by Jillian Dodd
“Really? But it has long sleeves and hits well below my knee.”
“Trust me.”
I want to tell him I’m not supposed to trust anyone, but I don’t think that applies to fashion, so I leave it on and then grab the suggested heels and bag. “Let’s go.”
“Can I drive one of your dad’s cars?” he asks as we walk out the front door.
“Is anyone going to see it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
I take him to the garage where he spends at least twenty minutes studying all the cars before settling, not surprisingly, on the most expensive one—the 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO.
“This is quite the collection,” Peter states. “It’s one thing my dad never really got into. Too bad because I can’t drive his art.”
I find the keys, he fires up the engine, and we take off.
“Who are you texting?” he asks me.
“I’m taking your advice and trying to hire my personal shopper full-time. I’ve got events coming up in London that I’m not prepared for.”
“Does she seem interested?”
“She’s playing hard to get,” I suggest, which is sort of the truth.
Mostly, she’s reiterated that she already has a job. I sweeten the pot by telling her that I will be in London and need appropriate clothing for the Von Allister board meeting, the British Grand Prix, and other social events as well as attending a ceremony at Buckingham Palace with William Gallagher—which finally causes her to agree to dress me for those occasions.
“I assume you won’t be staying at Lorenzo’s place. You’re welcome to stay at our home in the city. And just offer her more money,” Peter says sarcastically. “With women, it’s all about the money.”
“Thank you. Although, for someone who is driving a priceless Ferrari and going to a party, you seem to be in a foul mood all of a sudden. Are you upset about Allie and my brother?”
“No, it’s not that. Don’t get me wrong. Allie is a great girl, but you’d think someone as beautiful as she is would be more confident. She needed constant attention. My father and I don’t agree on much, when I do decide to settle down, it will be with a strong, confident woman.” He gives me a conspiratorial grin. “While my father is the ruthless businessman—”
“Ruthless?” I ask, interrupting and still wondering if his father has a ring like Ares’s.
“Maybe that’s the wrong word choice. He’s always in command, and he makes difficult decisions with ease, but at home”—he laughs—“my mother is very much in charge.”
“Are you saying you want a woman to wear the pants in the relationship?”
“Not necessarily, but she could at least provide a bit of a challenge. Most girls bore me.”
“Ah, you like the thrill of the hunt.”
He turns to give me a handsome grin. “Maybe. You, Huntley, seem strong under pressure. Honestly, if you ask me, other than the fact that you are not Montrovian by blood, Lorenzo made a big mistake. You’re new to all this, but even so, you’ve handled it with strength and grace. You would make a better queen than Lizzie, in my opinion. Are you going to tell me what happened between you two?”
“We slept together for the first time on the night before the announcement, and I woke up in bed with him to learn of it.” I skip the part about the proposal and wedding.
“Wow. That’s pretty low, even for him. You didn’t have a clue?”
“I did know his mother had been pressuring him to be in a committed relationship, and I had agreed to a formal courtship with him.”
“You could stop it, you know,” he says as we pull up to a modern Georgetown townhouse.
“Betrayal doesn’t sit well with me,” I lie, but I’m pretty sure, even with my training, I can’t hide my true feelings when it comes to Lorenzo.
“Then he deserves to see us together on the society page. The press will have a field day. First, Daniel is swimming to you at the Olympic Trials, and now, you’re with me, attending the engagement party for the Speaker of the House’s granddaughter in her eight-million-dollar engagement gift.”
The party seems to be more of a family affair than the kind of all-night rave I expected Peter to want to attend, and I’m thankful we didn’t go with the shorter dress even though his assessment of the bride-to-be is correct. She’s wearing a very fitted hot-pink mini with a large shoulder bow and designer zebra stilettos—and she totally rocks it.
I let Peter parade me around for a while, introducing me to many people he deems as influential, while checking out the beautiful new home. It reminds me of Daniel’s townhouse, Old World charm in the moldings, doors, and fireplaces but updated for modern living.
“And the man of the hour,” Peter says, shaking hands with a distinguished-looking older gentleman with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, discreet frameless spectacles, and a Savile Row suit. “I’d like to introduce you to my escort for this evening, Huntley Von Allister. Huntley, this is Royston Bessemer, who is the grandfather of the beautiful bride-to-be and the Speaker of the House of our great nation.”
The man gives me a warm politician’s smile with perfectly capped white teeth as he shakes my hand. “Huntley, it is a pleasure to meet you. Of course, I knew your father well and was very sorry to learn of his passing.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “It’s very nice to meet you, too. Are you excited for the wedding?”
“I am. Blair is marrying a fine young man. Comes from a hard-working family.”
When he says this, Peter taps my hand, and I know what he’s thinking. Hard-working family is code for he’s not as rich as they are. Based on what I’ve learned in my conversations with other guests, the Bessemers are from very old money first made in England with more wealth added as steel barons in the United States, which was then parlayed into politics.
“His father is a naval officer, and the future groom is in Yale’s ROTC program. And here is my granddaughter,” he says and then introduces me.
Peter offers Blair his congratulations along with a kiss on the cheek, causing her to blush slightly, giving me the impression that their relationship, however brief, was slightly scandalous in nature.
“Would you like to join me for a drink at the bar?” I ask her grandfather, thinking it might be good to give them a moment alone.
“I would love that,” he says, holding out his arm.
I slip my hand around his elbow and let him lead me across the room.
“Your father was trustworthy, Huntley. Did you follow in his footsteps?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I really don’t know all that much about him.”
“I’ve heard through the grapevine that you will be attending the Von Allister board meeting in London in a few days.”
I smile with my lips firmly clamped shut. How the heck does he know that? I only recently decided to go. “You must be a friend of Mike Burnes,” I say. “Apparently, he’s not all that trustworthy.”
“A spy never is,” the man says with a chuckle. “I will be attending that meeting as well.”
“What for?” I ask, realizing I need to find out who is on the board.
“It hasn’t been announced yet, so please keep this under your hat, but I will be retiring from politics this fall. I’ve been asked to fill the spot on the board left vacated by John F. Hillford after his untimely passing, and I will be attending the meeting this week in an observatory capacity.”
John F. Hillford was on the board?
“My brother and I were told that Ares had liquidated most of his assets. We only recently found out we still own the majority of his company. And about the upcoming board meeting. And the voting that will take place. Do you know all about that?”
“Yes.”
“And how would you vote, sir?”
“Since Mike Burnes told me, you assume that I want you to vote how he wants you to vote, correct?” he asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. But I’ll be honest. Mr. Burnes hasn’t been very convincing.”
�
��You don’t know how you will vote?”
“Not yet.”
“It sounds like you need a very quick education on your father’s business. Have you met the chairman of the board yet? Harrison McClellan?”
“No, which I find a little odd. You’d think, as chairman, he would have personally reached out to us and wanted us to understand the business since my brother and I do control the majority share.”
“Only if you vote the same way,” Royston says. “Technically, when your father passed, your assets would have been split based on his will. How was that set up?”
“Um, I’m really not sure.”
“Before I became a politician, I was an estate attorney. Granted, it’s been a while, but if you need assistance understanding the nuances of his will, I’m sure I could walk you through it. I’ll be in London on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch to go over it?”
“Very much so, thank you.”
“Of course,” he says, handing me a glass of champagne along with his business card. “Text your contact information to the number on the card. That’s for my personal assistant, Marty. He’ll set everything up. Great to meet you, Huntley.”
I can’t seem to find Peter, so I’m aimlessly wandering around, my mind on everything Bessemer said, when I notice a boy in the parlor, playing a shell game to entertain the younger crowd.
A guy in full military dress stands next to me and comments, “My dad taught me how to play army.”
“My mom taught me memory and word games,” I say back. “What do you think his dad does?”
“Well, the obvious answer for this town would be politician, but if I had to guess, I’d say he has something to do with money or gambling. The kid is good. He could earn beer money for college if he keeps it up. What do you think?”
“Money launderer?” I tease, wondering who this guy is.
He’s tall, dark, and quite handsome. And I do love a man in uniform—particularly when he is the king of a certain small European country.
“Where did that idea come from?” he asks.
“The game. Think about it. Hide the money and make it disappear when no one is looking. Then when they think they know where it is, you prove them wrong by picking up the shell. What better way to explain what you do for a living to your kid, if that’s what you do?”
He laughs at me. “I’ll be honest. I’m here because I’m following the girl.”
“Which girl?” I ask before I realize he means me.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he says. “Ty Carlton.”
“And how are you related to the happy couple?” I ask as he moves closer to me and slides his hand down my arm in a very suggestive way.
“He’s the future groom,” Peter says, coming up from behind us.
I figure he will wrap his arm around me to indicate that we’re together.
Instead, he says, “Ty, this is my friend Huntley.”
Ty arches an eyebrow. “That’s right, Pete. I saw the girl you were dating just got engaged. What happened? Did she dump you for someone with more money?”
I halfway wonder if Peter is going to deck the guy just for the way he said Pete, which no one ever calls him.
“She got engaged to my brother,” I say with a tight-lipped smile. “She and Peter only dated briefly. And he’s fresh off a week in Ibiza. I mean, a serious relationship is the last thing he wants right now. He’s having way too much fun.” I turn to Peter. “Speaking of fun, what do you say we get out of here and go dancing?”
“Sorry, man,” Peter says to Ty. “She’s the boss of me. At least for tonight.”
I grab Peter’s hand, leading him off, and then turn around and say, “It was great to meet you, Ty, and congratulations on your upcoming marriage!”
“Oh. My. Gosh. You were awesome!” Peter says the second we’re out the front door.
“I thought you would pretend like we were together. When you didn’t, I figured it might be better to flaunt our carefree, single lives.”
“The look on his face when we said we were going dancing all night was priceless,” Peter says.
“And that I’m the boss of you for tonight suggested we were a very short-term thing. And for a guy getting ready to be in what’s supposed to be a lifetime thing …”
“Especially with the way he was hitting on you before I got there,” Peter says with a grin. “It was perfection.”
“I feel bad for Blair though. She seemed really great.”
“She is really great,” he says, looking off in the distance, but then he gives me a forced smile. “Speaking of dancing, I do know a great club.”
MISSION:DAY NINE
I wake up to the sound of Peter’s voice.
My first thought is, Where am I?
My second thought is, Why is Peter in my bed?
My third thought is, What happened?
“I think that last shot put you over the edge,” he says softly, which, with the way my head is pounding, I am grateful for. “I just ordered breakfast to be brought up.”
I rub my eyes, trying to remember last night. The engagement party. A nice dinner. VIP section at the club. A couple of shots. Dancing. Meeting lots of Peter’s friends. Two girls excited about an upcoming royal wedding. Talk of the royal baby watch. Me needing more shots.
Merde.
“Uh, thanks,” I say groggily. I sit up, surprised to find myself fully clothed. “I’m still dressed.”
“You fell asleep on the way home. I carried you upstairs and slept in bed with you in case you got sick. Hope that’s okay.”
I give Peter a wry smile. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
“We’re friends, Huntley. You only had a couple of shots all night long—well, until those girls opened their big mouths.”
“About Lorenzo?”
“About the royal baby watch. You do know that the whole purpose of their arranged marriage is the production of heirs, right?”
“Yes, I know that. I just thought they’d wait until they got married.”
Peter breaks out laughing.
“Stop that. It makes my head hurt.”
“No, Huntley,” Peter says seriously, “it makes your heart hurt.”
I put my head down and nod.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asks.
I think of Daniel’s idea. It seems like the most immature thing ever, but I reply with, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be getting engaged soon myself.”
“Fight fire with fire. Stupid,” Peter says as our food arrives, “but I like it.”
While we’re eating, I ask him about our upcoming trip to the TerraSphere.
“What all do you want to know?” he asks.
“Everything,” I reply.
“Let’s start with the basics. We’ll leave just after midnight and sleep on the plane during the long flight. We’ll land at a military installation nearby and then travel by land to the top-secret location of the TerraSphere.”
“Is it top secret?”
“I’m just messing with you. It’s just a town with a weird shape—at least, on the surface.”
“There’s stuff underground?”
“It’s brilliant really. The project hasn’t even been commercialized, but it’s still a cash cow. The facility is owned by a subsidiary company and was a joint venture.”
“Does that mean your dad’s company has equal say in what happens with it?”
“Technically, no. We are investors. Von Allister Industries’ executive team and board of directors guide it, as they maintained the majority share in the venture. Soon, we’ll sell this project to countries all over the world and make billions.”
“Your dad said Ares worked on the project design for years before construction ever started and that the TerraSphere has been up and running for about seven.”
“That sounds about right.”
“How is it earning money already?”
“That’s the brilliant part. Although there is a contrac
t with the US military to fund the research of the TerraSphere and the building of the facility, Ares was smart. Under the TerraSphere, there is a whole other city that has nothing to do with what’s above ground.”
“What’s down there?”
“Storage space. Offices. Research facilities. Most of it is top secret.”
“Do you personally know what goes on in those spaces or what is stored in them?”
“Me, personally? No. But the people who work there reside in the Sphere and have basically been testing the living conditions for free.” He gives me a raised eyebrow and a grin.
“That is pretty creative. Can I tell you something in confidence?”
He takes a bite of lobster Benedict and then sets his fork down. “Absolutely.”
“The director of the CIA came to talk to me in Omaha. He says that the exclusive contract for the TerraSphere technology is coming to an end, that the government has asked for an extension, and that it’s imperative that it is granted.
“Ari and I were led to believe that our father had liquidated all his assets before his death. That we didn’t have any power. But it turns out that, although he did cash out of some stock, combined, we still maintain the majority. There’s a meeting on Friday in London where the board will vote on it.”
“And the director wants you and Ari to vote to extend the contract?”
“Yes, but it’s my understanding, that’s not what the chairman wants.”
“Then you need to figure out why he doesn’t,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I know my father thinks I don’t care about business, but I do. I can tell you everyone on each of our boards. They are important people who help guide our companies—and our wealth.”
“Thus your interest,” I tease.
“Absolutely. I’m not a fool.” He finishes eating the last few bites of his breakfast, wipes his mouth with a napkin, grabs my laptop from my desk, and pulls up the Von Allister Industries website. “You need to do the same. The chairman of the board is Harrison McClellan. He’s a friend of the family, which means he and Ares were probably close, too.”
“I recognize his name,” I say, wondering if I could ask if he’s the kind of guy who could want to end the world as we know it. “Big biotech firm, right?”
