Collateral Claim (The Sovereigns #1)

Chapter 1

Party favor

Scarlett

“Is Dad looking over here?” I ask my sister, who’s holding her daughter’s hand as I apply another bandage over the child’s knee. Beatrice scraped it when she jumped down the few steps connecting the dining hall and the gardens, where the rest of my father’s sixty-fifth birthday party is to be held.

“Yes, he is. Making eye contact with me too. Tilting his head slightly toward you in that way he does when he wants me to get your attention.”

I kiss the bandage I placed on my niece’s knee and help her down from the table. I keep my back to my father. “What do you think he wants?”

Charlotte tucks her short blonde hair behind her ear before picking up the nearest pamphlet listing the evening program and pretending to read it as if she and I weren’t the ones who’d organized the evening for our dad.

“It’s time for his speech,” she says. “You think he wants you to say a few words?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I could faint so you have to perform CPR,” my little niece suggests, staring up at me with her father’s blue eyes.

Charlotte and I exchange looks. Beatrice is far too strategic for her age.

My sister tells her no while I fix the thin leather belt around my waist, then search for Dad’s business partner, who usually knows more than we do about our father’s intentions.

As certain as chaos in the gut after a broad-spectrum antibiotic hit, Wilfred is already making his way toward us.

If I had to guess, he’s coming to fetch me.

“Uh-oh,” Charlotte says. “Here comes Daddy’s Doberman.” She covers her lips and barks subtly so only I can hear.

Wilfred’s dark, cropped hair, dark eyes, and slim built remind us of a Doberman, but it’s more his attitude she’s referring to. He’s a man few dare cross. Luckily, he likes me, so I’ve only ever experienced his bark, never his bite.

As Wilfred nears, Beatrice woofs twice. Loudly.

People turn their heads while Charlotte and I dip our chins.

“You better go see what Wilfred wants,” my sister says. “Before my child bites his ankle.”

I start walking toward the stage but turn my head when Beatrice barks again.

Charlotte puts a hand over the girl’s mouth, suppressing her own laughter. Since I’m walking but not looking where I’m stepping, I trip. My foot slips out of my sandal, I hurl forward, arms extended, but at the last moment, somehow manage to save myself from falling.

Thank God. That would’ve been embarrassing.

I lift my gown to check on my sandal and notice the strap snapped off.

Wilfred’s on his way over, and since I’m either going to wobble or walk barefoot, I smile politely at anyone who might’ve noticed I almost fell, subtly reassuring them I’m fine. I’ll wait here for him.

Oddly, he stops dead in his tracks.

Frowning, I follow his gaze to my left, where a group of five men wearing black suits over black shirts descend the steps.

At the bottom of the steps, four of them spread out.

The fifth person, walking in the middle of the group, is a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a five o’clock shadow over a strong jaw.

He locks eyes with me and starts toward me.

I’ve never seen him before, so I turn around, thinking there’s someone behind me or near me that he recognized. Nobody’s here. Maybe he’s nearsighted and can’t see well over a distance.

I stand still.

On the way over, the man snatches a plastic chair.

When he reaches me, he plants the chair in front of me, then bends and hooks his palm under my knee to lift my right leg.

I yelp, but then remember I’m in public, so I pinch my lips and rest my hands on his shoulders for balance as he puts my foot on the chair.

The slit on the side of my modest couture gown parts and reveals my entire leg.

I’m five-nine and leggy, but even if I weren’t, this is wildly inappropriate.

I try to lower my leg back down, but he catches my calf, stopping me.

His grip tightens around my ankle like rope.

His palm is more on the rough side, as if he sometimes works with his hands.

When his thumb swipes back and forth over my bare skin, my cheeks burn. I’m painfully aware of our intimate positions, his head near my thigh, his pleasant, masculine cologne, and the way he (using one hand only) fixes my sandal strap that broke when I tripped.

He’s an attractive man. If a little too forward. Probably mistook me for someone he knows. People who first meet me often say I look like someone they know. This must be the case with him.

Wilfred turns his head toward the stage, where my dad stands frozen. Charlotte’s hand is over her mouth, but not because she’s laughing (or barking). She looks like a frightened, wide-eyed doe. Next to her, my niece’s mouth gapes open.

Palms up, arms bent at the elbows, I shrug in a universal I don’t know gesture.

“Almost there,” the man says, his voice raspy and confident as he tightens the strap on my sandal. Once done, he slaps the inside of my thigh and steps back. Dark eyes lift at the corners as he asks, “What’s a good girl say?”

Instead of saying what’s really on my mind, I smile. “Thank you.”

As a family who breached the barriers to the elite social circles only a few years ago, we’re heavily scrutinized by the people in attendance. Moreover, this is our first large party with strategic invitations intended to grow my dad’s businesses, and we can’t afford any mishaps.

“Don’t mention it, luv.” He looks me over, blatantly checking me out. “Scarlett Pembroke.” He states my name as if tasting it. “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be.”

The music stops, and everyone is staring at us now.

“Excuse me.” I move toward the stage.

The man offers his elbow.

I want to refuse, but I must accept. He’s a gentleman who fixed my sandal and wants to escort me to the stage to make sure I don’t trip and fall like a teenager who’s never worn heels before.

These heels were my grandmother’s, and they’re my go-to for parties where I’ll walk or stand a lot.

They’re vintage sandals, which is probably why the metal piece on the strap came loose.

As I place my hand on his forearm, I notice a skull and crossbones tattooed on his middle finger.

The dark, carefully trimmed stubble enhances his strong jaw and cheekbones, adding to his untamed appearance.

His smile is easy, and he smells nice, his cologne carrying a touch of fresh spice I can’t quite identify.

The tattoo and the dark stubble create a rugged appearance, and danger lurks behind his dark eyes.

When he looks at me, I think he dares me to object to his forward approach.

Which is precisely why I don’t. Any scene I or the man make could potentially cost my dad his reputation when he’s considering running for office next year. I’m choosing peace for now.

“Do we know each other?” I ask in a near whisper as we walk toward the stage where my dad’s holding a microphone. He looks pale. Is he scared? I frown. I don’t know. I’ve never seen my father scared. Well, maybe once. The night before my mother died.

The man doesn’t answer.

I try a different question. “Who are you?”

“Endo Macarley.”

We reach the stairs, and the man sweeps me up into his arms. Bewildered, I let him manhandle me as the crowd gasps. Some women clap, cheering him on, probably thinking we rehearsed this.

Once on the stage, he puts me down and spreads his arms at my dad as if he’ll welcome him into his embrace. But my dad now looks not only pale but panicky. This man’s clearly at the wrong party.

“Hi, Dani,” he says to my dad, whose name is Daniel, not Dani, but I guess one could call him Dani if they were good friends. Are they friends?

When the man forces my dad into a hug, my dad doesn’t appear to be hugging a friend. He appears…terrified. Maybe a little angry. It’s hard to tell with my father. He’s a man of few emotions, and most of them are various stages of angry ambition.

Endo grabs the microphone and throws an arm around my shoulders. It’s not heavy or crass, but a gentle touch and a squeeze as if he’s trying to comfort me.

“Get your hands off my daughter,” my dad hisses.

“Dearly beloved,” the man says as if he’s about to read wedding vows. “Thank you for gathering here on this blessed day, my friend Dani’s sixty-fifth birthday. Let’s have a round of applause for this amazing man.”

The people clap.

In the back, Charlotte’s watching with bated breath. I notice that the four men Macarley came with are standing near her and my niece as if surrounding them. Something is not right with that.

“A toast,” Macarley says and leaves briefly to fetch us each a glass of champagne.

He hands me one and holds up his. “For those of you who don’t know me because I live on the other side of the country, my name is Endo Macarley.

This wonderful doctor”—he looks at me, dark eyes devoid of emotion—“pulled three bullets out of my body and saved my life.”

Gasps all around.

I’d say he confused me with another woman, but he knows my name and my father’s name. I have a feeling champagne won’t do for whatever is unfolding in my life right now. I should fetch a scotch.

Endo continues. “Yes, yes, she did. While in recovery, I asked her out many times, but she kept rejecting me. I think she even discharged me early so I’d stop annoying her.

” He pauses, allowing people to laugh. “But I didn’t give up.

And then, one day, I showed up with yellow tulips.

Not because I knew those were her favorites, but because that was all the grocery store had left. ”

The crowd laughs again. I notice Duchess Harlow’s cheeks reddening like the line on a positive pregnancy test.

“Finally, Scarlett said yes. When I met Daniel the other day, I asked him if it would be okay if I made the grand announcement tonight. He, being such a gracious host, said yes. Scarlett and I are getting married.”

WHAT?!

The man turns to me, showing me a set of straight white teeth.

The crowd claps some more, and his men whistle and hoot.

Macarley pecks my cheek. Near my ear, he whispers, “I slipped an engagement ring into your clutch. Open it and put the ring on.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” I say through my teeth while forcing a smile for the people who are watching us.

“You’re about to lose your daddy.” He pulls back and holds my gaze. Two long fingers tap his chest, and he jerks his head toward my dad. I look over at my dad, and a tiny red dot flashes on his tie. A sniper rifle is pointed at him.

My hands shake as I lift the clutch and open it to peek inside. I don’t have to search for long. The princess-cut diamond on an elegant, slender platinum band reflects the light. I slip the ring on my wedding finger while the elite of our country cheer wildly.

The man leans in as if to kiss me on my mouth.

I pretend to admire the diamond on my finger. “If you try to kiss me, I’ll knee you in the balls.”

Macarley licks his teeth. “Be careful, Scarlett. Violence turns me on.”