook for alimony.
Then, a year before my thirtieth birthday, coincidence created a set of circumstances that set us on a course for a much-less-than-amicable reunion. A job took her and her new husband to Houston. Less than six months later, he’d left her for another woman, and her divorce was being formalized.
The Houston press was in a tizzy about my impending return. Would I be able to navigate the treacherous swamp of Houston’s upper-class society when I spent my formative years in Europe? Did I even still speak English? How had becoming one of the wealthiest men in the country—practically overnight—change me?
The Rivals Page 3
