The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

How could I possibly win?

The brunette across the table delivered an awkward look, and although it seemed impossible, my uneasiness found a new low to sink to.

“There’s more?” I snapped.

“We talked about that. Sophia said instead of an evening, you’d make it an experience.” She pasted on a smile like a broker trying to upsell me an unnecessary product. “Your dinner will be during the Food and Wine Classic in Aspen. The winning bidder gets an all-expense paid trip included.”

I wasn’t sure if I was going to fire Sophia or offer her a raise.

And I needed to find out if she played chess, because the woman had a head for strategy. Offering the dinner as a packaged trip not only ensured I’d land bids and avoid embarrassment, but it announced my plans to attend the festival, and word of it should travel to DuBois.

But Sophia had made this decision without my consent or approval, and my lack of knowledge about it left me looking foolish. I chewed out the words. “My assistant needs to work on her communication skills.”

“Are you backing out?” Evangeline abruptly looked like she was going to cry, and alarms blared inside me. Making a woman cry during my first public evening out would be disastrous. Worse than if I’d just stayed isolated at home.

“No,” I answered quickly.

She was too distraught to hear it. “Because we’ve had such a hard time finding volunteers this year, and when Sophia came to me with your offer . . .” She gazed at me with watery eyes, and there was pureness behind them I couldn’t ignore. “You could singlehandedly save us.”

She saw me not as a monster, but as a savior. My mind didn’t approve the words, but they burst from my lips regardless. “I’ll do it.”

The smile that spread on her face was pleasant enough, but I didn’t like it as much as Sophia’s. Evangeline’s hand darted across the table, and she placed it on top of mine, her warm fingers touching my cold ones. It took all my strength not to move. Not only had she not asked if she could touch me, but her hand covering mine felt like dominance, even as it was meant as a friendly gesture.

Her words carried weight. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” I slowly slid my hand out from beneath hers, breaking the connection. “I’m happy to do it,” I lied.

The last trace of anxiety she’d had about me evaporated in that instant, and her shoulders relaxed.

I stuck to the script Sophia had told me to, asking about the foundation. Mr. Gabbard’s brother had served two tours in Afghanistan and came home with PTSD. He was fortunate to be able to provide his brother the help he needed, but during the road to recovery, he’d met other soldiers who didn’t.

The Gabbards started their foundation and worked on the project together, although the bulk of the work was handled by her. He hadn’t yet retired from HBHC. I pretended to know which department he’d worked in, but some of my better people moved around, and I’d been away when he’d passed.

At least I was pleased the charity I’d been talked into donating to was something worthwhile. It lessened the sting of being blindsided by the situation.

We ate our meal, and she talked, skillfully avoiding any topic that might force us to address my past, until she ordered a second glass of wine.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said beneath her smile. She held out the large glass of white wine to me, her fingers wrapped on the bell. “Do you want to try it?”

“No, thank you. I only drink once a year, and then it’s scotch.”

Confusion splashed across her. “Once a year?”

Frustration directed inward. Why had I offered up this information? “Yes,” I said reluctantly. “The anniversary of the day Julia passed.” I had to clarify. “My first wife.”

“Oh,” she said so softly, I didn’t so much hear it as feel it. Shared pain and understanding filled her expression. This was the thing we had most in common—the tragic and sudden loss of a spouse.

“Why scotch?”

“It was her favorite, which she discovered on our honeymoon in Scotland.” I didn’t talk about private things, but I felt disarmed and unbalanced. This was Sophia’s doing—the underdressed suit and the offer she’d made on my behalf which planted the addictive idea I could be a hero. “Scotch makes me feel close to Julia again.”

Once more, Evangeline looked like she was going to cry, but she blinked back her tears. “That’s . . .” she searched for the word, “romantic.”

I hadn’t been accused of being romantic in quite some time, because that part of my heart had died along with Julia. It made sense to me that the love of my life would take most of my ability to love with her when she left.