The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

The girl drew in a sharp breath. She wasn’t as intimidated by me as she should be, but she wasn’t entirely immune either. Her voice faltered. “On how you react to what I’m about to tell you.”

My hot irritation cooled and thickened until I was frozen motionless by the warning in her eyes. It told me to brace myself. Whatever information she was about to divulge, I wasn’t going to like hearing it.

“Well?” I demanded.

Her pink lips pressed together while she assembled the thoughts in her head. She blinked when the decision was made, and the statement poured from her. “I think James DuBois is planning to write a book about you.”

The sounds around us of conversations and cutlery against plates fell silent in my ears. I’d heard exactly what she’d said, but my mind refused to accept it. “Excuse me?”

“James DuBois,” she repeated. “He wrote The School for Scandal, about the rich parents who bought college admissions for—”

“I’m aware of who he is,” I snapped. It was impossible not to know. The marketing budget must have been six figures for the book because it was everywhere. It had spent weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.

Moreover, I existed in the same circle as some of the people who’d been named in DuBois’s book. Not friends—because few people earned my respect enough to be considered friends—but they were acquaintances, at the least.

The idea of anyone writing a book about me left a sour taste in my mouth, but the thought of James DuBois applying his considerable investigating skills to my life made my chest tighten to the point of discomfort.

“No,” I snarled. I’d suffered enough scandal for three lifetimes, but there was more still hidden in my past. I wouldn’t let him near me and had plenty of resources to ensure he dropped it. “I won’t allow it.”

Miss Alby’s face skewed. “You can’t stop him.”

“My money says otherwise.”

She sighed like I was being foolish. “I mean, sure, you can make it difficult for him. Send the cease and desist letters, get the lawyers involved. But the story will come out, whether you want it to or not.”

The band around my chest tightened further, making my breath go shallow. I despised both my reaction and the truth I begrudgingly knew she was speaking.

“How,” I kept control of my voice, since it was the only thing I could control at this moment, “did you come by this information?”

She tipped her head down, tucking her chin to her chest, and stared at me with glittering eyes. “I’m not sure what it is, but people have a habit of confiding in me. They like telling me their secrets.”

Despite my unease, an unavoidable spark of interest flickered in me. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Mr. Hale.” The corner of her mouth lifted. It wasn’t enough to classify as a smile, but it threatened one. “I know everything that happens in Cape Hill.”

There’d been a time when the same could have been said of me, but that awful morning years ago had changed that.

“Which is why,” she added, “you have a problem.”

I kept my face plain, but my heartbeat quickened.

After my wife’s death, I’d been charged with involuntary manslaughter. The best attorneys money could buy had told me I had a strong defense, even with the video of me pushing her over the balcony railing. They wanted to argue I was in emotional distress after the contentious boardroom meeting. That I feared both my son’s and daughter-in-law’s lives were in danger. Or that the shove I’d given my wife was simply aggression and a desire for distance, not to send her plummeting to her death.

More than two years had passed, and I still didn’t know if any of that were true. I’d lost control of myself, and when I tried to remember that moment, it was only a hazy fog of chaos.

The lawyers wanted to argue my case. They were confident they could get me acquitted, but instead I’d taken the plea deal to spare a trial. I’d already unleashed enough scandal to mar the Hale name—I couldn’t risk everything coming out and watch it destroy my legacy.

Yet Sophia Alby was staring at me as if she’d already taken a thorough look at the skeletons hidden in my closet. It made my hand instinctively curl into a fist.

“Whatever it is,” my tone was cool, “you think you know about—”

She waved a hand to stop the threat I intended to issue. “What I know doesn’t matter,” she said. “But controlling what DuBois knows? That does.”

It was rare when people surprised me, but she’d accomplished the feat. It took me several moments to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. “If he were to pursue a story about me, then, you’re correct. It would.”

She nodded, seemingly to herself, making her golden hair shimmer once more. “So, I came here to make you an offer.”