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  Of course it was from last season. Ginny was well aware of Stuart's and my financial situation. Did she think I was still splurging on expensive designer clothes? Naturally. Because it's what she herself would have been doing in my situation.

  "Oh hello, Jane!" Ginny called, looking behind me. Always looking behind me to see if someone better, more interesting, more popular, more able to serve her needs, might be around. But I was happy her focus had moved away from me, even momentarily. "I'll be right over," she called, a large smile on her face. "We need to discuss the Bough Center charity banquet."

  Looking back to me, her smile wilted. "I hate that bitch." Her eyes narrowed in on me again. "You really should try to mingle, Lydia. There are quite a few eligible men here. You're not getting any younger. Strike while the iron's hot and all that. When was the last time you went on a date?" Her eyes homed in on my face, making a disapproving clicking sound and then bringing her own hand to her eyes as if smoothing wrinkles away she'd seen on me. As if they might be contagious. Classic move to make me feel self-conscious without saying a word. Although I couldn't deny Ginny's skin was perfect, even though she was ten years older than me. In the past, I would have beelined for a mirror to find out what fault she had evidently spied in my complexion, in my outfit, in my overall being. But now, it only made me want to shake my head in exasperation of her shallow put-downs. Perhaps it came from having bigger fish to fry than the size of my pores.

  "Carter Hanes is right over there by the bar," she went on, pointing out a tall, thin man with light hair. I already knew Carter Hanes. In fact, I'd gone out on a date with him the year before, and he'd licked my face when he kissed me. I shuddered at the memory. My stepmother was prattling on. "He's not the most handsome man, but you and he would make a good pair. His father is worth billions and he's unwell. Near death I've heard." There was a note of glee in her voice, as if she'd just shared a piece of good news. Had she thought about my father in such terms once upon a time? Near death? Her face screwed into a frown. "Well, Mindy Buchanan is swooping in on him, and now you've missed your chance."

  She clicked again, looking around to see who might be listening in—apparently Daisy didn't count—before she leaned toward me. "When your father died, and we found out about all his debt, you didn't see me sitting around waiting to be rescued, did you? No, I went out there and found Harold, married him, and solved my own problems. You need to stop being a martyr and take the initiative like I did. I'll be back after I've chatted with Jane. Don't move." With that she dismissed me, sashaying off toward Jane, leaving me to ponder how exactly marrying a man for his money was solving your own problems. I shook my head. There was no point in trying to analyze Ginny's flawed, selfish logic.

  Daisy put her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. "Wow. She's . . . something, isn't she?"

  I rolled my eyes. "I can't even believe I came to this," I muttered, draining my glass. As a staff member walked by with a tray of champagne, I switched out my empty flute for a full one, smiling a thank you.

  "Of course you did," Daisy said. "It's the social event of the season." She winked at me. I smiled half-heartedly, barely able to remember a time when any of this was important to me, when I'd tried to please my stepmother—a never-ending impossible task. Since I was having financial issues, she thought she would help me find a rich husband—in her mind the perfect solution. God. To her credit, she wasn't gossiping about Stuart and me. These people would all turn their backs on us in a heartbeat if they found out the extent of our money problems.

  "I feel like I might die of boredom," I said. "But even worse, Ginny will be back. I have to hide." God, I was a twenty-three-year-old woman with a job and my own home and I was still hiding from my stepmother at parties. Ex-stepmother. Even worse. "And get drunk while I'm at it."

  Daisy laughed. "I'll come with you." We grabbed a couple more drinks and started making our way across the lawn to an outdoor balcony overlooking the party below. As we began to climb the steps there was a group of women descending. I resisted the urge to groan, instead taking a large sip of the champagne I was double fisting.

  "Why, Lydia De Havilland, I haven't seen you in forever!" Lindsey Sanders stopped in front of me, looking me up and down in that bitchy, assessing way she'd always had. "Hello, Daisy," she said, shooting her a thin-lipped smile before focusing her attention back on me. I sighed internally. I wasn't in the mood for Ginny, and I was even less in the mood for these women. My old high school friends. It could be argued that Daisy was shallow sometimes, but these women took it to a whole new level. It might have been somewhat acceptable when we were fifteen, but not now. I'd grown sick and tired of the constant competition, the utter phoniness, and we'd had a big falling out at the senior prom when Lindsey had accused me of trying to steal her date. I'd had zero interest in her date. As a matter of fact, I'd had zero interest in my date. I'd been struggling with more complex issues than they'd been capable of understanding, and they had nothing at all to do with stealing the muscled college guy Lindsey had brought to a stupid dance. I'd stopped hanging around all of them after that and they still hated me for it—assumed I thought I was too good for them, I supposed. The truth was, I simply didn't have the stomach for it anymore. I'd grown out of all the trivial nonsense, but they never had.

  "You look nice," Lindsey went on. "Not every bottom-heavy girl would have the confidence to wear a floral print. You always did take fashion risks though. We all admired you so much for it." The phoniness dripped from her voice. I held back the laugh that wanted to escape my throat. I knew I wasn't bottom heavy and so did she. Once upon a time, that comment would have had me on an immediate starvation diet. How sad that I had cared so much what these petty girls thought of me. "So what have you been up to?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink and looking around as if she couldn't care less.

  I plastered on my own phony smile. "Oh, you know, not too much—"

  "Lydia's too modest to say that she's insanely busy running a multi-million-dollar company, Lindsey." Lindsey raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow before Daisy went on. "What have you been up to? I'm sure it's thrilling, and we must hear about it sometime. But not now. Right now we're needed upstairs. Nice to see you!" And with that, Daisy grabbed my arm, and I was forced to stumble behind her, letting out a small laugh before stifling it in a cough. I grinned back at Lindsey and her group of followers who were all glaring after us. I'd been the leader of that group once upon a time . . .

  While I was still looking back, before we were far enough away not to overhear, Lindsey turned to Daphne Hanover and said, "She still acts like she's lady of the manor even though, if the rumors are true, she barely has a pot to piss in." And then the sound of their laughter rang out, piercing me in the gut. Maybe Ginny wasn't being as discreet as I'd hoped.

  "Ignore them," Daisy said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into her as we walked. "You were better than them then, and you're better than them now. They very well know it and it kills them."

  Daisy and I climbed to the balcony and sat down at a stone table with an umbrella over it. Looking over the rail, I watched as Lindsey's group joined a small crowd gathered around a tall, dark-haired man. A brunette in a pale pink dress was standing at his side. Something about the man caught my attention, the way he held himself slightly away from those around him, even as people tried to lean in to talk to him. There was something . . . familiar. The only person I'd ever known with those mannerisms was Brogan Ramsay. I took a quick inhale of air, my heart lurching at the thought. But . . . no. This man was too tall, too broad, and the way he held himself was too self-assured to be Brogan. And there was no way he could be here. It was just . . . just because I'd been thinking of him earlier. Shut up, Lydia. Yes, that was it.

  But I squinted my eyes, trying to look closer. I couldn't make out the man's exact features from this distance, but from what I could see, he looked gorgeous. If my own vision hadn't told me, the gaggle of women—now including Lindsey—vying for his att
ention, preening and prancing around him despite the woman at his side, would have clued me in. And the woman at his side, although she wasn't touching him, she was clearly possessive, turning her shoulder toward women who got too close, flipping her hair in what looked like annoyance.

  "Daisy," I asked distractedly, "do you know who that man is?" I inclined my head toward him and Daisy followed my nod, watching him for a moment.

  "No, but he's something to look at, isn't he?" We were both quiet as we stared. "I don't think I've ever seen him before. Should we head on down and introduce ourselves?" She winked at me.

  I shook my head, biting my lip, the same strange feeling swirling in my belly. "No," I said, looking back to where he stood. "He has a date. Anyway, I think he's leaving." The brunette at his side had just leaned in and whispered something in his ear, and he'd nodded and started shaking hands with those around him. Daisy and I watched as he strode off, the woman at his side. There was something in the man's walk, too. A familiar movement. I frowned, confused again. Shaking my head slightly, I took a big drink of champagne, dismissing the strange feeling. It just couldn't be.

  Just as the couple were about to exit through the gate that led to the steps at the edge of the garden, the man looked back and up, and I swore our eyes met. I jolted slightly, frowning again, a shiver moving down my spine.

  Later, after having both successfully drunk too much champagne and avoided my stepmother and any more run-ins with old high school friends, I said a quick goodbye to the hosts and made my getaway with Daisy in her chauffeured car. We hung out at her house, laughing and talking for a few hours until her husband arrived home and I'd sobered up. Daisy's driver took me to my car, and I made the trip back to my apartment in New York.

  As I approached the door to my building, I got the strangest feeling I was being watched. Shivering in the warm early-summer air, I paused and turned around, looking up and down the tree-lined street but not noticing anything unusual. After a moment, I dismissed it as nothing more than the sun and champagne-drenched mind of someone who'd had a long day. Shaking my head and laughing softly at myself, I opened the door and went inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brogan

  The underground, high-stakes poker room was the height of lavish opulence, decorated in shades of black, gold, and red, the materials rich and sumptuous, ornate crystal chandeliers causing light to bounce off the mirrors surrounding the upper portions of the walls. Quiet, classical music drifted through speakers mounted somewhere in the ceiling.

  This moment had been a long time coming. I was going to savor it.

  The man across from me pulled at his collar as he turned over the card he'd just been dealt. I could smell the tang of his sweat even from the other side of the table. Even if I hadn't been counting the cards, I'd know he believed he had a good hand by the slight widening of his eyes, the way he glanced around quickly to see if anyone else had noticed his reaction. His knee bounced. He had a good hand, but he wasn't entirely sure it was enough. And it wasn't. The king of diamonds I needed to make four of a kind was at the top of the pile. I placed two cards on the table and signaled the dealer, who dealt me two more. Ten of hearts, king of diamonds. I kept my face expressionless, bringing my glass to my lips. I tipped the bartender here exorbitantly well to make sure every other drink I ordered was free of alcohol. This particular round was the real deal. I took a sip, letting the brandy slide over my tongue. At first fiery and sharp, smoothing into soft toasted marshmallow, vanilla custard, a dash of pepper, and then transforming into a nutty oak flavor as it slid down my throat.

  Savor, enjoy.

  The man across from me had long ago passed savor and had moved on to slurp. He signaled the waiter for another. Of course, he was too foolish to know that drinking and gambling didn't mix. Or too weak to resist any and all vices offered to him and then to mix them haphazardly, just as he was doing now. And he was about to go down. Hard. A boot to the face. Metaphorically, of course. I resisted the wolfish grin that wanted to spread across my face.

  He suddenly looked up at me, meeting my eyes through my glasses, narrowing his. "Have we met before?" he asked. I casually signaled the dealer for a cigarette and leaned forward as he lit it, letting the smoke waft in front of my face, tamping down my senses violently, working not to become overwhelmed, not to grimace. I hated the smell of cigarette smoke, detested it. The man across from me watched the smoke rise, as if in a trance, immediately distracted by the swirling vapors.

  "I don't believe so," I said, slurring my words slightly, making sure there was no hint of an accent. I'd worked long and hard to do away with it. He looked back at his cards, pulling at the collar of his tux again.

  The other player at the table—a tall, blond man—folded. I caught his eye so briefly; it was only a bare flicker of the lids. An acknowledgment only he would see, much less understand. A sign only two people who had spent years on the streets together, surviving, cheating, looking out for each other, becoming brothers in the truest sense of the word, would recognize. Fionn. He turned and walked out of the room. He had done his job—he'd driven up the stakes.

  The security detail wandered by, his hands clasped behind his back, eyeing our table. This establishment knew enough to watch me, knew enough to suspect me of something they'd never prove. I wouldn't let them. Counting cards was no effort on my part anyway. I did it without even thinking, without even concentrating. So it was unlikely I'd ever be suspected if I handled myself appropriately and discreetly. And I rarely played now anyway—I certainly didn't need the funds, and my vices were few, gambling not being one of them. I hadn't played in years. That is, until he started playing here. And now it was only the two of us sitting at this table in this high stakes room.

  Savor, enjoy.

  The man was intently focused on his cards, considering doing something very, very stupid. Do it. Do something stupid. I knew very well he needed to win—he needed to win desperately. His company was suffering, and badly. I knew because I'd made it my business to know. But I didn't think anyone else knew what dire straits he was in. Not even his family. But I moved that thought aside quickly—I needed to concentrate.

  "Let's make this interesting," I said, adding a slight slur and a hiccup to the end of my statement. "What do you say we up the stakes here?"

  The man's eyes flashed to mine. I could see the desperation in them as clear as day. God, he was a bloody shite poker player. I'd almost feel sorry for him if I wasn't savoring his impending downfall so much.

  "What are you thinking exactly?" he asked, trying and failing to keep the note of anxious excitement out of his voice.

  "I'm in for five million," I said, downing my drink.

  The pulse jumped in his throat and he stared at his cards for a beat. Do it, do it. "I'm sorry to say I don't have that kind of capital available," he said.

  I lowered my lids and shrugged. "Well, it's been fun." I signaled to the man at the door for my tux jacket.

  "Wait, wait." Sweat had broken out on his forehead. "I own a company and I'll sign it over to you if you win." He glanced at his hand again, obviously trying to provide himself confidence in his own ridiculous offer.

  I laughed. "What would I want with some unknown company?" I signaled the man by the door again.

  "It's worth ten times what you're putting in." He was lying. It was barely worth five million at this point. But I didn't care how much it was worth. I wasn't trying to make a profit—not a financial profit anyway. A personal profit? Well, that was a different story. I narrowed my eyes, holding my hand up to the man walking my way with my jacket. He nodded his head and turned.

  I looked down at my hand, allowing a miniscule frown to crease my brow. I swayed to the left slightly, caught myself, and shrugged. "Oh, what the hell! Right, André?" I forced out a loud, obnoxious laugh. The beefy security detail with the earpiece walking slowly past nodded at me, his expression cold and removed.

  Looking at the dealer, I asked, "Is there someone h
ere who will record this bet?"

  "Absolutely, sir." The dealer signaled to a man by the door who came over with a book and wrote down the terms while the man across the table downed the rest of his drink, his knee bouncing uncontrollably. I assumed a bored expression as we both signed our names.

  He laid down his hand, three jacks. Just as I'd thought.

  "Let's see what you've got," the man said shakily. Nerves seemed to have sobered him a bit. But his face was flushed, the subtle glee in his eyes telling me this was the thing that kept him coming back: this moment right before it was revealed whether he would win or lose. That addictive, excited hopefulness that had taken down so many men before him.

  I paused.

  Savor, enjoy.

  And then I turned my hand over, revealing my four kings. For a moment he simply stared, as if the math wasn't adding up. His face flushed bright red, and he looked like he was going to throw up.

  "I believe I just became your boss," I said nonchalantly, allowing my accent to slip through. I tilted my head, removing my glasses. "Actually, now that I consider it, I believe we have met before. Stuart De Havilland, am I right?" I stuck my hand out, a wild satisfaction moving through my blood. "Brogan Ramsay." Stuart's face blanked and then slow comprehension dawned in his slightly inebriated eyes as he stared at me, his face finally blanching of all color. He gaped. "So very nice seein' ya again." I smiled. It felt wolfish. And this time I allowed it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lydia