The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

Finally, we moved onto social politics. There’d been a squabble between his wife and another board member’s over an interior designer, something about using the same upholstery patterns. As a result, they didn’t speak to each other, and it was imperative they not be seated together at any events.

I wanted to rub away the pain it caused in the front of my forehead, but I sat dutifully and listened as Alice laid out all the skeletons and drama associated with the Shaunessys. Thankfully, her desk phone rang with an urgent call, and I was dismissed until our appointment tomorrow.

I practically leapt from the chair and hurried toward the door—

“Marist?”

I froze, halfway to freedom, then slowly turned to face her. She clicked a button on her phone to mute the call and picked up a black journal, a place marker ribbon trailing out the bottom.

“Can you drop this off at Royce’s desk before you go? It’s some of my ideas for his party.”

I took the journal with a tight smile. “Sure, but where—”

“His office is three doors toward the elevator.” Her focus shifted to her computer screen. “See you tomorrow.” She pressed the button on her phone and went back to her conversation. Task accomplished, I ceased to exist to her at that point.

I folded my arms over the journal as I strode down the hall. It was quiet on the floor. Most people had their doors closed, either in meetings or out, which made sense. It was close to lunchtime. The desk across from Royce’s office was empty and not in use. Had they not hired an assistant for him? Or did he not need one?

The door to his office was ajar. I went to knock, but my knuckles hovered at the wood when his brusque voice rang out. “And how long is that going to take?”

A male voice was piped through the speakerphone. “If you want me to move on it now? A few weeks. It might raise flags.”

“I don’t care,” Royce said. “Just get it done.”

My hand moved of its own volition, nudging the door open.

The layout was the same as Alice’s office. The back wall was all glass and had a view of the harbor, but otherwise they were completely different. His furniture was masculine and traditional. Ornate scrolls were woodworked into the side of his dark oak desk. Like his room at home, the space was devoid of personal items. Only one piece of framed artwork decorated the wall, and I recognized the crimson Harvard logo.

Maybe he didn’t hang artwork on the walls because, like the jewelry store, it couldn’t compete with the most beautiful thing in the room—him. Royce stood at the side of his desk and leaned over it, his hands in fists resting on the top. He wasn’t wearing his suit coat or his tie; both hung on the back of his chair. The sleeves of his shirt were undone and rolled back, his collar undone.

With his terse conversation over, he stared down at the desktop, head hung and lost in thought. The corded muscles traveling along forearms twisted, the line broken only by the expensive watch on his wrist. The sight of him so contemplative and backlit by the windows was breathtaking. It looked as if the fate of the world was on his shoulders.

I snuck my phone out of my purse, hurrying to capture the image. In my rush, I’d forgotten to put it on silent, and the electronic shutter clicking made his gaze snap to me. His eyes were wild and furious until he realized who he was seeing. His expression quickly morphed to confusion.

I lowered my phone and tried to act natural.

“Marist?” He straightened from the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“I had an appointment with Alice. She asked me to bring you this before I left.” I held up the journal and gave it a small shake.

“What is it?”

He hadn’t invited me into his office. It felt rude to charge in, so I stayed in my place. “She said it was ideas for your party.”

“Oh.” He held out his hand, curling his fingers in a come closer gesture. “Shut the door.”

I inhaled deeply, did as he said, and handed him the book, only for him to toss it with a thud onto his desk.

“I’m sorry about the other night.”

An apology from a Hale? I didn’t think remorse was something they could experience. I didn’t want him to read any emotion on my face. “Telling me to leave? Or the stuff that happened before?”

He cocked his head to the side and shot me a look that said I was being silly. “I meant how I had to kick you out. I’m not sorry about anything else.” He made a face. “Well, maybe that we were interrupted.”

He leaned back against the desktop and crossed his arms over his chest. As his unhurried gaze worked over me, I shifted my weight on my pumps. It was strange to be standing alone in his office in the middle of the workday.