The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

“I will not be kept in the dark,” he said, “and made out to be a fool. Do you understand me?” His tone was absolute. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

I knew what he meant, but I sidestepped answering it. “You’re going to throw a party for Damon Lynch.”

It somewhat derailed Macalister’s anger. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll say it’s for his sixtieth birthday, but it’ll really be a fundraiser for his campaign.” I put my hands together in my lap, trying not to worry loose a hangnail. “Then you’ll sponsor a new show so it can open at the Boston Opera Theatre.”

He stared at me like I was speaking utter nonsense. “An opera?”

“Yes, because Mr. Scoffield’s daughter, Erika, was an opera major and still needs her big break.”

His gaze jerked away from mine and fell to my hands in my lap, disdain painting his expression. “Stop fidgeting.” When I froze at his command, his voice turned patronizing. “But please, continue. I’d like to hear more of these incredible ideas of yours to waste my money.”

I let his accusation roll right off me. “Vance won the Cape Hill regatta the past three years because your family has one of the fastest ships in the marina. There’s nothing Elijah Powell wants more in life than that stupid trophy.”

Fire flashed in Macalister’s cold eyes. “Vance wins because he’s an outstanding sailor.”

“Great,” I said. “Then it won’t make a difference to him if you lend your boat to Powell for the race.” We both knew it was bullshit and that boat was a clear advantage. Even if Powell raced with it and lost, the gesture should still count. “That one doesn’t cost you anything,” I added.

“It will cost me,” he abruptly sounded unsure, “with Vance.”

My chest lifted when I pulled in a heavy breath. I didn’t know where any of the Hale men stood with each other. Vance had an affair with Macalister’s wife, and Macalister had tried to steal Royce’s. They were the richest family in New England, and certainly the most fucked up.

“You could try explaining it to him,” I said cautiously.

Judging by the look on Macalister’s face, that wasn’t fucking likely. “Anything else?”

“I want you to get Mitch Vanderburgh’s son Jason a job at HBHC. He came out last year, and his dad kicked him out of the house. Totally cut him off, all because he’s gay.”

His gaze narrowed, although I wasn’t sure if it was with confusion or dislike about what I’d said. “You explained the idea is for me to make friends, but this sounds counterproductive. Mitch won’t want his son working for us.”

“No, he won’t, but that guy’s a fucking asshole.”

Jason was a good guy, and I’d watched him wrestle with the decision to announce who he was. It took a lot of courage, yet the reward he’d been given was to be shunned by his family.

“You’re not doing it,” I said, “to make friends with Mitch. There are a ton of closeted people here, and you have a chance to make a statement. You show them how a decent human being should be about this, and maybe Cape Hill will follow your lead.”

Because at the end of the day, money was power, and Macalister had more of it than anyone else. Tragic history and sordid past aside, he was still the de facto king.

Macalister considered it.

“He is an asshole,” he said in quiet agreement, like that settled it and Jason was as good as hired. His eyes hardened and pierced deep inside me. “There’s a rather important name that appears to be missing from this charm offensive you’ve drafted.”

My pulse quickened. Our primary focus was the HBHC board of directors, and I hadn’t mentioned Liam Shaunessy yet. “I’m still working on that one.”

“I see.” He let out a tight breath, perhaps relieved I wasn’t going to make him play nice with a man he utterly despised. His broad shoulders rolled back. “Now you’ll tell me the rest of it.”

My blood froze in my veins. “No.”

His eyebrow arrowed up into a perfect upside-down V. He was a man who’d grown up never hearing that word, and something like eagerness ringed his blue eyes. We were quite the pair. I enjoyed seeing him displeased, and he thrilled in how I denied him.

“No?” he repeated. “You’re not in a position to tell me no.”

Did he have any idea how hot his stern voice made me? I licked my lips but stayed quiet, and the tension between us contracted until the large room felt microscopic.

His order wasn’t playful or cute; it was as harsh and cold as a Nor’easter. “Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you anything . . . except for that,” I whispered.

Frustration teemed in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked like he was considering either throwing a tantrum, or me out into the rain. But instead he lifted his chin with a smugness that was arrogant and sexy, and delivered the evilest smile I’d ever witnessed. “You’ll tell me anything? All right. What happened between you and Tate?”