“Miss Ashford?” Larkin’s intercom beeped, pulling her gaze from the computer monitor she’d been staring at for the past ten minutes. At least it was an improvement from staring out the window at her building’s image in the reflective finish of the windows in the Crenshaw Tower across the street and wishing it was taller. If it were, she could see the roof and maybe—

“Miss Ashford?” Reagan’s voice pitched.

“Yes, Reagan?”

“Your car has arrived.”

Larkin straightened and hit the mouse pad, pulling her computer from the monotonous batting around of her most prized logos. Duo shined in glossy white, its D formed by an engagement ring. Ditto glittered in a pale pink with the dots above the I and slashes across the T’s in blue. A boutique-style rattle formed the Ditto’s D.

The blinding white screen with hundreds of tiny numbers pulled the projected launch numbers into focus. After months of staring at the data, she knew them without looking. A click of the calendar blocked the numbers. If only she could do that with the massive and very abstract file in her head that was sucking up all her brainpower.

She scrolled through the calendar but saw no appointments. “My car?”

Her cell phone beeped on the desk and flashed a text message. The girls had been blowing up their group text all morning. They were filling Libby—their only bestie not on the board—in on what went down over the glass table, each voicing their outrage. They were probably still ranting. Her friends did it well.

“Yes, ma’am. Your lunch date at Per Se.”

The hint of hunger toying with Larkin’s stomach at the mention of lunch turned rabid as soon as the memory of making the plans cemented. Its teeth sank in, shook, and refused to release its sickening grip. More than anything, she wanted to cancel, but she’d already negotiated the date down from dinner and the theatre. No way would she get off the hook—not as long as her last name was Ashford.

Maybe it was time to find a family to adopt her. Too bad she was too old.

“I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The intercom connection dropped.

Larkin grabbed her phone and read the line of texts.

Libby: I can have the forensic accounting department look into Gleeson.

Another message popped up.

Genevieve: I can round up a slew of his female employees and work up a sexual discrimination suit against him.

Marlis: Great. I’m not an FBI agent or a lawyer. What can I do besides give him the evil eye?

Genevieve: Mar, you’re too nice to even give a good evil eye. You can keep the rest of us from going straight to hell, and that’s why we love you.

Larkin jumped in. There’s no hope for me today. I have lunch with capital D.

Libby: Going into meeting. Muting. Good luck, Larkin. I have bail money.

Genevieve: He’s too slimy for me to touch.

Marlis: Tell me where you’re going. I’ll have my driver accidentally run him over.

Larkin: Thanks, but I can’t have you going to jail. Maybe that means we’re all going to hell together.

Genevieve: I’ll bring the booze.

Larkin: I’ll bring the boys.

After closing the numbers on the launch and the spreadsheet weighing the pros and cons of going public—the only things she needed to focus on at the moment—she left her haven and met the angry day. It greeted her in the form of Lucas’s stoic face outside her office door and compounded out the massive rotating door with icy sheets of rain and hundreds of bustling New Yorkers. They jostled along the sidewalk with scarves and slickers pulled tight, their scrunched faces intent on the ground in front of them.

“Miss Ashford.” Douglas, her driver of fifteen years, held a large umbrella open at the edge of the glass canopy.

“Larkin,” she chided the gray-haired man as she had every day for the past five years.

“Yes, ma’am.” He offered her his elbow and a smile, then ushered her to the back door of the blacked-out Town Car and inside without a cold drop on her head.

“Thank you, Douglas.”

He leaned in conspiratorially and flashed her a wink. “I poured you one finger of liquid courage.”

“You’re the best.” And Lord, she meant it. The man was more a father to her than the man with whom she shared a name and blood.

“No less than you deserve.” Douglas closed her in tight and left Lucas in the icy rain without a glance to fend for his own door in the front passenger seat.

Larkin set her purse on the seat beside her, snagged the glass of scotch out of the holder, and eased back against the plush leather. She took a deep sniff of the whisky, letting it settle in her lungs. No way was she an alcoholic on days like this. Pre-noon drinking or not. What awaited her warranted the entire freaking bottle, if not more.

The city passed by in a slog of cars, bikes, and bodies. Like zombies, they walked to and from the lives that chained them to their small corner of the world. The chains held them to it, bounded them, and enslaved them without their knowledge. And wasn’t she one of them?

She kicked back the drink and let it sting its way deliciously down to her belly. Her fingers danced along the button on the door, and she gave into the compulsion. Hair be damned, she lowered the window. Muffled sounds of the city she loved and hated in equal measure became nuanced yells, tired grumbles of old cab engines, and the screeches of brakes. Food cart fat and oriental takeout wafted in on the air. She breathed it in as deeply as she had the scotch, and a tiny smile curved her mouth.

Those guys had to be freezing their asses off.

Too soon, the car pulled to a stop in front of one of New York’s most famous see-and-be-seen overpriced eateries. Her smile fell to the carpet. What she wouldn’t give to grab a street dog and eat it over her computer while toiling with the decision she had to make.

“Miss Ashford.” Douglas stepped back and held the umbrella out for her.

“Stubborn old coot.” Larkin stood and pecked his cold cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“I’d wish you bravery, but you have it in spades. So luck it is.” He walked beside her to the restaurant door where Lucas held it open.

“Keep it close and running.” She smiled at Douglas. “If I kill him, I’ll need a getaway car. Are you up for the task?”

Douglas’s strong jaw tightened for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and shifted beneath his eyebrows. He leaned in close. “You know, I’ve always had a fantasy about being the Transporter.” His deadpan beat all others.

A genuine laugh started in her belly. It rolled through her chest and extremities, making it all the way to her lips. The thing only the two of them knew was in his heyday, the former CIA operative had made the Transporter look like a schoolgirl. Amusement energized her enough to shoulder the task ahead. She swatted his arm and nodded her thanks.

At the edge of the portico, Douglas folded the umbrella and watched her ignore Lucas as she walked through the door he held open. She wondered if the intelligent fellow noticed the tension that collected like bricks for a building’s foundation on her shoulders. If only her and Lucas’s weirdness last night was the only trouble.

The twentysomething model-pretty hostess assessed Lucas head to shoulders and back again. Her cheeks pinked, and her mouth gaped. Her guard stood watch in an inconspicuous corner of the foyer where he’d stay through the meal. Larkin stepped to the podium and waited her turn.

“Hello, may I have your name please?” The hostess’s breathy lilt would have steamed her glasses had she worn any.

“Ashford.” Larkin ignored the girl’s eye bulge and the prattle about how she was new and should have known such an iconic New York face, which really meant money. Instead, Larkin pointed at a notepad and pen on the podium. “May I?”

“Of course.” She passed over the items. “As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you to your husband.”

Larkin’s hand froze in midstroke. How disgusting that people in this convoluted city assumed an older man and younger woman were married because they had the same last name. Her gaze slashed to the young woman’s, who would probably happily accept a proposal from a man old enough to be her grandfather as long as he was loaded.

And there Larkin was, making snap judgments about someone else when all they’d done was give her the courtesy first. Damn, she was jaded for a girl in her twenties—the last year of them—but the twenties all the same.

“He’s not my husband.” She finished writing the digits and name on the paper and pulled it off the stack.

“I’m so sorry. I—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m ready.”

The girl looked from Larkin to Lucas and back with a question in her eyes, but she grabbed a menu and headed up the short central staircase. When they were out of earshot, Larkin handed the hostess the note with Lucas’s name and phone number. She slowed, but Larkin’s momentum kept her moving.

“Ma’am?” The hostess eyed the paper.

“He’s my bodyguard, and that’s his number. His favorite drink is a draft beer, and he likes live music.” Bands, not opera. Larkin nodded to the young woman and hoped she’d take Lucas’s mind off their non-starter fling.

“Thanks.” She blushed.

“Larkin, darling. You look as stunning as ever.” The bastard couldn’t be troubled to stand, but he lifted his arms and opened them, though not wide enough for a hug. He always did one of those very European air hugs and double kisses. As though he was receiving her spirit, not her, his daughter.

“Father.” She smiled as sweetly as their past and present would allow and took her seat.

“I ordered you a Glenlivet.”

The moment the words, “I ordered,” were off his tongue, Larkin’s stomach corkscrewed its way to her little toe. After eleven years of the fucked-up tradition, it shouldn’t hurt this much. No matter how she tried to prepare, it wrung out her insides. No matter how many times she told him she hated the sight of the stuff, and no matter how many times she explained why, he insisted it was just a drink engrained in their family through the generations.

It hadn’t done much for her mother’s generation. Then again, she hadn’t been blood. She’d married into the Ashford clan. Fuck, they were English anyway, not Scottish.

He slid his own off the table and held it up for a toast. “To a good year.”

Her father didn’t wait for her to join him. Years ago, he’d learned he’d die of thirst before she’d cave and let that shit pass her lips. It tasted just fine, but the picture of that bottle in her mother’s hand would be forever seared in her brain.

“How’s business?” he asked through a satisfied hiss and blindingly white teeth.

“Busy. How was Italy?”

A server stepped to the table with a pleasant smile and a warm welcome. He suggested the nine-course chef’s tasting menu for the day.

“Of course.” Her father placed his hands together and bowed like he was a guru or ancient oriental. He was a white guy from very old—not existed in decades—money. “Lovely. That’ll be just lovely.”

The server turned to leave.

“Pardon me, but I’ll need to change that to the five.”

“Nonsense.” Her father shooed her words away. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

“A year and a half,” she corrected. They’d been the most peaceful of her life.

The server’s blue eyes bobbed back and forth between them, patiently awaiting an answer.

“It’ll be the nine.” Felix Ashford nodded as though his word were final.

“Then I’m afraid it will be dining for one.” Larkin stood. “I really do have work to do, and I don’t have the time for nine courses.” Neither did she have the inclination to endure a nine-course chef’s tasting menu with her father.

“A workaholic, my daughter.” His white hair shook. “Five courses then,” he conceded, and the waiter scurried away before they could change their order again. After all, if she left, who’d pay the bill? The short answer was she would, one way or the other, which was why this meal irritated her so. It was guaranteed to cost more than his high-dollar caviar and oysters and her cheese plate.

Larkin had a mind to ask for seating in the salon and a one-entree meal. Five courses were four too many with him.

Silence settled over the table. Her father stared into his emptying glass.

“How was Italy?” she asked again.

“It was … complicated.” He grinned.

“How so?” Larkin took a sip of her quadruple distilled water and waited and waited.

“Deidra left me.”

Another divorce. That was why they were here. Another negotiation. Another settlement.

He grew bolder with age. They’d gotten down to business before the first course arrived. Maybe he was just running out of bullshit. Hard to believe since the man wallowed in it. Then again, he’d once wallowed in money, more than she’d managed to amass with hard work and determination.

There was something to be said for earning your fortune the old-fashioned way as opposed to inheriting the piles from your great-great-great-grandfather. When you earned it, you weren’t so quick to throw it away.

Larkin slipped her phone from her purse and discreetly texted Douglas to ferret out the details on her father’s most recent split. She wouldn’t get them from her father. He twirled around the ice in the glass of whisky he’d ordered for her, planning his next move.

“Was it the gondolier or the pool boy this time?” She took another sip of water, feeling a bit more confident about the course of the meal and its likelihood to stay inside her stomach.

“Shhh.” Her father’s head tilted this way and that, looking to see who was in eavesdropping range.

“Really, Father.” Larkin pressed her elbows to the table and lowered her voice. She didn’t want to embarrass him. She just wanted him to understand what she’d been telling him for years. “There’s nothing wrong—not one single thing—with being attracted to men except when you insist on marrying women.”

His back stiffened, and his age showed for the first time in the way his large frame didn’t quite reach the stature for which he’d been aiming.

“It’s time to stop living a lie,” she pressed.

“Larkin Gwenette Ashford, this is hardly the place.”

“Then invite me to the house the next time you want to discuss the terms of your impending divorce and how much it will cost me.” Larkin’s fingers squeezed her phone.

The server tripped into the tension with dainty salads and their light courses. Her father waited until he left before picking up his butter knife and pointing it at her.

“I haven’t said a thing about money, you greedy little girl.” His upper lip curled into an ugly sneer.

What the actual fuck?

In all her dealings with Felix Ashford, not once had he ever been vicious. Adrenaline, akin to that of her presumed attack last night, dumped into her veins. Sweat gathered at the high collar of her formfitting dress. He snatched the oyster fork from the fine linen and flipped it over time and again, end to end. The small tines grazed his palm more aggressively with each pass. His reaction scared her. Fear incited by her father whipped up enough anger to override the fear.

“You haven’t mentioned money yet, but that’s only going to last as long as it takes the check or the divorce papers to arrive. Did you tell the lawyer to serve you here, like last time?” Larkin pushed her seat back. “And you call me greedy? I’m greedy? Says the man who whored his way through several billion dollars because of secret lovers need secret hideaways. Greedy, says the man who drove his wife to suicide and left his daughter to fend for herself at thirteen.”

Larkin shoved her phone in her purse and stood.

“Sit down.” Felix pressed the sharp end of the tiny fork against the starched white tablecloth and pressed down so hard the points sank below the surface into the hardwood.

Alarm bells clanked and whirled in her ears. She looked for Lucas but didn’t see him anywhere. A large hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her down with a bite she’d never experienced. Well, not until last night.

“Listen to me.” Felix plastered on a fat fake smile and leaned across the table so far, his tie pressed close to a pool of vinaigrette. “I couldn’t help the ill timing and lacking couth of Beverly’s firm.”

Judging by the lack of circulation reaching her fingertips, she really should keep her mouth shut about the ugly divorce with his second wife. Sixteen years of taking care of herself wouldn’t allow her father to swoop in now and issue commands.

“Right,” she spat. “Just like you couldn’t help sticking it to the gardener.”

“In case you were wondering where you inherited your promiscuous ways, you were screwed on both sides. Your mother did her fair share of lover hiding.”

Shock released the hinge on her jaw while rage gave her new cunning. “You will release me this minute or so help me God, I’ll make the biggest scene you’ve ever witnessed. I’ll tell every gossip rag willing to pay for all our family secrets every last detail, and I’ll give the proceeds to charity.”

Her father’s gaze lifted over her shoulder. His grip loosened, and his sneer morphed into a stately smile.

Blood rushed into her fingers, threatening to burst them like over-watered grapes. She snatched her hand into her lap and prepared to hide behind Lucas while she told her father never to contact her again. Her sentinel had to be the reason for her father’s abrupt metamorphosis. When she reached with her good hand for her purse, her fingers met empty air. The damn thing had been in her hand. Where the hell was it?

“Larkin Ashford, you’ve made my day.” Bronson Beauregard, her CFO’s handsome-as-sin son plucked her clutch from the floor and offered it up with a dapper smile.

Her head spun as though someone had set her on a Tilt-A-Whirl against her will. Lucas hadn’t changed her father, Bronson had. Nausea, confusion, fear, and irritation played a hard game of poker in her belly. Somehow, they all won.

When seeing Bronson—face to face for the first time since they were kids—it wasn’t the type of reaction she’d expected. Then again, too many things were happening too fast, and no one played their usual roles.

Over the years, she’d tracked her childhood playmate’s progress through a European boarding school and college, and then his climb from the bottom of his father’s company to the top. She’d drooled over his bare-chested spring break pictures and swooned over the African safaris and mid-ocean stargazing dates he’d procured for girlfriends. Larkin fancied herself a strictly business anti-romantic, but she’d daydreamed about their reunion. In each one, her father was nowhere in the landscape, and the whirling in her stomach had been from the heat of his presence. Not this craziness.

“Thank you.” She took the purse with a weak nod and set it on the edge of the table before she dropped it again.

“Two times in as many days. Lady Luck has smiled upon us.” Brice Beauregard offered her a nod, clapped his son’s back, and stepped around him, extending a hand to her father. “Felix, it’s been a while.”

Her father waved over the server, then stood and puffed to his full height. He was a tall man, taller than the two Beauregard men. Next to Brice’s and Bronson’s healthy broad shoulders, he appeared weak and unavailing.

“Brice, too long, my friend.” Her dad extended a firm hand to Brice, and then pointed at the chair next to him. “Please, join us. We’re just starting our courses.”

The men continued with their polite I-don’t-mean-to-intrude, oh-it’s-no-intrusion conversation, but Bronson caught both her hands in his and pulled her up.

“Larkin Ashford.” Bronson held her hands wide and made a show of inspecting her. He wasn’t overtly sexual, but she caught a devious sparkle in his green eyes. “You look …” His stunning gaze shifted back and forth and then landed on hers. “Gorgeous.” He pulled her in for a big hug. Unlike most others, she went willingly. After all, they were friends.

His strong arms settled around her waist and cinched tight. A moment later, her feet left the ground, and he whirled them about. Her fingers locked around the back of his neck and held fast while she prayed she didn’t vomit all over them both.

“Bronson,” his dad chided.

A satisfied chuckle rumbled from Bronson’s chest and shook hers. The room stopped spinning, and her feet found purchase. Her gaze found Bronson’s full lips spread into a mischievous smile. His sun-blond hair hung over his brow, and his lively green eyes searched her face.

“Just wow.” He stole a peck from her cheek and stepped away.

Larkin laughed to cut the tension that built around her organs. “The last time you saw me, I had braces and pigtails.” And a mother. She kept the last buttoned in tight and shrugged. “Nowhere to go but up.”

“I liked your pigtails.” He winked.

“I recall you liked my braces. They gave you something to tease me about.” Finally, Larkin felt a playful smile on her lips. It cooled the tension baking her insides.

“I was a boy. It’s our sworn duty to pester the girls we like.” Bronson pulled her chair out for her. “My lady.”

“Ha.” She covered her mouth.

“What? You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” His mouth quirked. He bowed and flourished his arm toward the chair.

When they were young, they played king and queen of the castle nearly every day. He’d order his friends to slay the dragons, which her friends played. Then they’d live happily ever after at the top of the treehouse in his father’s backyard.

Her father and Brice talked quietly about setting up a game of golf later in the week if the weather slacked off. Bronson waited for her to sit. With no graceful exit and less will to leave than she’d had five minutes ago, she sat. He helped her into the seat, took the one next to her, and allowed the waiter to serve him the first course of what was suddenly their nine-course meal.

In for the long haul.

Felix reached across the table and patted her hand, but he never broke eye contact with Brice. The urge to stab it with the salad fork overwhelmed her. He’d won this round, but no way in hell would she stand for his behavior again. He ruined the threadbare truce they’d had. No way would she meet with him again without a lawyer or security team at her side.

Bronson leaned close, shielding his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not a chance a king forgets his queen.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have a gaggle of ladies vying for the title these days.” Larkin grinned and toyed with the hem of her collar.

“Ah, a few. There was one who came close several years ago, but none of them compared to my first and truest.” He settled his focus on her with a sexy smile that batted around her alarm bells like an innocent kitten. Years ago, Bronson may have been innocent, but these days, he looked downright beautiful and cunning.

“I didn’t know you were in town. How long are you stateside?” Diversion was the safest route until she knew what she was dealing with. A playful flirtation she could handle. But a true-blue knight in shining armor? Not so much.

“You didn’t tell her?” Brice smirked as he heaped caviar onto a cracker.

“I’ve only been here for twenty-four hours.” Bronson split a look between them, huffed playfully, and then turned back to her. “I’d planned to pop in to see you, but your receptionist said you were booked today and tomorrow.”

“You could have just called. My number hasn’t changed in years.” Larkin caught her father’s nosy stare out of the corner of her eye. Grabbing her cup, she sipped the tepid water just to have something to do. The longer she sat under his leer, the more uncomfortable she became. He looked too smug about the turn of events.

“I wanted to tell you in person. Out of all the people I knew in the city, you’re the only one I’ve really kept in touch with through the years.” He smoothed a manicured hand down the front of his tie.

“Tell me what?” She abandoned her glass and leaned forward, dying to know and afraid of the answer at the same time.

“Unless I royally screw up in the next year, I’m back for good.” His smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Oh my goodness, that’s great news.” She couldn’t help but mirror his excitement. It filled the air around him with tiny sparks and cut the tensions that lingered from her fight with her father.

“I sent you to those schools around the world to prepare you for this. You won’t fail.” Brice lifted his glass to his son. “To my son, the future of Adorn. May you both prosper for generations to come.”

“Here. Here.” Felix raised his refilled Glenlivet and drained half.

“Congratulations, Bronson.” Larkin clinked her water glass to his, sipped, and turned to Brice. “Are you planning to retire?” Both her father and Brice were getting on in age, but the diamond supplier for most of the world for the past five decades didn’t seem the type to let go so easily.

“In a year, after Bronson learns his role at the top. He’s done well from the ground up. I don’t see a reason for him to falter now.” He nodded. “Bitsy and I want to see the world—like your old man—while we can still get around.”

“Well, congratulations to you both.” It was great for their family, but immediately, Larkin’s thoughts flew to her newly formed board and the man at the heart of it, who was retiring in a year.

“Don’t you start worrying.” Brice patted the table. “I can make time for quarterly board meetings. After we get things ironed out, I’m sure that’s all we’ll be meeting.”

“Am I that transparent?” She smiled to keep from frowning.

“That business minded,” Brice corrected. “It’s not a bad thing, but too much work isn’t good for the soul.”

Her father spouted off about how much his travels had eased his burdens. As though the man had worked hard a day in his life. Larkin tuned out the men and stared at her plate, totally disinterested in the fare.

“I have another reason for wanting to see you in person,” Bronson whispered.

“Oh, yeah?” She grinned, happy for the distraction.

“It’ll help in the soul saving department.”

“Sounds illegal. Aren’t us rich kids destined for the devil?” She giggled to mask the truth of the matter.

For most of her friends, money meant dealing with absentee parents and all the troubles that accrued. One of them had OD’d before her eighteenth birthday. Another had been raped by her uncle from the age of nine until she killed herself at fourteen. Only the strong and lucky made it to adulthood without a major addiction or criminal records. Brice had been wise to send his son away.

“No.” Bronson scooted to the edge of his chair and grabbed her hand. “My family is throwing me a welcome home party Saturday at the Waldorf. Be my date?”

Whoa, she hadn’t seen that one coming. Hell, she hadn’t seen any of this coming. What harm would attending a party with one of her oldest friends do?

“I thought it was closed for renovations,” she hedged.

“It is.” His smile was bright and radiated arrogance, but somehow, it worked for him.

“But when your dad is the patriarch of a diamond business who has sent thousands of newly engaged brides to the Waldorf’s doorstep for gluttonously lavish weddings, they make accommodations.”

“Something like that.” He chuckled and placed his other hand atop hers. “What do you say?”

“If you promise to slay any dragons we come across.”

“It’ll be my honor.” He raised her hand to his lips. His hot lips pressed against the back. A long sweeping gaze assessed her.

Men had appraised her over every day of her life since puberty. Some ogled. Some looked for the angle to her money. Some sized her up as a business opponent. Some scoffed at her position in her company until she proved she’d earned it.

This look was none she’d seen before. It scared her almost as much as her father’s newfound anger.

“Success looks good on you, Larkin.”

“You haven’t seen me pre-makeup and caffeine.” She chuckled.

“Not yet, but I’d welcome the pleasure.”