The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

She hesitated. “No.”

It was as I suspected. She’d shown up with her father’s shotgun wearing heels the spring sod would devour, making for poor footing. The recoil from her first shot might knock her right off her feet.

That thought caused a strange feeling, and I didn’t care for it. I wanted to win, but for once it seemed unlikely I’d find enjoyment in humiliating someone else. I appreciated her tenacity; that had to be all this was. I respected Ms. Alby for not accepting no the first time she’d presented me with her offer.

Her expression firmed up with determination, and she shook off my hold. “All right. Let’s go.”

We’d made a wager, and it was important to me it be sealed properly. I tugged off my glove and extended my hand.

She gazed at it like it was a trap. But she slipped her soft hand into mine, and as I clasped her palm, an odd thrill radiated out from where we were joined. Electricity buzzed as I held her hand longer than I meant to, and far longer than was appropriate. But it pleased me when a flush washed across her cheeks and her gaze broke away from mine.

Whatever this energy was between us, it affected her even more than it did me.

I let go, tugged my glove back on, and turned toward the waiting golf cart so I could savor her reaction without her witnessing it. It was incredibly flattering to know I could still cause that type of response in a woman, especially one so young and attractive.

“Royce,” I said, “stay here to greet Mr. and Mrs. Powell and come down with them.” I tilted my head back toward the girl standing awkwardly beside her car, holding on to the bag as if it were already becoming heavy and tiresome. “Come along, Ms. Alby. This won’t take long.”

My son’s face was flat. “No, it won’t.”

She followed me, her boots clacking against the stone pavers set in my driveway, but when the driver on my staff tried to take her bag to stow it in the back, she pulled it tight to her chest. “No, thank you.”

The man couldn’t help but grin at her when she flashed her radiant smile. I did my best to avoid it and took the passenger seat up front, leaving the entire space of the back seat to her. Once we were off, rolling quietly down the path that sloped across my lawn, that odd feeling returned.

It was bad enough I was going to embarrass her, but I’d have to do it in front of an audience as well.

“May I give you some tips?” I asked.

Confusion crowded her voice. “Tips?”

“On shooting. It may look easy, but it isn’t.”

When there was no immediate response, I craned my neck to look back at her. Distrust filled her pretty eyes. “You want to give tips to the person you’re playing against?”

I frowned. “You said you hadn’t shot before.” I gave her a logical reason for my concern. “I’d prefer you not injure yourself on my property.”

She didn’t just smile, she grinned—and it left me with an uneasy feeling. “I think I’ll be okay.” She pulled her bag across her lap. “But, yeah. I’d like to hear your tips if you don’t mind sharing them.”

I explained to her how to determine her dominant eye, and that she’d need to keep both open while shooting so she could track the targets as they moved across the field. I told her to lead. “Shoot for where the target will be, not where it is.”

I detailed the rules of skeet and how we’d each get a chance at breaking twenty-five clay targets from different positions around the field.

Normally, I enjoyed instructing. But as she listened, she unzipped her boots, pulled a pair of slim sneakers from her bag, and slipped them on. Then her blonde hair was collected in her hands and pulled back into a ponytail.

The uneasy feeling I’d had before intensified.

We rounded behind the stables, and the playing field came into view. Staff had placed outdoor couches, tables, and portable heaters in a semi-circle for the audience of the game, and currently my guests milled about the area, the wives grouped together and the board members evaluating their equipment and safety gear. The golf cart hadn’t yet come to a stop before I stepped out and strode quickly toward the board.

“Gentlemen, take your time. I’ll be playing separately first until everyone arrives, and then we can start.”

Mitch Vanderburgh peered across the grass and spotted my opponent. “Is that Stephen Alby’s daughter?”

Damon’s critical gaze focused in on her. “What’s she doing here?”

“We have something to settle, but it will only take a few minutes.”

I didn’t give the men time to protest—not that they would—and when I turned back toward Ms. Alby, a band of worry lashed across my chest. There’d been more than just shoes and a shotgun in her bag because she was currently threading her ponytail through the back of a black baseball cap.