Pride (In Wilde Country 1)

Why had he ever agreed to host a table tonight?

It was the last thing in the world Luca felt like doing.

Of course, when he’d made the commitment he hadn’t known he’d be flying back from Texas that same day after confronting what had turned out to be his father’s second family—or his first, depending on your point of view.

Most of the time, when he was approached to donate to an event that involved the rich and powerful dressing up to impress the rich and powerful, he’d explain—politely—that he’d be unable to attend, but he’d be happy to write a check or sponsor a table, meaning he’d pay the fees for whatever number of guests could be seated at it.

That always made everybody happy.

Somehow, he’d forgotten to make those plans clear to the person chairing tonight’s event.

Not a problem, he told himself as his driver pulled the black Mercedes to the curb.

He would put in an appearance, say all the right things, shake all the right hands and after a couple of hours, he’d say goodnight and go home.

Luca checked his watch, then leaned forward.

“Two hours, Aldo—unless I can get away sooner.”

“I’m as near as your cell phone, sir.”

Luca nodded. Aldo had been with him for years, long enough to know that his boss didn’t like formal functions any more than he liked having doors opened and closed for him, so he sat quietly behind the wheel until Luca stepped from the car and walked briskly to the hotel through the small crowd that had gathered to gawk at possible celebrity sightings.

Tourists, the lot of them, Luca thought with mild disdain.

No true New Yorker would gawk at a celebrity, much less acknowledge the presence of one. Luca might have been born in Italy, but he held dual American and Italian citizenship; he had attended Columbia University; he’d lived in the city, first in student housing, then in rented apartments on and off for years before buying his condo. He considered himself a native son to the marrow of his bones, which was one of the reasons he was not impressed by events like this.

The doorman smiled politely, the door swung open and Luca stepped into the marble and gold lobby.

It was handsome, though not something he would choose to be associated with professionally—it was too fussy for his tastes, but he could appreciate the care and expertise that had gone into its design and creation.

Ahead, at the foot of three wide marble steps, a discreet sign listed the evening’s events.

The Horse Sense ball and banquet was in the Skytop Room, on the hotel’s sixtieth floor. It was a spectacular room with a spectacular view. He had been to events there many times before, and he knew the space was big enough to accommodate several hundred people.

He bit back a groan as he stepped into an elevator that would whisk him directly there.

There would be endless hands to shake, endless small talk to be made, endless business contacts to make and renew, and, Dio, he knew all too well how many women would end up in his path.

He was an eligible bachelor in a city of too few eligible bachelors.

He should have brought a date to run interference.

Cheyenne McKenna, for instance.

One look at her beside him and the competition would have known enough to stay away, and wasn’t that a foolish thought? He had not taken her address or phone number. She hadn’t given him the chance to do so.

And why in hell was he back to that?

The elevator doors opened. He stepped from the car and straight into a wall of noise. Loud voices, coming from the expensively dressed crowd. Loud music, coming from a band on a stage at one end of the huge room.

His belly knotted.

He’d told Aldo he’d stay for two hours, but that had been a mistake. He was not in the mood for this. He’d put in a long day. A difficult day. There was still time to turn around, get right back in the elevator and…

A hand clasped his shoulder.

“Luca! Great to see you.”

Another hand reached for his.

“Bellini. How’ve you been? We need to do lunch this week, talk about a new project I’m considering in Tribeca.”

Too late. He’d just have to get through the evening, or at least a piece of it.

He smiled, nodded, shook hands, was all but smothered by drifts of perfume competing for attention as Manhattan’s most elegantly-dressed women rose on their toes to press their cheeks to his.

And, as he’d known they would, the not-terribly-subtle attempts at matchmaking started almost instantly.

“Luca? Have you met my…”

Daughter. Niece. Sister. He had met them all at one time or another. Or perhaps he hadn’t. Either way, he said the right things, smiled the right smiles…and kept moving, his destination the bar at the opposite end of the room.

He’d almost made it when he heard a feminine shriek and a bejeweled hand grasped his arm.

“Luca!”

The hand and shriek belonged to Alene Beresford, wife of the CEO of a small, elite hotel chain—and, he now remembered, the Chair of tonight’s fundraiser.

Alene was a born do-gooder, always looking for a new cause that would get her name in the Times’ Sunday Styles section. True to form, she had a photographer in tow and before Luca could object, Alene plastered herself against his side and beamed for the camera. She was dressed to kill in what was surely a couturier gown in a pink so bright the color hurt Luca’s eyes. Her hair was a shade of red that would never appear in nature, and the skin of her face was so taut that he had an almost overpowering urge to try and bounce a coin off it.

An image of Cheyenne McKenna, exquisite in her jeans and T-shirt, her face bare of makeup, her hair drawn back in its no-nonsense braid, swam into his head.

What would she have worn for an evening like this? Something simple, he was sure of it. Something silky, long and diaphanous. Something that would complement her natural beauty…

“Luca, darling,” Alene said, “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up!”

“Alene,” he said, smiling politely. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, darling, you did.” She lifted her eyebrows. At least, she made the attempt, but whatever had frozen her face in its awful parody of eternal youth wouldn’t permit much more than a quiver. “And I must say, I was delighted! We all know that having you put in an appearance is quite a coup!”

Luca smiled again. By the end of the evening, the muscles of his face would surely ache hurt from an endless succession of phony smiles.

“Well, here

I am.” Someone jostled him from the rear; someone else stepped on his toes. “Although,” he heard himself say, “I’m afraid I can’t stay for the entire evening.”

“Oh, you’ll change your mind when you see the marvelous people I’ve seated at your table.”

“I’m sure they’re interesting, but I have an early morning appointment.”

“Luca. Darling boy, tomorrow is Saturday.”

Okay. The smile was already starting to become painful.

“I know, Alene, but—”

“Everyone deserves a day off, even you!” Alene batted her lashes and leaned in. “Besides, I’m counting on you to keep tonight’s honored guest happy.” Her voice dropped to a dramatic low. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone yet, but we just learned that she’s not only going to be our poster child for Horse Sense, she’s going to give us an incredible gift!”

“How generous,” Luca said politely.

“Indeed it is! She’s giving us a horse ranch so we can expand our work. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Wonderful indeed, Luca thought grimly. Had he been transported into a universe in which people gave away ranches the way circus clowns gave away balloons?

“In Texas.”

“What about Texas?”

“The ranch, silly man! It’s in Texas. It needs some work, of course.”

Luca narrowed his eyes. A ranch? In Texas? No. That was impossible.

“And, naturally, we’ll need your professional advice. Luca? Are you listening to me? We’ll want your advice.”

“Where is this ranch located?”

Alene rolled her eyes.

“You’re not paying attention! I just said. In Texas.”

“Where in Texas?”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, how do I know that? It’s just in Texas, Luca. You can ask Ms. McKenna for the specific—”

“Who?”

“The donor’s name is McKenna. Cheyenne McKenna. Our new spokeswoman…or is it spokesperson? I’m never sure which is PC, though I doubt if Cheyenne would—”

“Cheyenne?” he said. “Cheyenne McKenna?”

“Yes. The model. Do you know her? I’m sure you know her face. Her picture is everywhere. Well, almost everywhere.” Alene looked around, then leaned close again. “Not as much lately, it would seem. There’ve been rumors. About her career. That it’s on the skids, but it doesn’t matter to us. Not too much, anyway. She’s still famous. And that’s what matters.”