The cavernous space of the grand entryway was empty except for me. Its vaulted ceilings and ornate chandelier which was so old it probably predated electricity and had been wired since, exaggerated the feel of loneliness. This house had held generations of families, but now it was a mausoleum.
After parking my Jaguar beside the sprawling garage, I’d dashed through the light rain to the front door and hurried to punch in my access code. I wiped the damp from my face as I stepped inside, pulled off my coat, and hung both it and my purse in the closet. It’d only taken me twenty minutes to change and get here. With the rain, the typical thirty-minute drive home from Boston might take Macalister’s driver longer.
I took my phone from my purse and sat on the second step of the staircase, putting my arms around myself for warmth. Not only did this house feel like a tomb, it was as cold as one too.
There were several messages I’d missed from Penelope during my drive over. She’d wanted my approval on the best picture before posting it to Instagram, but when I’d gone radio-silent, she’d gotten anxious and made the call without me. Of the three images she’d sent, there was a clear winner, and she’d picked the correct one.
The caption she’d used was innocent. Look who I caught kissing in the rain. She hadn’t tagged Macalister in the post, but the hashtags she had used would help put it on the right people’s radar, and I amplified the signal by reposting it.
Penelope’s side hustle was photography, and she’d gotten a seat at the window in the coffee place next door to Marquee. She’d patiently waited two hours to grab that picture, and she hadn’t disappointed.
But I didn’t know how to feel about the image. Wasn’t I supposed to be happy? This was my plan, and he’d executed it just as I’d asked him to. But a spike of jealousy stabbed into my chest while my gaze traced his fingers on Evangeline’s waist, his mouth pressed against her skin.
Penelope’s timing must have been a fraction off. She’d missed the actual moment of their kiss, but the image was close enough. People discussing business did not say their goodbye this way.
As the notifications began to roll in, I could feel the buzz down in Cape Hill like a current. Look at that Macalister Hale, they were saying. Already out prowling for another wife to kill off.
Headlights glanced through the front windows, and a car rumbled up the circle drive, making me shoot to my feet and leave my heart behind on the stairs. A figure in black moved up the steps outside, the security system chirped its response, and the front door burst open.
My lungs constricted until I couldn’t breathe.
If the rain had touched Macalister, I couldn’t tell. It was more likely the raindrops were too frightened to dare fall on him, because the only gleam in his hair were the faint strands of silver. He was still dressed how I’d styled him this afternoon in the gorgeous black suit and fitted white shirt. The undone buttons at his neck relaxed the look, giving him just enough ease to not seem stuffy.
He shut the door behind him with a bang that made me flinch, but my gaze didn’t break from his. His dark, furious eyes were like gravity. He was sexiest when he was displeased with me, but the outraged expression he wore now was so hot, my knees softened.
And then he lifted a hand and pointed one long, sharp finger at the couch in the front room, shouting his order without saying a word. I wasn’t sure he would have been able to. The muscles across his jaw looked strained to their breaking point.
My heart raced along at a faster clip than my feet could match, but I reached the couch and sat obediently on the edge of it, trying not to think about how he’d kissed me in this exact spot last night. A sane person would have been terrified in this situation, but I was obviously broken because I went giddy with excitement.
It made me reckless. “How was your date?”
Macalister’s heavy footsteps slapped against the hardwood floor as he strode into the room and stood over me. “You committed me to that auction without my approval.”
I swallowed a breath. “Yeah, because if I had asked you, you would have said no. But this is good for you. It got me to close the deal with her, and—”
Color rose in his neck. “I understand your reasons. My issue is the lack of communication, which will end right now, Sophia.”
He brushed back the sides of his suit coat and put his hands on his hips. It was an assertive, confrontational posture, but all it did for me was flaunt his trim waist and powerful frame. It hinted at the curves of muscle packed beneath his expensive clothes.
“I will not be kept in the dark,” he said, “and made out to be a fool. Do you understand me?” His tone was absolute. “Tell me what you’re planning.”
I knew what he meant, but I sidestepped answering it. “You’re going to throw a party for Damon Lynch.”
It somewhat derailed Macalister’s anger. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll say it’s for his sixtieth birthday, but it’ll really be a fundraiser for his campaign.” I put my hands together in my lap, trying not to worry loose a hangnail. “Then you’ll sponsor a new show so it can open at the Boston Opera Theatre.”
He stared at me like I was speaking utter nonsense. “An opera?”
“Yes, because Mr. Scoffield’s daughter, Erika, was an opera major and still needs her big break.”
His gaze jerked away from mine and fell to my hands in my lap, disdain painting his expression. “Stop fidgeting.” When I froze at his command, his voice turned patronizing. “But please, continue. I’d like to hear more of these incredible ideas of yours to waste my money.”
I let his accusation roll right off me. “Vance won the Cape Hill regatta the past three years because your family has one of the fastest ships in the marina. There’s nothing Elijah Powell wants more in life than that stupid trophy.”
Fire flashed in Macalister’s cold eyes. “Vance wins because he’s an outstanding sailor.”
“Great,” I said. “Then it won’t make a difference to him if you lend your boat to Powell for the race.” We both knew it was bullshit and that boat was a clear advantage. Even if Powell raced with it and lost, the gesture should still count. “That one doesn’t cost you anything,” I added.
“It will cost me,” he abruptly sounded unsure, “with Vance.”
My chest lifted when I pulled in a heavy breath. I didn’t know where any of the Hale men stood with each other. Vance had an affair with Macalister’s wife, and Macalister had tried to steal Royce’s. They were the richest family in New England, and certainly the most fucked up.
“You could try explaining it to him,” I said cautiously.
Judging by the look on Macalister’s face, that wasn’t fucking likely. “Anything else?”
“I want you to get Mitch Vanderburgh’s son Jason a job at HBHC. He came out last year, and his dad kicked him out of the house. Totally cut him off, all because he’s gay.”
His gaze narrowed, although I wasn’t sure if it was with confusion or dislike about what I’d said. “You explained the idea is for me to make friends, but this sounds counterproductive. Mitch won’t want his son working for us.”
“No, he won’t, but that guy’s a fucking asshole.”