My touch doesn’t put him at ease, but his voice gentles. “I’m sure it’s been a hard time. Your uncle was worried you might need assistance… somehow.”
“You’re so kind.”
“I’m not kind. I don’t want to be here, and I’m sure you have handlers.”
“You’ve always known everything.” I do my best to flirt, sliding my fingers along his Armani suit. “You pretend I’m the snob, but I think you’re far more snobbish than I am.”
“I don’t play games, Blake.” He catches my hand from rising to his shoulder, and the muscle in his jaw moves. “I’ve fulfilled my obligation. You look fine to me.”
“You look pretty fine to me, too.” Holding his hand, I pull it behind my back so my body presses to his, my small, teenage breasts flatten against his solid chest. His eyes flare, and I rise on my toes to speak in his ear, allowing my lips to brush his skin. “A little southern comfort would be nice.”
I’m willing to kiss him if it’ll do the trick, but when I meet his gaze again, fire is in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s turned on or furious–or both. He yanks his hand out of mine and grips my shoulders, moving my body away from his.
“You're drunk if you think I’d blow my reputation that way.”
“So you’re thinking about it?” My voice is sultry, and I can’t tell. Is he?
“You’re high.”
The door behind him flies open, and we both look up to see Victor glaring at us. His gaze melts into a slimy grin, and his eyes glide from my flushed cheeks down to my breasts, barely hidden beneath the thin fabric.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here. Were you waiting for an escort to your bedroom?”
My skin literally crawls at the insinuation, and Hutch looks ready to explode.
“I’m taking care of her,” he growls, clutching my upper arm and hauling me down the hall, away from the rat.
We’re on the other side of the house before he slows, looking up and around the passage. “Is your room even on this floor?”
“You’re hurting me.” My complaint earns me a short jerk.
“Then stop acting like a child.” His jaw is tight, and I’m pissed he’s so fucking hot.
Hutch Winston activated my sex drive three years ago. I was thirteen and he was eighteen, and Dad brought Hana and me to visit Uncle Hugh in Hamiltown for the Fourth of July celebration. Hutch stood on that pier in his swim trunks, a mountain of mouthwatering muscles, and I ovulated for the first time. He seems to have improved with age.
Releasing my arm, he’s still seething. “Go to your room.”
“You’re not my dad.”
In a blink, he grips my arm again, anger rippling off him in hot waves. An uninvited thought sneaks through my brain, I wonder what it’s like when his restraint slips…
“You’re out of control. I’m going to speak to your mother, then I’m leaving.” He pauses a moment, dropping his square chin and exhaling. “Sorry for your loss.”
He leaves abruptly, and I collapse against the door. Hutch Winston is a force of nature, and I fucking blew it. So much for getting his help, not that I’ve ever laid the groundwork to ask him for it.
Scrubbing my fingers against my forehead, I search for a solution. I should’ve just thrown myself in his arms and started crying or done something damsel in distress-like. I should have told him my fears about Victor.
Like that would’ve gone any better.
Hutch wouldn’t buy my tears any more than he’d fall for my teen seduction. Still, he might have listened to my story. My shoulders fall, and I open the door to my massive bedroom. It’s too late for post-mortems. If I’m going to get Victor away from my mother and protect Hana, I have to do it myself.
I’m just getting ready for bed when my phone rings, and I look down to see my mother is FaceTiming me. I accept the call, and I can tell by her eyes she’s tipsy.
Correction, she’s drunk.
“Blake van Hamilton, you are to pack your things at once.” Her eyelids flutter as she sweeps her arm dramatically. “I’ve just secured a spot for you at Bishop of the Holy Family. You’re leaving on the ten o’clock train.”
My jaw drops, and my entire room shifts to the side. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”
“You’d better rein in that tongue, young lady. It’s a Catholic boarding school, all girls. Just what you need to improve your attitude.”
A tiny explosion goes off in my brain. Am I old enough to have a stroke? These are not my mother’s words. My mother doesn’t think about me enough to say these words to me.
“No!” I blurt, cringing at how childish I sound. “What about my schoolwork? Hana? I can’t leave.”
“The sisters have assured me they can work out your schedule. Roman will be down to collect your things in two hours. End of discussion.”
I feel like I’m drowning in a vat of molasses, struggling to find my bearings through thick sludge. How could this happen? What the fuck would wake her from her champagne stupor long enough to even come up with such a plan? Should I run? Hide out at Debbie’s until she finally leaves for St. Moritz?
I’m trying to decide when my eyes land on his, lurking in the background, stony green staring back at me through my mother’s computer screen.
Bastard.
Hutch did this.
It’s only a moment before my screen goes black, and I start to scream. That meddling, arrogant, know-it-all bastard. He’s playing right into their hands.
I’m being shipped to a boarding-school prison, where I can’t help anyone. He’s ruining everything, and at sixteen, I’m powerless to change it.
Fisting the sides of my hair, I squeeze my eyes shut and internally lose my shit. It’s the only place I’ve ever been allowed. I grab a pillow off my bed and throw it across the room, then I charge after it and kick it all the way back to my bed.
Grinding my jaw I go to the window and watch as he leaves in his car. He’s done his damage. Hutch Winston is going to regret this.
I won’t be sixteen forever, and I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done.
1
Hutch
Present day
“I can’t kidnap them, Hugh. You have to give me a reason to bring them here.” I’m sweating my ass off in Hugh van Hamilton’s lavish greenhouse inside his six-thousand-square-foot, sprawling estate.
It’s one of the oldest homes in Hamiltown (Yes, Hamiltown), and it’s situated at the end of a quarter-mile-long driveway canopied by arching live oak trees.
The van Hamiltons founded this borough around the turn of the last century, and their massive family estate and the wizened man growing old inside it are all that’s left of their lurid legacy.
Almost.
His two spoiled nieces, daughters of his dead nephew, are alive and well in New York City, and from what I’ve heard, neither of those Park Avenue princesses is interested in returning to their hometown in the swamplands near the coast of South Carolina.
At eighty, Hugh is five-ten and a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. His gray hair is neatly smoothed away from his face, and he’s wearing khakis and a button-down shirt with a light blue bow tie. His beige felt Stetson is neatly arranged beside his glasses on a nearby table.