Chapter 4
Jared smelled the salt in the air as he leaned into the turn and guided the borrowed Ducati Scrambler onto the coastal road. The bike sat low and turned with an effortless perfection. He mentally mapped out all the roads in Palm Beach, searching for the perfect turns. If he rode south, heading for Lake Worth, he could put the Scrambler through her paces on the winding, scenic road. He would keep his speed slow. But that’s what the Scrambler did best.
I could ride her all day. She’s so damn soft.
He grinned beneath his helmet. If he didn’t have to attend a client’s party today, he would have headed back to Finn’s oceanfront bungalow. They’d have shared a beer and laughed about how his friend’s sweet little ride was the softest thing Jared had beneath him in the past month.
Then Finn would turn serious and blame their workload for Jared’s pathetic love life. Too many deals. And don’t get him started on how many businesses they were running. Three restaurants in south Florida. Another in New York. The glass manufacturer in Pittsburgh. Tico Software in New Jersey. Storage centers around the country . . .
Jared leaned into another turn and stopped listening to the imaginary conversation. Work wasn’t keeping him from dating. Although after his little talk over juice in the princess lair, he wasn’t sure “dating” was the correct word. He’d shared meals with women and spent the night with them—naked—but he hadn’t delved into their resumes, examined their online profiles, or endured emotional fireworks over the first cocktail.
He turned north and rode past the mansions that gave Palm Beach Island its “home to the rich and famous” reputation. His love life—or lack thereof—would have to wait until after his client’s party. Yeah, he’d drawn the short straw. And he had a feeling Finn’s offer to let him take the Ducati wouldn’t lessen the pain. He’d spend the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about the bike while shooting the shit at a four-year old’s shindig because her old man had invested half his inheritance in Jared’s fund. He steered the Scrambler away from the ocean and headed for a gated entrance.
Nick Morgan, you’re a pompous bastard. My property is twice this size, but I didn’t add a monster gate.
Beyond the gate, a horseshoe drive led to a mini-Mansion at the crescent’s peak. Old Misner homes built in the Spanish Colonial revival style popular in the 1920s flanked the property. But the owner of this lot had gone with the bigger is best approach. Nick Morgan had filled his piece of real estate with a contemporary mansion. The white house looked like a series of cubes stacked together. Pink streamers and balloons were the only note of color.
Jared parked the motorcycle between a Rolls and a white Honda. Then he pulled off his helmet and headed for the front door. He spotted a flash of color in his peripheral vision and stopped. Glancing over, he saw a pair of wings disappear around the side of the house.
He pocketed the bike keys and moved toward the door. His dread slid away with each step. If there was a fairy in the backyard, Cinderella was probably around somewhere.
Nick, I’d join you for nine holes, but your club tried to take away my cell the last time we played. And I can’t have that.” Jared feigned interest in the silver tub filled with longnecks and ice. As he reached for a bottle, he stole another look out the sliding glass doors. The princesses were posing for pictures while the fairy led a craft project.
“Strict rules about cell phones,” his host quipped.
“How am I supposed to babysit your money and help it grow if I can’t use my phone?” Jared asked.
“Is that your magic weapon?” Nick laughed. “Your phone? I thought you looked at money and it multiplied. I’ve talked to the other guys who’ve parked their inheritance in your fund. We all think you have the magic touch.”
“Or I work damn hard to make sure my deals never fail,” Jared said mildly. Fuck you, I work my ass off felt out of place in his investor’s home. “And my phone’s a big part of that.”
Jared searched the table for a bottle opener while outside on the pool deck, Cinderella smiled at a little girl wearing a matching blue costume. One glance at Lucy in that getup and his desire to shout at his client went down a notch. Although the gown didn’t look like a costume on Lucy. From the long gloves to the tiara perched on her blonde hair, Lucy Linden was the real deal—delicate, regal, and welcoming.
Soft.
Talk about a thought he should hit into the woods with a damn nine iron. Lucy Linden wasn’t a diversion.
“We could discuss my money and your plans to invest in DeVilla’s sugar company out west of town while on the course,” Nick said. “Then I wouldn’t need to invite you to Hope’s party.”
Jared met his client’s gaze over his bottle. “I appreciate the invitation.”
The forty-something dad who pretended that managing his trust fund on and off the golf course amounted to a full-time job grinned. “Well you certainly seem to be enjoying the entertainment. You haven’t taken your eyes off the babe in the blue dress.”
Babe?
Jared raised the beer to his lips and decided to let that one slide. Nick was stating a fact. Lucy was a babe by most men’s definition. Now, if she were his little sister, he’d set business aside and take Nick down a notch. But Lucy wasn’t his.
“Busted,” Jared said and nodded to the T.V. mounted on the opposite wall. A cluster of men, some of Nick’s friends and a few dads who’d brought their kids to the bash, watched the pro on the screen line up a putt. “I’m not big on golf. Plus, I know Cinderella.”
“Taken a look under the petticoats?” Nick shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind a peek, myself.”
Jared frowned, his grip tightening on his beer. Now he couldn’t let that one slip past. “No, she’s—”
“Mr. Morgan,” his best friend’s little sister called from the doorway to the entertainment room. “We’re ready for the cake.”
“Excellent.” Nick set his beer on the table and headed for Lucy. “Why don’t you join us for a few minutes?”
Lucy smiled at her host. “Thank you, but—”
“For a few minutes, Cinderella. They won’t miss you.” Nick moved to Lucy’s side and placed his hand on her lower back.
Her smile cracked. Standing five feet away, Jared knew the second her muscles tensed, leaving her frozen to that spot. His gaze snapped to Nick’s arm, watching as his host’s hold on Lucy drifted lower.
Oh fuck no.
He stepped forward, ready and willing to defend Cinderella. But Lucy moved too, shifting to the side. Their groping host followed. Jared checked his rushing desire to land a swift right hook. He couldn’t golf worth shit, but he knew how to box. Instead of landing a punch, he reached for Lucy’s hand and drew her away from the bastard grabbing her ass.
“Lucy and I can catch up later,” Jared snapped. “She’s my friend.”
“Friends?” Nick’s grin widened. “I’ll see about the cake.”
Jared drew Lucy closer. He refused to let Nick lay another hand on her. If the bastard tried . . . but Nick winked at Jared and then headed for the door.
“Asshole,” Jared muttered. Then he glanced down at Lucy. He was still holding her gloved hand. One step closer and her chest would be touching his. As it was, he had one helluva—fuck, he wouldn’t look down. He wouldn’t sink to Nick Morgan’s level, groping princesses at a kid’s party.
“Yes,” she murmured softly. “He is.”
He stared into her blue eyes and hoped he wouldn’t see tears. If Nick had made Lucy cry . . . shit, Jared would march out there and start throwing punches. With all those kids around, he’d probably need to drag Nick behind the bouncy castle first. But he’d show his host why boxing proved more useful than putting a damn ball into a hole.
“Don’t look at me like that, Jared. I’m fine.” She smiled, but her gaze remained fierce. She was pissed. No doubt about it. Still, he preferred an indignant Cinderella to a weepy one. “You don’t have to—”
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he cut in because he did need to stand up for her. There was no debate. If the Nick Morgans of the world put their hands on her, without invitation and while she was doing her job, he’d take them out, one by one.
“Like what?” Her eyebrows shot up, but her smile didn’t falter.
He leaned closer and whispered, “Me saving you from assholes.”
She let out a low laugh. The deep, husky sound drew him closer and left him wishing their audience—the other parents, guests, and even the kids—would disappear.
“You saved me?” she murmured.
“I told him you’re mine,” he said. “My friend.”
“Thanks, but you could tell that man we’re engaged, just had wild, tantric sex in his shower five minutes ago, and he’d still grab my butt. He has drunk dad hands.”
He felt the soft whisper against his cheek. The smell of vanilla snaked through his senses, leaving him wishing for a taste. But the sound of her voice . . .
“You lost me after wild shower sex,” he murmured. He spotted another one of his clients looking their way and offered a curt nod. He hoped his expression sent a loud and clear “stay away” message. “Did you say drunk dad hands?”
She shrugged. “It happens.” Then she pulled her gloved fingers free. “I need to get back to the party. Hope will want pictures with the cake. It’s an all princesses and fairies on deck moment.”
She stepped back, and he wanted to follow. Her scent, her touch, and her laugh—he wanted more.
“Lucy?” he called after her.
She paused by the door and cocked her head. Her gloved hand rested on the handle.
Leave me a glass slipper.
For what? A chance to run his hands over her ankles, up her toned calf? A tempting fantasy. But the costume didn’t intrigue him. Not like the woman wearing the tiara.
“Lucy, when this is over, you owe me another juice box.”