Chapter One
Aiden
THE WOMAN WALKS toward the lake, her eyes fixed on the opposite shore. Barefoot, dark hair pulled back into a braid that trails down her back, a red rose tucked behind her ear. When she glances to the side, I catch a glimpse of the black mask covering half her face.
Most likely one of the performers hired for the Hudson Springs Botanical Gardens’ annual “Enchanted Evening” gala. Unlike the glittering gowns and custom-tailored tuxedos sported by the guests, she’s dressed simply in a scarlet halter top that stops mid-back and a long black skirt.
I noticed her a few minutes ago inspecting a large metal ring near the bank of the lake.
Or rather I noticed her long legs first when the slits in her skirt parted and gave me a tantalizing view of bare skin.
It’s been nine months since my last affair ended, almost as long since I’ve enjoyed looking at a woman so much.
Her confident yet graceful movements as she walked the length of the catwalk piqued my interest. So, too, did the way she hung back from the group working around the metal ring.
I recognize myself in her, that need for solitude amid the chaos of a crowded gala.
I spent years on the streets of New York City, surrounded by the incessantly shouting people, honking horns and the near-constant shriek of sirens.
I can handle a crowd, especially when it’s business.
But I prefer the quiet of my own company, having complete control of my environment.
The woman stops just a foot away from the water. There’s something in the way she stands, the tilt of her chin, that startles me.
Seraphina.
I tense. What the hell is wrong with me?
Seraphina Clark has been my executive assistant for the past three years.
She’s calm, professional, kind. She wears flared skirts with blouses that tie at the neck, and long, slim dresses.
Aside from a single plant and one photo of her and her parents, her office is streamlined and immaculate.
We may not talk much about our personal lives, but she would have mentioned if she’d taken up fire dancing.
I shift in my seat. I don’t like admitting that I noticed her during our interview.
A heart-shaped face that reminded me of one of the starlets from the old black-and-white movies my mother used to watch.
High cheekbones, a slight point to her chin, and big gray eyes framed by dark lashes that contrasted with the gold color of her hair.
Full mouth with that slight curve in her upper lip.
A curve I dreamed about kissing the night I met her. I woke up with a hard cock and shoulder muscles bunched so tight I half wondered if they’d snap.
I almost didn’t hire her. But her double major in finance and economics with a minor in PR plus several years of experience working for a financial public relations firm made her the best candidate.
I buried my attraction and hired her. Now I can’t envision Hawke Financial without her.
I’ve kept my lust in check and she’s continued to thrive.
The calendars are organized, files are pristine, and my clients are happy.
My jaw tightens. I was keeping my lust in check. But my awareness of her has surged in recent months. The click of her heels on the floor kicks my pulse up a notch. The scent of her perfume, light and floral, lingers every time she leaves my office.
My gaze drifts back to the woman in the mask.
The full moon streaks her hair with silver.
Poised yet relaxed, she’s in her own world.
So far tonight I’ve seen an aerialist performing from silks hanging from the branch of a tree, declined to have my future foretold by a fortune teller, and watched a dancing violinist dressed as a wood nymph. Is she performing? Part of the crew?
I watch the woman for one more moment. And then I look away.
When I enter into an affair, I do so with calculation.
A woman who runs in my social circles, who won’t be coming to me for money or, God forbid, a ring.
Someone who understands our relationship will have an expiration date.
I learned early on that letting myself care too deeply leads to pain.
An abusive father who drove my mother to run away to New York City with my brother, David, and me.
Then Mom passing. David and I split up into different foster homes.
Me taking to the streets after my foster father hit me one too many times.
After all that, I should have learned my lesson.
But maybe my falling in with Dominic after he offered me a tent in a trash-strewn alley in East Harlem softened me.
He took me in, gave me a home, taught me how to pick pockets and survive.
We had each other’s backs, then Cassian’s when we added him to our group.
For the first time in a long time, I let down my guard. Started to hope again.
Until Melanie took what little bit of heart I had left and ground it into dust.
I will never make the mistake of falling in love again.
If Seraphina wasn’t off-limits for being my employee, she’d be off-limits for being the exact opposite of what I look for in my relationships.
She’s made it easier by never being anything but the consummate professional.
Not one teasing comment, not one flirtatious glance.
She even insists on calling me Mr. Hawke, even though I’ve invited her to call me Aiden on multiple occasions.
I’d be mildly irritated by her lack of response if it didn’t make it easier to keep her at a distance.
Fire flares up from the metal ring standing upright on the banks of the lake. The crowd collectively gasps. A few squeal like they’re kids at a carnival instead of a gala. I watch the flames burn for a minute. When I glance back at the edge of the lake, the woman is gone.
I swirl the ice in my glass. Of all the events I’ve attended, this is the strangest. The five hundred acres of New York’s finest flowers and plants are lit by torches and flickering solar lights tucked beneath leaves and petals, creating an admittedly charming glow.
Lanterns float on the surface of the lake.
The raised wooden terrace I’m lounging on is cordoned off with a red velvet rope, with plush chairs and couches arranged beneath strings of golden lights.
Waiters pass through the crowd below with silver platters bearing either flutes of champagne or hors d’oeuvres like edible flower spring rolls with ginger sauce and lavender-scented chicken skewers.
A world I never imagined possible for someone who grew up like I did.
It’s been twenty years since Cassian got caught picking the pocket of a man with silver hair that reminded me of a lion’s mane.
Dominic and I sprung into action, determined to rescue Cassian from the man’s grip.
Instead, the man made us an offer: He could call the police officer who was standing half a block away or he could buy us dinner.
I wanted nothing to do with him. But it was winter, food was scarce, and tourists with thick wallets even scarcer.
I never imagined that dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in Midtown, where the concierge greeted our host and his three dirty guests like we were royalty, would eventually lead to us being formally adopted by one of the most renowned private equity titans in the world.
A man worth billions who took us in because he admired our loyalty to each other and wanted to give us a chance, the same way someone had given him an opportunity when he’d been down on his luck.
Regret tries to creep in. I never fully let John in, even after all he did for me.
But I don’t dwell on what I might have done differently before his unexpected passing a few years ago.
He gave me a chance at a new life simply because he could.
Even if I didn’t open up emotionally, I made my appreciation known, dedicated myself to doing the most with the chance he gave me.
My eyes flick to the older man sitting in the plush chair to my right in the cordoned-off VIP section.
I’ve gotten used to success. But now I’m facing down a true challenge, one with repercussions far more dangerous than simply losing money.
The man next to me is the key, if only he’d stop dragging his feet and accept my recommendation.
George Randolph worked his way up from a logger in the Catskills to owning his own lumber mill, then pivoting to sustainable building materials and a side business in forest tourism that’s netted him millions.
Millions he’s chosen to have me manage as his personal financial advisor through my firm, Hawke Financial.
Investing in the hedge fund I established, too, has made him my most important client.
Like me, the man lives and breathes work.
I’m used to seeing him in a suit and tie with his steel gray hair combed back and a razor-sharp expression on his thick face.
Tonight, however, he’s dressed in a navy tuxedo, complete with a bow tie that matches his wife’s gown.
A faint smile lingers at the corners of his mouth. He looks relaxed. Almost happy.
Which is exactly where I need him if I’m going to sell him on my latest proposal for his portfolio. After I grew his portfolio by 42 percent the first year, Randolph has replied “Yes” to every recommendation I’ve made.
But not my last one. Not the most important advice I’ve ever given.
“Better than last year’s performers,” Randolph says with a nod to the burning ring. “Opera singers.” He shudders. “Torture.”
My lips twitch. “I’m surprised, given your wife’s patronage of the New York City Opera.”
Randolph’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “Surprised you remember.”