The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

My mouth dropped open, and for a long moment, words wouldn’t assemble in my brain. “You think you’re,” I took a breath, “cursed?”

He lifted his eyes toward the chandelier hanging over the kitchen table. “This conversation is preposterous.” He rubbed his fingertips across his forehead, smoothing away the crease that had formed there. “No, I don’t believe in nonsense like fate or curses or karma. I trust in math and logic, but I cannot ignore the pattern that has presented itself.”

I struggled to understand. His first wife had been killed when she was thrown from her horse and hit her head. How could he think he was responsible for that? “What pattern? That bad things happen to the women you fall in love with?”

He grimaced. “Thank you for making it sound even more ridiculous than it was in my head.”

“Wait a minute.” I straightened in my seat as I replayed what he’d said. “Twice? I know Marist almost fell off the balcony, but when was the other time she nearly died?”

He opened his mouth to answer but then tilted his head. “I thought you knew everything that happened in Cape Hill.”

Displeasure heated inside me. I couldn’t stand the idea of being kept in the dark. Never again. “I said almost everything.”

He took a moment to contemplate something. “We’ll exchange information, then. Tell me who you want named in the book.”

Instead, I pushed back from the table, grabbed my plate, and walked it across the enormous kitchen so I could deposit it in the sink. I’d done it to avoid him, but Macalister did the same, probably as an excuse to follow me. His plate clattered softly in the other side of the sink as he set it down.

“This is inevitable. You realize I won’t be able to tell DuBois this secret if you don’t tell it to me first.”

I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms across my chest. “I’d be an idiot to tell you before we know for a fact the book is happening.” And even then, the timing would be crucial. I couldn’t tell Macalister until I could trust him not to burn me. “We’ll know by Aspen.”

He repeated it like he hadn’t heard me right. “Aspen.”

“Yeah, the Food and Wine Classic in June. I’ve got a friend who works for his publisher, and she said it’s on his schedule. You used to go every year.”

“Of course. HBHC is a sponsor.”

I nodded. “I bet he’s hoping he’ll run into you there, and if not, there will be plenty of HBHC board members he can chat up.”

He looked less than thrilled at that prospect.

“It’ll be fine.” I faked a syrupy tone. “Once you two meet, he’ll only have eyes for you.”

Macalister’s expression soured further, but I did my best to ignore it and glanced at the screen of my phone. I was twenty-six, and my parents didn’t keep tabs on me, but if I didn’t text or come home soon, there was the off chance someone might worry.

Doubtful.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said.

He only acknowledged my gratitude with a simple nod of his head.

It felt like our evening was coming to a close, and I shifted awkwardly on my feet, waiting for him to dismiss me. But he just stood there with one hand on the edge of the sink and his piercing blue eyes trapping mine, and my pulse climbed with each passing second.

If I didn’t break this spell, I was going to do something foolish. I’d find a reason to move closer to him and try to smell if he wore cologne. Or an excuse to stroke the fine silk of his tie. Or to learn what the rough ends of the whiskers edging his face would feel like against my fingertips.

God, I was obsessed with his jaw.

It was strong and sharp like his cheekbones, and I loved the way it tightened when I said something he found unsatisfactory. I longed to put my hands on it, use my fingers to trace the angle of it. And I’d had fantasies about how his perfect jaw would move when he kissed me.

A little voice in the back of my head whispered I was forgetting something, but when he took a step closer, it drowned everything else out.

“I should go,” I said and tried to back away instinctively. Only I was already against the counter, so when I banged into it and the cabinet beneath with a loud thump, Macalister went stiff.

Was that hurt that flashed through his eyes? No, it couldn’t be, and it was gone too fast for me to examine it. I had flinched like he scared me, and although he did, it wasn’t for the reasons he’d think. It wasn’t because he’d accidentally killed his wife or gone to prison or tried to steal a woman away from his own son. And it wasn’t because he was intimidating and ruthless and could ruin me.