Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“There can’t be anything between us. I hate your business partner.”

“You think that’s a requirement for being my lover? Come to the gala tonight. Make him suffer all you want, as long as you don’t go home with him at the end of the night.”

Surprise steals my breath, along with an unnerving rush of arousal. It’s pure heat between my legs, the opposite of the ice-cold Christopher leaves me with. Who knew I would find the caveman thing so hot? I blame evolution, an ages-old certainty that this man could protect me from saber-tooth tigers. “You have no right to say that.”

He gives me a half smile that doesn’t quite dispute my words. Not yet, it seems to say instead. A caveman he might be, but he also has a sense of determined patience. Too bad I’ve had my share of men with ambition. Whether they’re brooding and reserved like Christopher or confident and possessive like this one, they have no place in my world.

“I’ve heard the strangest rumor,” says the familiar voice over the phone, “that my best friend is in the city. I said there’s no way because she didn’t tell me she was visiting.”

I stare up at the crystal and gold chandelier that hangs above me, set in a thick crown molding. I’m staying at L’Etoile, a boutique hotel in downtown. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s complicated.”

“So it’s about your stepbrother.”

“You didn’t tell me he moved to Tanglewood.”

She’s quiet a moment, and I know the accusation came out in my voice too strong. “I wasn’t sure he’d stick around, but Harper… he’s going to be in your life. There’s no escaping that, at least until you turn twenty-five.”

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“And not a second too soon.” I’ve mostly managed to avoid the trust fund altogether, besides the payments to Smith College, which were sent automatically.

It’s obscene the amount of money sitting in a bank account under my name. It’s only gotten bigger under Christopher’s careful stewardship, his investments making me one of the richest women in the country. The man knows how to turn money into more money, that’s for sure. The Midas touch. I could buy a castle on every continent if I wanted one, but I can’t even write a check to charity.

The biggest upside to graduating this past spring was never having to touch the trust fund again. Until the credit card bill was an exception to the rule. A time when I had actually needed the trust fund and the ridiculous amount of money inside it.

Naturally, that means I couldn’t have it.

“I’m at the Emerald,” she says, referring to the gorgeous old hotel that Gabriel Miller bought her near Smith College while she goes to grad school. “But you can still stay at our place. I can call the security firm to let you in.”

“Nah, I like L’Etoile. The way they’ve bastardized everything beautiful appeals to me.”

She laughs softly and then sobers. “How’s your mom?”

“In remission,” I say, my throat tight.

“If you need help…” The offer hangs in the air, sharp enough to leave scratch marks on my skin. “You were there for me when my father was sick. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

“And you didn’t take a cent from me.”

“Harper.”

“We’re managing,” I tell her softly, which is mostly true. My paintings are just shocking enough to sell for large sums of money through my Etsy shop, usually sold a few minutes after I post them on my Instagram account. That money has supported me and my mother, but the medical bills are a little too intense for even a bloodthirsty Calypso.

“Have you talked to Christopher?”

“Tonight. I have an invitation to the Tanglewood Historical Society’s Annual Gala.”

She groans. “You’re going to run the gauntlet?”

“It was the only way I could find him. He wasn’t at his office.” I hesitate, a little uncertain whether I want to ask the next question. There’s something intimate about my encounter there, more intimate than it should seem for talking to a stranger with the conference room door open. “Have you met Sutton Mayfair?”

“No, but I’ve heard about him. He’s new on the scene, so naturally all the old-money girls are obsessed with him.” Her voice turns speculative. “Apparently he’s very sexy.”

“If you like that Southern-boy charm.” Which apparently I do? I haven’t had much exposure to that in LA or New York City, but turns out it’s seductive in a visceral way. It was easy to friendzone the artists at Smith College. Easy to roll my eyes at the ambitious business students, enough like Christopher Bardot to make me hate them on sight.

Harder to ignore the masculine confidence inherent in Sutton Mayfair.

“It’s more than an act. He grew up on a ranch, so you know…” Her voice sounds like pure wickedness as the words trail off.