“No.” He stood and looked away, lost in thought. “They’ve never been friends.”
There was a note of sadness in his voice that could not be ignored. It whispered of things unsaid, and I went still as the thought struck me.
Duncan Lynch.
He was the other name Sophia refused to tell me.
But . . . why? What had he done that Sophia was desperate to reveal, and yet so reluctant to tell me?
Voices sounded in the entryway, meaning I had more guests to greet, so I released Damon to go down to the gardens and encourage people to open their pocketbooks and donate to his campaign.
Evangeline was waiting for me, wearing a sapphire blue strapless dress, paired with an elaborate necklace and earrings, that I found to be too much. If she were Sophia, I’d have asked her to pare back and take the necklace off.
But, as I was painfully aware, she wasn’t Sophia.
I enjoyed my conversations with Evangeline. She was an intelligent woman with a pretty face and more compassion than I’d ever have. She took a chance on me, and I was grateful for her partnership. Yet there was no spark between us. She didn’t challenge or irritate me, didn’t declare she hated me as both my wives had once done, before I’d worn them down and convinced them to fall in love with me.
I’d had a weekend with Evangeline under my roof in Aspen, and not so much as an inkling to seduce her. We played our roles, smiling for cameras while we’d sampled chefs’ signature dishes, and privately vented to each other about the tedium of it. We’d discovered a comfortable ease with one another.
We’d never be anything more than friends.
But we were friends. If nothing else came out of my campaign for redemption, at least she was a genuine and honest person, exceptionally rare in Cape Hill, and had become someone I respected.
And I hoped one day my friend would be able to find a love again like the one she’d had.
“Your smile is getting better,” she whispered when we embraced in brief hug. “I kind of believe it’s real.”
“It is real.” This party was necessary, but I despised frivolous small talk. With her, it was easier. She did most of the talking, and I stood at her side, participating only when required. “I’m pleased you could come. You make me look good.”
She grinned knowingly.
The door swung open, and three people spilled into the entryway, all sharing the Hale name. Marist was in a deep purple dress, and both of my sons in tuxedos, and rather than go to her, my gaze drifted to Vance.
He looked more like me than Royce did, although his hair was a lighter shade of brown. He had his mother’s smile, which he used as a weapon. It made women forget to breathe and looked excellent on promotional material, evidenced by the Cape Hill Yacht Club’s website and membership brochure.
It had been years since I’d seen it in person, leaving me to wonder if I ever would again. Vance could barely hold my gaze, and it could be caused by a variety of reasons. He had guilt about his affair with Alice, but perhaps he felt shame both at what I’d done to her and tried to do with Marist. How I’d spent most of my sons’ lives pushing them to be better, sometimes to their breaking point, and even pitting them against one another.
“It’s good to see you,” I said to the group. “Thank you for coming.”
I was treated to awkward nods, but Evangeline unwittingly made it worse when she spoke. “Macalister, I’d forgotten what a beautiful family you have.”
Perhaps she was thinking I wasn’t alone, that at least I had my sons after my wife’s death. She meant well, not understanding that my desire for control had forced my family to crumble inside my dominating grip.
Royce was masterful at ignoring tension and delivered an easy smile. “It’s my wife. She makes the rest of us look good.”
Evangeline chuckled as she glanced at me. “He sounds just like you.”
Royce didn’t bother to hide his grimace at the comparison.
“Yes, well,” I lifted my chin and addressed my family, “Damon is already outside, so don’t let us keep you from the party.”
They understood what I meant, how there was work waiting for them. I’d done an enormous amount of damage to the Hale name, and their help was needed to restore it. The event had to be a success. We would remind Cape Hill which family was American royalty.
Once they disappeared down the hall toward the back of the house, more guests arrived. Some were still intimidated by me and some were curious, and a few had the audacity to look down their judgmental noses, but I forced a tight smile and greeted them as friends.
Tonight, I couldn’t be ruthless. I was to be the benevolent king.
I’d set a schedule with Sophia that I would only receive guests until seven-thirty, and then I would move outside and join the party. Those who arrived late would be guided by staff, and I’d be updated on arrivals periodically throughout the evening. I checked my watch, and frustration crawled along my back and made my neck hot.
DuBois hadn’t made his appearance, and it would be much easier to control the conversation if our introduction was made this way. He was set to attend, though. He’d accepted Damon’s invitation and RSVPed to Sophia.
There were only a few minutes left when I caught a glimpse of him at the back of the receiving line, and the tightness in my chest released.
He wore a single button tuxedo jacket, white shirt, and a black bow tie, and while it fit him well enough, it wasn’t tailored. A rental. A smile peeled back my lips. He was just a visitor to my world, an observer. I would do everything in my power to make sure he saw what I wanted him to see.
“Good evening,” I said and offered my hand when he approached. “Macalister Hale.”
He was my age, with short, sandy brown hair and a tough, rugged face that morphed into a charming one when he smiled. His hometown of New Orleans rang through in his accent. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. James DuBois.”
He took my handshake, and I respected his firm grip. He was several inches shorter than I was, but his frame was stocky and compact, as if he spent more time pounding weights than a keyboard. The picture of him on his books’ dust jackets didn’t do him justice. They didn’t reveal how cunning his eyes were.
“DuBois?” I repeated for effect and pretended to consider where I’d heard it before. “The author?”
He gave a rueful grin. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”
“This is Evangeline Gabbard,” I said. We’d discussed it and began using the label for each other in Aspen, but the lie felt unnatural. “My girlfriend.”
They exchanged pleasantries before his focus shifted back to me. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Of course. Welcome to my home.”
He turned his gaze up and scanned the surrounding area. “And what a home you have. I didn’t need directions. I just followed the line of Bentleys.”
His good ol’ boy routine likely worked on a lot of people, but I wasn’t susceptible. He expected to be underestimated, but his gaze was too sharp and observant. It was exactly like mine.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s been in my family for six generations.”
“I’d love a tour sometime.” He blinked as if he had stunned himself, and embarrassment crept down his expression. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten my manners. You have more important things to do than show some stranger around your house.”