“He’s got a consulting firm conducting all the requisite investigations of my company,” Dorian continued. “And I assure you, our dealings are completely aboveboard.”
“And your personal life?” Malcolm asked, abandoning his efforts at diplomacy. “Is he looking into that as well?”
“Indeed, he is.”
Colin’s eyebrows lifted. “An investigation?”
“Not… exactly.” Dorian’s insides twisted. It was bad enough he’d let his business partner convince him to host the fundraiser in the first place—a show for Armitage and his executives to prove how generous, gregarious, and stable Dorian really was. The proceeds would benefit one of Armitage’s pet projects—a children’s art museum in the Bronx.
Inviting his estranged family to attend was the last thing he wanted. But they were staying here now, for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t very well ask them to vacate the premises while he held the soiree of the century on their sprawling estate.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Dorian. “What are you on about?”
“Gentleman, I hope you’re still in possession of your most exquisite formalwear.” Dorian tipped back the last of his scotch and rose from his chair, then grabbed the bottle and stalked toward the exit, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder. “Chins up, brothers. The Redthorne Royals are throwing a party.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Charley was a kid, her father and Rudy used to take her to Cape May on the Jersey Shore in the off-season. There were fewer tourists, parking wasn’t a problem, and everything on the promenade was cheap enough that even the D’Amicos could feel like royalty for a few days.
Charley didn’t care about the fried food or the beach-town trinkets, though. For her, the big draw was always the ocean. It fascinated and terrified her, possessing a dark allure she couldn’t resist. On every trip, while her father and Rudy parked themselves in the sand with a cooler full of beer and a deck of cards, she’d wade out into the sea alone, daring herself to go deeper, one baby step at a time. First up to her ankles, then her knees, then her hips, palms skimming over the surface as sunlight glinted like diamonds, so bright it hurt her eyes.
But for all its beauty, the Atlantic Ocean harbored a dark secret—a cold and deadly undercurrent lurking beneath its diamond-bright sheen. Resisting was pointless; the harder she fought against it, the stronger the current pulled, tugging her so far out that her father and uncle became nothing but pink dots on a distant shore.
Sometimes, the ocean would tire of playing with her, spitting her back onto the sand in a watery tumble of seaweed and driftwood.
Other times, her father would have to swim out after her, tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her back to safety, laughing as if she’d never been in any danger at all.
My little mermaid, he’d say, gently patting her bottom as the tears spilled from her eyes. How ‘bout we get some ice cream and call it a day?
She had been in danger, though—that was the thing. Charley knew she’d brushed against death on those trips, and every time, she swore she’d never return to Cape May, never give the sea another chance to steal her soul.
It was only back in the trailer after the long drive home, snugly tucked into the princess bed she’d outgrown years earlier, that the other feeling took root.
Survival.
It warmed her, knowing she’d outsmarted a force as terrible and ancient as the sea. It made her feel like a fighter. And as the months passed, the fear receded, leaving only the feeling of triumph—a hot blaze in her chest that fueled her through the long northeast winters, driving her right back to the shores the following year, waves nipping her toes, her nemesis whispering an invitation she could never refuse.
Charley hadn’t thought about those trips, about that feeling, in more than a decade.
But when she woke up in her late father’s Park Avenue penthouse the morning after the auction, her body still aching with desire, the memories rushed back in a blink.
Because that feeling—the undertow, the danger, the pure exhilaration of touching the edge of death and living to tell the tale—was exactly how it’d felt to be in the stranger’s arms.
In Dorian Redthorne’s arms.
And just like all those trips to the Cape, Charley found herself wanting to go back to him, forgetting the danger, remembering only the survival. The wicked rush. The desperate need to feel the blaze of heat in her chest, again and again…
In a fit of frustration, she threw off her duvet and hit the remote for the blinds, flooding her bedroom with light.
But even as the bright morning sun burned away the last of her erotic dreams, darkness crept in along the edges.
Charley glanced at the suit jacket draped over her reading chair. Rudy hadn’t said another word about Dorian last night, but her uncle was like a dog with a bone. There was no way he’d let it go—not after hearing about the Whitfield.
She had no idea what he was planning—only that he was planning. All Charley could do now was brace for the storm… and hope like hell she survived.
“Someone had a good night.” Sasha breezed into the kitchen with a grin that lit up the room, her blond ponytail swishing across her shoulders. “And that someone needs to spill it, especially since she stood me up for vampire movie night.”
Charley’s cheeks burned, but she recovered quickly, forcing a playful eye-roll. “If you call schmoozing with a bunch of art stiffs a good night, I feel sorry for your future boyfriends. Sorry I didn’t text—that auction dragged on forever.”
“Are your pants hot? Like, on fire?”
“Excuse me?”
“Because you’re such a liar!” Sasha poured herself a coffee, dumping in about half the sugar bowl and enough almond creamer to turn it beige. In a singsong voice, she said, “I know your faces, Chuck. And that…” She swirled her finger in front of Charley’s eyes. “…is not the face of a woman who spent the night schmoozing.”
“You’re a regular private eye, aren’t you?” Charley stuck out her tongue.
“Was he cute, at least? What’d y’all do?” At the granite-topped breakfast bar, she took the seat next to Charley, stirring her coffee with trademark Sasha exuberance, spoon clinking against the mug like a bell. “I’m not leaving this room until I get the scoop—starting with the dude’s name.”
God, I need more caffeine for this conversation…
Unlike her big sister, Sasha was an open book. She talked in her sleep, sang in the shower, thought and daydreamed out loud. She did everything out loud, full blast, no holding back. Charley admired that about her, but it also made her feel like a total fraud. There was a lot Sasha didn’t know about Charley’s life, and as much as Charley loved her, she needed to keep it that way.
The girls had different fathers, and since Charley’s mother had split and moved to Florida when she was six, searching for a man with, quote, potential, Charley didn’t even know Sasha existed—not until Mom called up one day with some sob story, trying to extort them. Charley’s father told her about the call afterward—broke the news that Charley had a baby sister.