ONE
MACALISTER
FRUSTRATION TWISTED MY MUSCLES INTO CORDS, making my clasped hands ache. Before the darkest day of my life, the one where I’d made a terrible mistake, no one would have dared miss a meeting with me. I’d had employees willing to sit in on conference calls while they were in labor or waiting for surgery.
Today, Stephen Alby was eight insulting minutes late. It was long enough to send a message of how little he respected me, my time, and my enormous wealth. Of course, that was assuming he was late. I was beginning to wonder if he would materialize at all. I was easily his biggest client, and if this was how he was going to treat me, perhaps I needed to take my money elsewhere.
I refused to let any of my irritation bleed out onto my face and held my posture neutral since I was out in public. It was noon, and the private penthouse restaurant was fully booked for lunch, and although the dining room wasn’t large, every person in the space was aware of my infamous presence. Conversations had paused at my entrance then lagged awkwardly as I was seated at my table.
It wasn’t the one I preferred, the one by the window, which boasted a view of the harbor and its position of status to the rest of the room. I no longer maintained that level of clout. Instead, I’d been relegated to the smallest table by the door, away from the center where the most influential executives in Boston took their power lunches during the week. Like me, this table existed on the fringes. My money and the Hale name were enough to keep me on the exclusive guest list and earn me a seat in the room, but scandal had driven me to the outskirts.
The din of conversation dropped once more as someone else unexpected appeared at the entryway and spoke with the maître d’.
Clearly, the woman had never been here before. It wasn’t the way her curious gaze took in the floating chandelier at the center of the room that gave it away—it was the soft smile that teased her lips. If she’d taken lunch here before, she’d know this wasn’t a place for happy, friendly smiles. Deals were brokered over seared foie gras and scallops. Careers were made and broken by Boston’s elite while seated at these tables covered in fine white linens.
Once upon a time, I was the king of this town, and I held court in this room.
It seemed the palace intrigue had continued in my absence, but I was desperate to climb back onto my throne and rise above it, rather than play the game with everyone else.
The young woman nodded as the maître d’ spoke, making the waves of her blonde hair shimmer. Her face was familiar, and although it had been years since I’d seen her, it took me only a moment to place the girl. Last time, she’d worn a pale pink bridesmaid dress at my son’s wedding. Today, it was a cashmere sweater dress in navy that covered her frame. It pretended to be modest, but the fabric clung provocatively to her breakneck curves.
When she was led toward my table, I set my jaw.
“Mr. Hale, may I join you?” Her tone was warm and confident.
Mine was brusque. “Are you here to apologize for your father’s lateness?”
Sophia Alby’s smile was unflinching. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Let me keep you company while you wait.”
I didn’t appreciate how she lowered into the vacant chair across from me without my approval, but I wouldn’t voice my displeasure until the maître d’ had gone. I didn’t care if I was rude—only that I didn’t appear rude to the people around us, the people who mattered.
The man nodded as she settled into the seat, then he flitted away. I lifted my unimpressed gaze and pinned it on her. “Miss Alby—”
“You have a problem,” she interrupted. There was a strange, off-putting smile fixed on her face.
One of my eyebrows arched so high, it nearly escaped my face. “Is it the girl who just sat uninvited at my table?”
Her unsettling smile widened. “That depends.” She crossed her arms and leaned on the tabletop, manners be damned. It was a conscious decision. She’d gone to the same elite school as my sons, which meant she’d had the finest upbringing. Like my family, the Albys were one of the founding families of Cape Hill—the wealthy hamlet outside of Boston where we lived.
How old was she? Younger than Royce, which meant approximately twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six. I’d invited enough scandal into my life, and the absolute last thing I needed was to be seen having lunch with a pretty girl half my age. Irritation swelled inside me like the bell curve of compounding interest, and it darkened my tone. “It depends on what?”
The girl drew in a sharp breath. She wasn’t as intimidated by me as she should be, but she wasn’t entirely immune either. Her voice faltered. “On how you react to what I’m about to tell you.”
My hot irritation cooled and thickened until I was frozen motionless by the warning in her eyes. It told me to brace myself. Whatever information she was about to divulge, I wasn’t going to like hearing it.
“Well?” I demanded.
Her pink lips pressed together while she assembled the thoughts in her head. She blinked when the decision was made, and the statement poured from her. “I think James DuBois is planning to write a book about you.”
The sounds around us of conversations and cutlery against plates fell silent in my ears. I’d heard exactly what she’d said, but my mind refused to accept it. “Excuse me?”
“James DuBois,” she repeated. “He wrote The School for Scandal, about the rich parents who bought college admissions for—”
“I’m aware of who he is,” I snapped. It was impossible not to know. The marketing budget must have been six figures for the book because it was everywhere. It had spent weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.
Moreover, I existed in the same circle as some of the people who’d been named in DuBois’s book. Not friends—because few people earned my respect enough to be considered friends—but they were acquaintances, at the least.
The idea of anyone writing a book about me left a sour taste in my mouth, but the thought of James DuBois applying his considerable investigating skills to my life made my chest tighten to the point of discomfort.
“No,” I snarled. I’d suffered enough scandal for three lifetimes, but there was more still hidden in my past. I wouldn’t let him near me and had plenty of resources to ensure he dropped it. “I won’t allow it.”
Miss Alby’s face skewed. “You can’t stop him.”
“My money says otherwise.”
She sighed like I was being foolish. “I mean, sure, you can make it difficult for him. Send the cease and desist letters, get the lawyers involved. But the story will come out, whether you want it to or not.”
The band around my chest tightened further, making my breath go shallow. I despised both my reaction and the truth I begrudgingly knew she was speaking.
“How,” I kept control of my voice, since it was the only thing I could control at this moment, “did you come by this information?”
She tipped her head down, tucking her chin to her chest, and stared at me with glittering eyes. “I’m not sure what it is, but people have a habit of confiding in me. They like telling me their secrets.”
Despite my unease, an unavoidable spark of interest flickered in me. “Is that so?”