Chapter 8
ROSALIE
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the tennis pavilion. Stepping inside was like entering a walk-in freezer compared to the beating summer sun.
Every game with Daisy was an ordeal. Her competitive fire bordered on cruelty, leaving no room for enjoyment.
It had been like that since we were kids.
First it was ballet, where her need to be the star overshadowed every plié and pirouette.
Then it was horseback riding, her relentless pursuit for the highest ribbon turning every show-jumping course into a desperate race. Now it was tennis.
I winced as I stretched my arm, already feeling the dull ache of a sore muscle. I was almost certain I’d have a row of bruises decorating my body tomorrow, each one a painful souvenir of Daisy’s laser-focused power and complete disregard for anything resembling elegance.
The door slammed behind me, the heavy thud echoing through the house. I walked to the kitchen with stiff legs to get a bottle of water. Reaching into the fridge, I took one out and twisted the cap off. I took a gulp, then many more after that.
Through the windows, I could see my mother and her friends chitchatting near the pool.
Margot was here.
Goody.
As I exited through the patio doors, the sun hit me again—only, this time it felt stronger somehow. Clutching the bottled water, I weaved through the poolside chairs, dodging discarded towels and overflowing ashtrays.
One woman was complaining about her husband’s “midlife crisis,” complete with a new sports car and, by the sounds of it, the woman who came with it.
I glanced at Margot, who was now settled on a lounge chair, balancing a book in her lap. She was laughing at something my Aunt Rita had said. It probably wasn’t funny.
“Long match?” Momma questioned. She tilted her wide-rimmed brown sunglasses down her narrow, sun-kissed nose, peering at me over them.
I hesitated, feeling the urge to unload all my thoughts about Daisy’s relentless intensity, only to settle for a shrug. “You know how she gets.”
“Uh-oh,” Momma chuckled. “Sounds like someone needs a margarita.”
I did.
My mother was going to turn me into an alcoholic.
Speaking of alcoholics . . .
Valentina strode past the group with a pep in her step.
The woman was a hurricane in a Hervé Léger dress.
Over her shoulders she wore a pink faux-fur coat, which was far too warm for this weather.
Her disregard for societal expectations was a breath of fresh air—a middle finger raised high to all the disapproving whispers and wandering eyes.
One look from her deep brown eyes, fringed with those ridiculously long lashes, and she could get whatever she wanted. And make no mistake, she always did. It didn’t matter if it was a drink, a favor, or a secret—Valentina knew exactly how to get it.
Her warm, mocha-toned skin glowed under the evening sun. Her thick, glossy hair, the color of a rich espresso, was tied in a low ponytail that swayed with her head.
As I stepped up to the bar cart, I overheard Valentina’s conversation. Margot had taken the opportunity to bombard her with questions and invitations. It was painfully obvious Margot was seeing dollar signs—or, rather, Cillian’s money.
“Margot, isn’t it?” Valentina drawled. “Lovely to see you again. Though, wasn’t it just last week at that dreadful charity gala?”
Margot blinked. “That was my gala, Valentina,” she said, shocked Valentina would say such a thing.
“Uh-huh,” Valentina mumbled, acting as if she hadn’t just insulted the woman. Typical. Valentina could insult you with a smile sometimes. She didn’t really care how her words came out.
Margot got over it and then took her time ranting to Valentina, completely disregarding her time and social cues. Valentina looked like she was slowly withering away while she listened.
Eventually, Margot’s relentless droning finally died down, replaced by a strained laugh. I glanced over, expecting to see Valentina approaching. It wasn’t me she was coming for—it was the margarita.
I poured one for her. It wasn’t the smartest idea to give an alcoholic a drink, but Valentina was a grown adult who was fully capable of making decisions for herself.
As she drew closer, the faint scent of her flowery perfume grew stronger. She stopped by my side and took the drink straight out of my hands. “Thank you, mija,” she said. Her Colombian accent blended with her New York City grit.
“Where do you think she gets her enthusiasm from?” I asked with a laugh as we both turned our attention to Margot across the patio. She’d already returned to the main conversation, dominating everyone who spoke.
“The depths of desperation, most likely,” Valentina mused as she took a long sip. “And God forbid if you miss the gallery next month.”
She looked past me. Her posture stiffened, and her jaw clenched.
I instinctively turned to see what had grabbed her attention.
It was Max. Once again, I felt it was too soon.
With a sigh, I took a hesitant sip of my margarita, and so did Valentina. But instead of a sip, her hand shook, sending the entire glass forward. A splash of ice-cold liquid ran down my chest.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” she shrieked, her apology lost beneath the ringing in my ears as the icy liquid continued its descent, turning my clothes into a sticky mess.
She gasped, her eyes widening in horror. She fumbled for a napkin, but I swatted her hand away gently.
“It’s okay.” I forced a smile, bringing my gaze nervously toward the house. The back door was shut, and Max was nowhere to be seen.
“I can run inside and find something,” she said quickly.
“It’s fine, really. I’m sure there’s a spare dress in my mother’s closet I can find.”
In fact, I’d be more than willing to go look.
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking near the gate on the side of the house.
Valentina kept me occupied for a few minutes before finally letting me excuse myself inside. It was getting cold, the mosquitoes were preparing to attack me, and the margarita she’d spilled was making my skin sticky. Why wasn’t she letting me go change? It felt like she was deliberately stalling.
Finally, she let me go, and I headed for the same door Max had gone through.
Once inside, I passed by the living room, where I couldn’t help but notice a couple of my father’s most imposing security guards in a heated debate over . . . a hard drive? They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they clearly didn’t care. Obviously, they were incredibly good at their jobs.
Once I’d finally reached my mother’s closet, I flung open the doors, hurrying to get this sticky dress off my skin. Within seconds, I’d shed the tequila-drenched tennis dress and slipped into a simple black Chanel dress.
Now onto the real mission: recon.
My mother had a weakness for designer shoes—a weakness I fully intended to exploit. Lo and behold, nestled deep in the sea of Jimmy Choos and Manolos sat a pair of—
Oh my god . . . she had Christian Louboutins?
The woman could be so insufferable sometimes, but her closet was to die for.
“Hmm, maybe just these,” I muttered, snagging the Louboutins. Then I spotted it: a brand-new Dior lipstick in the exact shade of red I usually wore. It was as if it were made for me, so I snagged that too.
Okay, that’s enough.
My trembling legs felt like jelly. I’d overdone it today playing tennis with Daisy, and I’d still lost the match. In a haze of exhaustion, I blindly turned the corner at the foot of the stairs, my head colliding against something solid with a thud.
Ow.
A strangled cry escaped my lips as I stumbled back, my heels catching on the uneven marble floor. Large, warm hands reached for my wrist, holding me still. I recognized the touch.
My head fell back.
Max.
He stood there with a lazy smile playing on his lips. “You’ve changed.”
Hello to you too.
He would only know I’d changed if he’d been watching me before. “Well, yes,” I managed. “Valentina couldn’t keep her drink to herself.”
He crossed his arms. “Ah, did she dump it on you?” he asked, raising a brow.
“Yeah. Margarita too.”
“Bummer,” he drawled sarcastically. “Seems like it worked out in your favor though. Do you plan on keeping it?”
I shrugged. He was aware of my inability to stay out of my momma’s closet. “Yes.”
Max’s dark eyes swept down the length of my body possessively. His gaze lingered.
“It suits you,” he admitted.
“The dress?”
“The dress,” he confirmed, still staring at me.
My cheeks were starting to burn. “Thank you,” I said softly.
He frowned. “It’s short.”
I smiled. “It is.”
“It really shows men what you have to offer.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur that sent goose bumps erupting across my skin. He leaned closer. “Wear it around your father’s men again, and I’ll hang you in it.”
I blinked. “You’re one of my father’s men.”
“I am.”
His arm brushed mine ever so slightly as he stepped to the side. Then, just as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone.