ONE
MACALISTER
FRUSTRATION TWISTED MY MUSCLES INTO CORDS, making my clasped hands ache. Before the darkest day of my life, the one where I’d made a terrible mistake, no one would have dared miss a meeting with me. I’d had employees willing to sit in on conference calls while they were in labor or waiting for surgery.
Today, Stephen Alby was eight insulting minutes late. It was long enough to send a message of how little he respected me, my time, and my enormous wealth. Of course, that was assuming he was late. I was beginning to wonder if he would materialize at all. I was easily his biggest client, and if this was how he was going to treat me, perhaps I needed to take my money elsewhere.
I refused to let any of my irritation bleed out onto my face and held my posture neutral since I was out in public. It was noon, and the private penthouse restaurant was fully booked for lunch, and although the dining room wasn’t large, every person in the space was aware of my infamous presence. Conversations had paused at my entrance then lagged awkwardly as I was seated at my table.
It wasn’t the one I preferred, the one by the window, which boasted a view of the harbor and its position of status to the rest of the room. I no longer maintained that level of clout. Instead, I’d been relegated to the smallest table by the door, away from the center where the most influential executives in Boston took their power lunches during the week. Like me, this table existed on the fringes. My money and the Hale name were enough to keep me on the exclusive guest list and earn me a seat in the room, but scandal had driven me to the outskirts.
The din of conversation dropped once more as someone else unexpected appeared at the entryway and spoke with the maître d’.
Clearly, the woman had never been here before. It wasn’t the way her curious gaze took in the floating chandelier at the center of the room that gave it away—it was the soft smile that teased her lips. If she’d taken lunch here before, she’d know this wasn’t a place for happy, friendly smiles. Deals were brokered over seared foie gras and scallops. Careers were made and broken by Boston’s elite while seated at these tables covered in fine white linens.
Once upon a time, I was the king of this town, and I held court in this room.
It seemed the palace intrigue had continued in my absence, but I was desperate to climb back onto my throne and rise above it, rather than play the game with everyone else.
The young woman nodded as the maître d’ spoke, making the waves of her blonde hair shimmer. Her face was familiar, and although it had been years since I’d seen her, it took me only a moment to place the girl. Last time, she’d worn a pale pink bridesmaid dress at my son’s wedding. Today, it was a cashmere sweater dress in navy that covered her frame. It pretended to be modest, but the fabric clung provocatively to her breakneck curves.
When she was led toward my table, I set my jaw.
“Mr. Hale, may I join you?” Her tone was warm and confident.
Mine was brusque. “Are you here to apologize for your father’s lateness?”
Sophia Alby’s smile was unflinching. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Let me keep you company while you wait.”
I didn’t appreciate how she lowered into the vacant chair across from me without my approval, but I wouldn’t voice my displeasure until the maître d’ had gone. I didn’t care if I was rude—only that I didn’t appear rude to the people around us, the people who mattered.
The man nodded as she settled into the seat, then he flitted away. I lifted my unimpressed gaze and pinned it on her. “Miss Alby—”
“You have a problem,” she interrupted. There was a strange, off-putting smile fixed on her face.
One of my eyebrows arched so high, it nearly escaped my face. “Is it the girl who just sat uninvited at my table?”
Her unsettling smile widened. “That depends.” She crossed her arms and leaned on the tabletop, manners be damned. It was a conscious decision. She’d gone to the same elite school as my sons, which meant she’d had the finest upbringing. Like my family, the Albys were one of the founding families of Cape Hill—the wealthy hamlet outside of Boston where we lived.
How old was she? Younger than Royce, which meant approximately twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six. I’d invited enough scandal into my life, and the absolute last thing I needed was to be seen having lunch with a pretty girl half my age. Irritation swelled inside me like the bell curve of compounding interest, and it darkened my tone. “It depends on what?”