Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

Sutton leans forward, drawing my attention away from the man I want to throttle. Unlike Christopher he doesn’t look unmoved by my mother’s situation. Instead there’s a notch of concern between his eyes. “So she is in remission?”

“For now.” There’s a sense of relief, however brief, that someone other than me worries about Mom. That particular load, I’ve carried since I was six years old.

“Good.” He relaxes again, as if he cares about what happens to her. And maybe he does. That’s a normal trait, concern for your fellow human beings. “We have a lot poured into this reconstruction. Everything we have, in fact.”

Christopher makes a quelling motion. “This doesn’t concern her.”

“We worked out a thousand different angles with economics and real estate and legal, but we didn’t consider this. Which is probably why our permits have been tied up in city hall for weeks now. We didn’t realize the power the historical society holds—”

“Unofficial power,” Christopher adds darkly.

Sutton nods. “You saw what we missed in less than a minute.”

“Have you really put everything you have into this?” I know that Christopher doesn’t have as much money as the trust fund. Really, who does? His was a white-collar background, for all that his mother married into my family for a few seasons. But I don’t know what he has, specifically. He’s always refused to take even a nominal salary for the work in managing my inheritance. Which is annoying, really. A nice salary and bonuses for the kind of growth the fund has had should be standard. Why hasn’t he let me pay him for it, if he has limited funds?

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Christopher says, which means yes.

“We have enough for cons

truction,” Sutton says, “which isn’t pocket change. But walking away from the library isn’t really an option with what we’ve put into it. It’s our plan A, plan B, and plan C. There’s no alternative.”

“Why didn’t you put some of the trust fund into it? Like as an investment?”

His eyes flash. “That would be unethical.”

“Like letting a sick woman suffer because you’re a pompous asshole?” He could learn a thing or two about concern for your fellow human beings. He doesn’t care about my mother. And he definitely doesn’t care about me. Unethical. Ha!

“She’s not suffering. Her pain is manageable and her prognosis favorable.”

Surprise locks my muscles tight. There’s a healthy dose of suspicion along with it. “Favorable. That’s what her doctor told me last week. Now I want to know how the hell you know anything about her condition.”

“It’s part of my role as executor to make sure you’re safe.”

That makes me laugh. Safe, because he wants nothing more than to ride in on his damned white horse. He wants to spy on us and then call it protection. “If my mother isn’t allowed a single cent from the trust fund, then she’s not part of your stupid role. You don’t get to have it both ways.”

I turn my back on him to face Sutton, who I’m finding infinitely more reasonable to deal with. The fire burnishes his golden hair, making it seem as if he’s glowing. While Christopher is vibrating with tension and I’m flushed with frustration, he looks merely thoughtful. Those brilliant blue eyes sift through the things we’re saying… and the things we’re not saying.

“I hate to break it to you,” I tell him, “but I’m not exactly rooting for your success here. So I’m probably not the best person to help with your diplomacy problem.”

Sutton seems at ease in the tux and the Queen Anne chair and the stuffy old country club. It’s the kind of assurance that comes from being fully comfortable with who you are. He’s ambitious, but in a different way from Christopher, without the desperate, dangerous edge. His is a pure manifestation of hard work and hard play.

He’s probably good with rope. The words come back to me at this completely inappropriate moment, making my cheeks heat. I have no interest in being tied up, but there’s something about a man so intensely physical that draws me like a magnet.

Sutton leans forward and clasps his hands together, elbows on his knees. His eyes are sharp and as wide-open as a summer sky. “We put everything into this project because we can make even more back. This will change the city. You smooth this over for us, and we’ll buy a whole damn hospital wing.”

“How is that any different than Christopher giving his personal credit card?”

“Because this isn’t personal. It’s business.”

The room feels alive with sexual tension and dark undercurrents. This is intensely personal, but he’s also right in a way. It’s also business—and if I earn that money through my own work, then it’s fair game. As fair as any painting I’ve sold. “Seriously, though. You weren’t even going to call the historical society?”

“And do what?” Christopher asks. “Throw a tea party?”

“As you can see, we need your help,” Sutton says, his expression sardonic.

In that moment I know I’ll be spending some time in Tanglewood. Not only because it will help my mother. Despite what I said before, I do actually care about the company’s success. Christopher and I have too much history for me to be apathetic, no matter how much I want to be.

He could have learned every number in the textbooks at Emerson, but they didn’t prepare him to face off with the righteous Mrs. Rosemonts of the world.