by Tara Leigh
“Will you recognize him?” I prodded Nina, my voice climbing higher from nerves.
“Hmmm?” Nina had been staring out the window, too. It probably would have been quicker to walk from our apartment than to take a car, but even I wouldn't want to walk twenty-blocks in the shoes I'd squeezed into. I could have sworn they fit a month ago when Nina dragged me to Bergdorfs.
“Remington. Will you recognize him?”
“Of course. At least, I think so. But don't worry. Your father will be there, and I'm sure Remington’s—”
“Why didn't Daddy come with us from home?”
“Honey, you know your father has to work.”
“But it's Saturday. And he wanted me to do the whole debutante thing as badly as you did. The least he could do is suffer along with me,” I grumbled, despite being well aware that my father worked all the time, and weekends were no exception.
As the car finally glided to a stop at the curb, Nina reached out to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. “For now, you've got me. Think you can make do?”
I relented. Even if my father had been sitting beside me, his face would probably be buried in the Wall Street Journal or an industry research report. I should be grateful Nina was by my side. “Sorry, I really don't mean to be such a brat. Thanks for being here.”
My stepmother's pretty face brightened as her lips pulled into a smile. “You're not a brat, Jolie. You're a debutante.”
The ridiculousness of the statement sent a matching grin onto my face. “Not sure if that's a promotion, but I'll take it.” I followed her out of the car, keeping my knees together to avoid flashing the waiting society page photographers—I wasn't wearing a floor length white gown just yet.
This year's Bachelor Brunch was being held at an elegant French restaurant. Nina and I walked beneath a white canopy and through the double doors held open by men wearing dark suits and earpieces. Security was to be expected. The last name of every debutante could be found somewhere on the Forbes 400. Inside, the lights were soft, every available surface sporting floral arrangements with this year’s colors—pink and gold.
It smelled like a greenhouse, and felt just as humid.
Just beyond the lobby entrance, people weren't mingling so much as clumping together by age and gender. Groups of teenaged girls looked around like frightened rabbits, eyes jumping between their parents and their escorts-to-be. Young men sporting fraternity ties shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking like they wished they were holding lacrosse sticks instead of sodas. Wealthy magnates, clutching crystal tumblers filled with liquor, crowed about their latest hostile takeover or international negotiation while their middle-aged society wives showed off their latest Guilt Gift, designed to distract them from their husband’s most recent affair.
“I think I see Lily Montgomery, but I'm not sure which of those boys is her son,” Nina said, sticking close to me. Reluctance to shoulder her way in with what appeared to be a primarily First-Wives Club came off her in waves.
Spotting a small group of women who resembled Nina at the back of the room—early thirties, blonde, fit, and wearing trendy clothes designed to show off their figures rather than hide their flaws—I tipped my chin in their direction.
“Ah, my tribe.” Her grateful grin faded as she turned back to me. “I don't see your father yet and to be honest, all these boys look the same to me. Will you be okay?”
I squared my shoulders, feeling better now that I knew we were both in the same leaky boat. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
She rested a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder. “Your father will be here soon, I'm sure of it.”
I nodded, even knowing it was an empty promise. With my dad, work always came first. But at least Nina and I had each other, and I could surely survive the next few hours without drowning myself in a punchbowl. “I know. Now stop hovering. I'll be fine.”
Nina stepped back, and I watched her weave through the round tables marked by elegant numbered placards and adorned with extravagant pink and gold centerpieces. Hoping to avoid introducing myself to a bunch of strangers all at once, I turned back toward the entrance on the chance of linking up with a straggler instead.
The front door opened, a lone figure propelled forward on a burst of blinding sunlight. Once it receded, my gaze landed on a pair of calm gray eyes, half-hidden by a tuft of hair the color of the roan pony I'd ridden as a child, the ends curling over the collar of his navy blazer.
A frisson of recognition shot through me at the exact instant an unfamiliar ache warmed me to my bones. Remington Montgomery. He looked nothing like the boy I only vaguely remembered, but I knew it was him all the same.
One look cast an invisible tether between us, a lure that hooked over my collarbone with an almost audible clank and entirely eliminated my reluctance to be here. Needing to ease the sudden, sharp pain inside my chest, I instinctively took a few steps forward.
The door opened again. Another beam of sunlight streaked inside, this time revealing my father and his business partner, Remington's father. Stepping into the lobby, they flanked him, both clapping opposite shoulders. Remington didn't wince, his eyes widening just enough to convey his restraint at not shrugging them both off. “I see you've already found each other,” my dad said, looking between us as he commented on the obvious.
I nodded, not trusting my voice quite yet.
Remington answered with a curt but respectful, “Yes, sir.” Once our fathers had strolled off in search of a drink or a potential client, probably both, he finally addressed me. “I almost didn't recognize you. You've gotten—”
“Taller,” I interrupted, ducking my head.
He closed the remaining distance between us with a rolling stride, waiting until I'd raised my head again before correcting me. “Actually, I was going to say prettier.”
At six-three, or maybe six-four, Remington towered over me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Long lashes cast shadows atop high cheekbones that slid sharply to his lips. Full and almost pretty, they were the perfect accent to soften his hard, patrician features.
A flush broke over my skin, a sudden warmth throbbing between my thighs. The first tender stirrings of lust swirling inside my otherwise empty stomach.
“Thanks, Remington,” I forced out through paralyzed vocal chords.
“My name's kind of a mouthful. Just call me Tripp, everyone else does.”
Tripp. I hadn't realized he went by a nickname, but it suited him. “I take it you're a ‘third’?”
“Unfortunately for me, yes.” He pushed that same errant tuft of hair back again and glanced over my shoulder, his face showing a trace of resignation as he took in the crowd I'd retreated from just a few minutes before, forcing a sideways smile onto his lips. “Can I be honest with you?”
Uh oh. Nothing good starts with that question. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself. “Sure.”
“I wasn't looking forward to this.”
That made two of us. “Ditto.”
He turned surprised eyes back to me. They were an interesting shade of gray, like the sliver of horizon suspended between the sea and sky on an overcast day. A place you could try swimming toward but never reach. “I thought all girls were into these kinds of things.”
A blush burned my cheeks, and I curled my fingers into my palms, indenting my flesh with the half-moon shape of my nails. “Not this girl.”
“How long do you think we have to stay?”
Except that suddenly I wasn't very keen on leaving. “Um . . . I'm not sure. Maybe a couple of hours.”
Mischief turned his gray stare silver. “How about we give it our all for the next hour and then get out of here?”
“If you want to go, I'm sure it's fine. I don't want to keep you here or anything,” I stammered, fighting to keep the sharp sting of disappointment from my tone.
His brows, two shades darker than the hair on his head, pulled together. “You're coming with me, of course.”
“Oh.�
�� It was just a soft puff of air as Tripp pressed his hand against the flat of my back and led me into the main dining room.
You're coming with me.
Did Tripp feel what I was feeling? Even one-tenth of what I was feeling? One-hundredth? The current that seemed to run between our bodies, energy sparking at the slightest touch, a magnetic pull tugging us together—he had to be feeling it, too. Right?
Of course.
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Also by Tara Leigh
The Wages of Sin Duet
Cruel Sanctuary
Corrupt Savior
The Lies Duet
Throne of Lies
Legacy of Lies
Nothing But Trouble
Rock King
Rock Legend
Rock Rebel
Billionaire Bosses
Deal Breaker
Penthouse Player
About the Author
Tara Leigh is a multi-published author of steamy contemporary romance. A former banker on Wall Street, she graduated from Washington University and holds an MBA from Columbia Business School, but she much prefers spending her days with fictional boyfriends than analyzing financial spreadsheets. Tara currently lives in Fairfield County, Connecticut with her husband, children, and fur-baby, Pixie.
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