But as Jack reaches for our dishes, he looks at the tattoo on his forearm. The one he knows is under my shirt sleeve. Luca’s, too.
Nothi in infernum.
We might have made good, but we still have debts to pay.
Luca and I discuss the issues concerning his uncle, Marcus DeAngelo, who I’d only left in London a few weeks ago. “He doesn’t need to worry. There’s no way to trace that account.”
“That’s what I told him,” Luca says.
“He says that MacLaine is reaching out, trying to find out which private investors are holding the shares Angus sold. He wants to invite them to Windfall to discuss options. Apparently, Malcolm MacLaine wants the estate and the company to remain with the family.”
“He’s going to be disappointed,” I say calmly.
“He’s trying to figure out who the largest holder is so that the family can regain a majority of the holdings.”
“He’s going to be disappointed when none of the investors will sell.”
“Rumor is that he isn’t looking to buy.” Luca’s mouth twitches. “He’s apparently old school. He’s offering his family’s reputation in trade.”
The bastard had gotten the idea from me. “I guess he isn’t above selling his sister.”
“Did you ever think he was?” Luca scoffs.
“He seemed to think so.” I hadn’t bought Malcolm’s gallant display of fraternal concern for Adair then. He’s not looking out for her now. He only wants to make certain he’s hooking the biggest catch.
“If he finds out about Jack or me?” Luca asks.
“He’s not going to find you,” I say, fiddling with my cufflinks. I’d carefully run every transaction through back channels. No one can question my discretion when it comes to ensuring client anonymity. I suppose Luca’s concern lies with whether I’m being careful with my own privacy. He doesn’t need to worry. “At least, he’s not going to find anyone I don’t want him to find.”
“He assumes the DeAngelos have some of them. Marcus told me as much. He wants me to deal with it.” Luca’s stormy eyes glitter with possibilities.
“How convenient.” This could be fun. I have plans for Adair MacLaine. Plans that include an altar and a white dress and broken hearts. But there’s plenty of time to play with her until then. “Ready to play a game?”
He doesn’t need to consider. “Always.”
10
Adair
By the third day of the Cold War between me, Malcolm, and Ginny, I’m craving an escape and a friendly face, which is why I agree to a shopping date with Poppy. I need serious best friend time even if it means the mall. How she can still want to shop after being in Paris doing just that a week ago is beyond me. But Poppy is a shopper. I am not. She’s a hugger. I am not. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses and I prefer to keep things a focused twenty-twenty. She’s also exactly what I need to balance my tendency to be a bitch. That means if Poppy Landry wants a hug, mimosas, and three new pairs of shoes, I’m in.
I volunteer to drive, even if it means picking her up at the condo she shares with Cyrus in downtown Nashville and circling back toward the outskirts of the city, because it’s always safer when she’s not behind the wheel. Poppy sweeps out of the building in a yellow chiffon sundress that wraps around her swan-like neck, accentuating her bronze shoulders. She looks like she just stepped off a Parisian runway in nude Louboutin sandals that circle her ankle gracefully. In my black Converse, I’m going to be nearly a foot shorter than her, but I reserve heels of that height for business meetings and charity functions. I’d never survive a trip to the mall in them. She slips into the Roadster, arranging her skirt so that it won’t blow up when we hit the highway.
“Darling.” Despite the slight console separating us, she throws herself across the wide bench seat to hug me. When she pulls back her eyes shine with tears. “How are you?”
I blow a stream of air from my lips and shrug. “I don’t really know.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she says.
I’ve heard a lot of apologies in the last few weeks. Everyone it seems is sorry for my loss. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not entirely certain I share this feeling. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so much time to process it due to the length of daddy’s illness. Or maybe it’s that I’ve gone completely numb—my heart an anesthetized organ in my chest, functional but deadened. But I’m tired of hearing them. It’s too much to process—Sterling, my father, the will.
“Don’t be sorry for living your life,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.
“I wasn’t here when you needed me.”
“You’re here now.” And that’s enough. “I just need a friend.”
“You always have a friend,” she promises. “And you don’t have to go shopping for me to be here.”
“I want to.” Strangely, I mean it. I can’t help being in a good mood when she’s happy.
“Does that mean I get to pick things out for you?” she asks mischievously eyeing my gray t-shirt.
That could be dangerous, given the uncertainty of my bank account and the fact that my daily wardrobe is mostly jeans, t-shirts, and the occasional sundress. “I don’t need anything.”
“Shopping isn’t about needs. It’s about relaxation.” She studies me with a critical eye. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Yes,” I say defensively.
“What about a dress for the auction?” she suggests.
I cringe. I’ve been trying to get out of going to the fundraiser for months. It’s bad enough to go alone, but I know my brother plans to attend. “I don’t know if—”
“You are not getting out of this one,” she informs me. “You volunteer with the shelter!”
“That doesn’t mean I
