Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“We’ll call that plan B,” I say, accepting my old-fashioned from the bartender with a murmured thanks. “The gala seems like an easier mark, really.”

Christopher is faster than me, sliding a twenty across the mirrored counter before I can pull money out of my clutch. It makes me scowl at him, because it’s an extension of the way he tries to control me—handing out and withholding money according to his own code.

“I’m not grateful,” I tell him, taking a gulp of the drink.

“I don’t expect you to be,” he murmurs. “But you don’t need to think about stealing. You’re one of the richest women in the country.”

Blue seems to have evaporated, probably returning to the group of armchairs in the corner. I can’t seem to take my gaze away from Christopher’s dark eyes to check. There’s something different about him tonight, but I can’t figure out what.

He looks a little less forbidding.

“A lot of good that does me,” I say.

“If you help us push this project through you’ll get the money you want.”

I look down at my drink. Now I understand why men do this, the broody, staring-at-alcohol thing. It’s a moral dilemma, because if I push the project through, I’ll help Mom. But I’ll also destroy something beautiful in the library.

“Sutton told me,” Christopher says, reading my mood correctly. “You’re your father’s daughter. You know there’s no way to make money back on a library.”

“Maybe it can be like the Den. You could serve alcohol at the counter while you check out books. And people could discuss philosophy and sex like a modern-day French salon.”

“It works for the Den because Damon Scott runs it. It’s basically headquarters for his criminal enterprises. Laundering money and selling weapons isn’t in our business plan.”

“He doesn’t sell weapons,” the bartender says.

Christopher gives her a small smile. “You would know.”

She smiles back with a nod that makes her look like royalty. “I like the idea of selling alcohol at a library. I’d buy a glass of wine to sit with a book, but I’m not sure it will make the kind of money you’re looking for.”

“This is Penny,” Christopher says, giving enough weight to the name that I should know who she is. “She’s with Damon Scott. Though I haven’t seen her behind the bar before tonight.”

“I’m trying my hand at mixing drinks.”

“You’re good at it,” I say with a rueful glance at my empty glass.

She laughs, a tinkling sound. “Thank you. Anyway, it’s a good place to eavesdrop on people. That’s probably why Damon started a bar in the first place. He sells information.”

“I don’t suppose you’re looking to get into the information business?” I ask Christopher hopefully, even though I wouldn’t like him half as much if he did. He operates on his own code of honor, which is warped and broken but comes

from a good place.

“Fashion and trendy electronics at a high markup would be preferable.”

“I could buy it from you,” I say, which suddenly seems like the best idea. “It would be my personal library, so it follows the rules of the trust fund. And I’d give you whatever you paid for it. More, even. So it would still make money for you.”

“That’s assuming I would sell it to you,” he says, almost gently now. That’s what’s different about him. There’s no derision in his expression. Less coldness in his voice. He’s almost, almost human. And he sounds apologetic, as if he wished he didn’t have to disappoint me.

“I’m not going to beg.” Mostly because I know it won’t do any good with him. I’ve already tried that, when I was far more desperate than I am now.

“I’m not selling it, for many reasons. The location of the library was calculated based on many different factors. We won’t find another place ripe for gentrification like this one.”

“Why do you care so much about gentrification?”

“Because it’s going to make me a rich man.”

“If you had two million dollars to put into it, you’re already a rich man.”

“One million,” he says. “Sutton put in the other half. And a million dollars doesn’t make you a rich man in this economy. There’s more in the trust to maintain the damn yacht.”