The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

My gaze drifted down to the card on the table and her neatly printed information in black ink.

Had she failed?

Perhaps this had been her opening salvo, a kickstart to negotiations.

I snatched up the card and tucked it into the interior pocket of my Brioni suit coat, intrigued at the concept this could be a game. If so, I’d change the rules to ensure we were playing on my terms and not hers. I’d make it so my win was inevitable.

And I would learn every secret she was hiding.

As my driver pulled up to the house, a strange sensation of wastefulness settled on me. The Hale estate had been in my family for more than a century, and each generation had put its mark on it, adding to the sprawling grounds. My grandfather’s addition was the stables, and my mother’s had been the hedge maze.

I’d been so involved in my work, I hadn’t done much to improve the family home yet. Currently, the only legacy to my credit was that I’d likely be the last Hale to live here. I’d driven everyone else away.

Twenty thousand feet of living space were mine, and mine alone.

Which I despised. My son was supposed to raise his children here, but Royce didn’t trust me within a hundred yards of his wife. My youngest son, Vance, had moved out late last year, claiming the commute to Boston was eating into too much of his time. He was in his final year at Harvard Law, and although that was demanding, I suspected my impending return had been a factor.

I exited the car and stood on the marble steps, gazing up at the dark windows of the impressive house. For the last two years, I’d wished for nothing more than to be alone. Now the vast freedom and emptiness were unsettling.

It was cold in the entryway, but that was the way I preferred it. Sleep never came easily for me, which meant exhaustion could strike without warning, and I’d found it easier to fight it off if I wasn’t comfortable.

The cold kept me alert and sharp.

There was no staff to greet me at the door, which I also preferred. A man unwilling to hang his own coat was either lazy or inefficient, or both.

It was late afternoon, and the springtime shadows were long across the inlaid hardwood floor. I climbed the grand staircase that branched halfway up in two different directions. A portrait hung there once at the split, but Alice’s actions had torn apart our family beyond repair, so I’d done the same to the painting.

The bare space bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what to replace it with, and apparently Royce hadn’t any ideas either during the time I was away. I reached the landing when a woman appeared at the top of the steps and gave a sharp noise of surprise.

“Macalister,” she said.

It was infuriating the way my pulse beat erratically at the sight of her, even with her ridiculous black-green hair.

My body began to heat, but my voice stayed cold. “Marist,” I answered.

TWO

MACALISTER

MARIST HALE’S TRESSES WERE THE COLOR OF DARK MOSS, although she would have preferred I compare it to Medusa’s snakes. My daughter-in-law was so taken with Greek mythology, I’d read several of her books to try to understand the fascination. She saw herself as the fearsome gorgon who could turn men to stone, which correctly applied in this moment.

My feet were rooted to the carpet.

“Why aren’t you at the office?” I demanded. “Are you unwell?”

“I took a half-day.” Her gaze darted away from mine. “I didn’t think you’d be home until later.”

Meaning she’d tried to avoid me. I disliked that, but my enjoyment at seeing her overruled it. “My lunch appointment ran long, so I canceled my other meetings.”

No longer frozen in stone, I resumed my climb of the steps. She’d said I and not we. Was she here on her own?

I asked it casually. “Where’s Royce?”

She didn’t want to admit it. “Prague.”

It explained why she looked so nervous. She’d visited me once a month while I was away, but we’d been surrounded by guards and prisoners and other visitors. We’d never been alone, not since that elevator ride up to the board meeting. I’d taken her hand then in a moment of weakness, and again later that day to help save her life.

We hadn’t touched since, and I’d come to terms with it. After I’d helped Royce pull Marist to safety over the balcony, I’d had to let her go completely. She saw herself as Medusa, but I saw her as the powerful goddess Nyx, and if I continued down the dark, wrong path I’d started years ago, she’d be my destruction.

Even if what I felt for her was love, it had to come to an end.

“What brings you here?” I asked, joining her at the top of the stairs.