The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

Not until his son showed an interest.

Macalister’s steely eyes weren’t as focused as they normally were. While we played, his moves were still deliberate and cunning, but they were slower. Last night, he’d gone on the attack, and even the way he’d set his pieces down was sharp and aggressive. It had been a quick death.

Now, it was slow and agonizing. He slid the marble pieces across the black and white checkerboard like soap slicking across skin.

“You haven’t touched your scotch,” he said as his queen glided to a new spot close to my king. “Check.”

I’d learned that the game of chess was played in three phases. The opening, the middlegame, and the one we’d just entered—

The endgame.

I picked up the tumbler and sipped the scotch while pretending to consider my options. There weren’t any, really. I knew how it was going to end no matter what I did. Royce’s words echoed in my mind. He doesn’t play a game unless he’s sure he’s going to win.

Macalister’s heavy gaze drank me in as the flavor of burnt rubber rolled across the tip of my tongue. I guarded my reaction carefully. He didn’t need to know I hated his expensive scotch or the way he looked at me. Chess wasn’t the only game we played every night. The stakes on the unspoken game were much higher.

I moved my bishop to block in a futile attempt, sacrificing it and only prolonging the inevitable.

His voice was unsteady, rather than gloating like he usually did. It was as if he were sad the game was over. “Checkmate.”

It was the longest game we’d played yet, but he wasn’t satisfied. As I rearranged the pieces into their starting positions, I tried to ignore the man who’d won and his strange behavior.

He said it quietly. “You’re improving.”

“Still a long way from beating you,” I grumbled, then sucked in a sharp breath. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. I finished arranging the pieces into their starting positions and stood from my chair, relieved to escape—

Only to be frozen in place by his command.

“Stay.”

There was a hint of desperation in the word, so faint I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. I didn’t want to stay. This mortal version of Macalister was the scariest of all.

My voice went soft, not wanting to disturb the shadows in the room. “Is everything all right?”

His expression shuttered, like I’d uncovered a dark secret. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never seen you drink before.”

His gaze fell to his hand wrapped around the glass. “I do, once a year.”

He lifted the drink to his lips and fixed his stare on me while he drank. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each slow, deliberate swallow. It made me uncomfortable. He looked at me like he’d rather be savoring me than the liquor. When he finished, he set the glass down and ran his finger along the rim. It was an absentminded gesture, but it rang false. Everything he did was calculated and measured.

“Once a year?” I asked.

“Yes.” The pad of his finger curved another loop around the edge of the glass. “The day my wife died.”

SIX

MY HEART SLOWED TO A STOP. “That’s today?”

Macalister’s expression was vacant stone, matching the marble chess pieces. “Losing Julia was the second most difficult day of my life, so you’ll have to forgive the scotch. I’ve done it for the last fifteen years, and it has become a tradition of sorts.”

I sank back into my chair with breath clutched tightly in my chest, hoping that if I didn’t breathe, I couldn’t hurt for him.

Fifteen years ago today, the Hales had gathered in a hospital room for the last time as a full family. I’d only been six years old when she’d had the equestrian accident, but I’d heard the Hale men had been there when she’d passed. Royce had been ten.

Oh, God. Royce.

This was why he’d been so withdrawn today. It had nothing to do with the stock prices or money. The ache in my heart tore in two. One side hurt for the man who’d lost his mother, and the selfish other side was wounded he hadn’t shared the meaning of this day with me.

I snatched up my neglected glass of scotch and took another sip. Maybe Macalister would think my bleary eyes were caused by the whisky, rather than the bomb he’d dropped.

“I didn’t know,” I said, stumbling over my words. “I always liked her. She was so pretty and nice.”

I cringed, bracing for how he’d respond to my ridiculously childlike statement. He didn’t look irritated, though. Sadness swept into his stormy eyes and was quickly blinked away. He shifted in his chair, visibly uncomfortable with showing emotion.

“Yes,” he said finally. “She was quite beautiful.”

In my awkwardness, I couldn’t keep myself from babbling. “I thought Royce was upset about the hit to the stock market.”