I’m stuck talking to a friend of my father’s when I see her. She’s heading right for me, her stony expression saying it all: she’s coming to apologize—more like grovel. I smirk.

I lay a hand on Gerry’s arm, interrupting some boring story about a hunting trip he took with my father eons ago. “Pardon me, but I see someone I need to speak to.”

“I have my eye on another scotch, anyway,” Gerry says, heading for the bar.

I twist my head back toward the young woman weaving her way toward me. Her approach is slow as she navigates the thick crowd. The European Paintings Wing—or Stratton Wing now—was much narrower than the lofty Great Hall.

“So,” I say once she’s in earshot, “have you come to—”

I stop as Peter Nassau materializes out of the crowd to my left. He gives me an apologetic look.

“Forgive the interruption, Mr. Stratton, but I want to introduce a colleague of mine.” He motions to an older woman standing slightly behind her. “This is Marisa Barrister, Director of Development.”

The woman moves forward and extends a hand in my direction. I notice the other hand is resting on her colleague’s back. Had she pushed the younger woman over here?

My smirk deepens.

I take her limp hand and tilt my head down. “Marisa.”

“I believe Marisa has something she’d like to discuss with you.” Peter’s attention goes over my shoulder, and he gives a small nod. “I’m so sorry,” he says, turning back to me, “but I believe I’m needed for a photo.”

Marisa pounces on me the moment Peter leaves. “Mr. Stratton, what an honor. Thank you for coming here tonight and for all the support your family has shown the museum over the past decade. I, myself, have met your father a few times over the years, and…”

I lose interest; this is exactly why I despise high-profile events. Overly thankful staff, gushing testimonials about how wonderful my father is, and boring conversations. I’d rather be putting in hours at the office or sipping a few fingers of whiskey at Cleo’s.

My attention glides over to my mystery woman, silent and still. Her eyes are trained on her loquacious boss, feigning interest, but I can tell she feels my stare.

I turn back to Miranda or Mindy—whatever her name is. “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Could you please introduce me to your colleague?”

“I’m so sorry! This our Associate Director of Annual Giving, Quinn—”

“Marisa!” a woman squeals behind me, making me flinch.

Marisa breaks out a megawatt smile. “Kiki? It’s been ages!”

A platinum blonde appears at my side and throws herself into Marisa’s arms. “I have so much to tell you,” she gushes in Marisa’s face. Then she turns, realizes who I am, and smiles…I think. Her face barely moves from all the Botox. “But don’t let me interrupt.”

“Please do. I was just about to speak to…Quinn about something, anyway.”

Quinn bites her lip.

“Are you sure?” Marisa asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, praying she takes the suggestion.

“Come on, Marisa. I won’t tear you away for long,” Kiki promises.

My prayers are answered when Marisa links arms with the blonde. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stratton. You’re in good hands with Quinn; she’s one of our best,” she says with a wink.

“I don’t doubt it,” I murmur, my eyes already locked on “the best”. Quinn glances up for the first time to meet my gaze.

“I’ll take that apology now,” I say, once Marisa and Kiki are out of earshot.

“What?”

“Your apology. I’m ready for it.” I cross my arms over my chest and put on my best shit-eating grin.

“I’m…sorry,” she says through gritted teeth.

I wait for her to go on, but she seems to be done. My temper flares. “I don’t think you realize how badly you screwed up.”

“Are you going to tell Marisa or Peter about our conversation?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’m not petty.”

She snorts.

“But I’m not not above getting the apology I rightfully deserve,” I finish. I glance at my watch. “Out with it. I don’t have time to spend all night talking to a museum employee.”

“I said I was sorry,” she snaps.

“Doesn’t sound like an apology to me.”

She glares at me. “What I said back there…it was secondhand information. I was nervous, and I tend to chatter when I’m nervous, and then you kept asking me about it—”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?” I demand.

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“Well, I think it’s immature and rude of you to spread lies about someone whom you’ve never met. Highly irresponsible.”

“I think you’re taking this the wrong way—”

“Don’t tell me what I think, woman.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “My name is Quinn.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not ‘woman,’ not ‘girl,’ not ‘museum employee,’” she says in a low voice, “but Quinn.”

“I see…” I look at her, really look at her, for the first time. Her cheeks are flushed, her emerald-green eyes sparkling, her lips twisted in a sexy pout. She’d be beautiful, if not for the indignation radiating off her in waves.

Exactly what have I done other than show up tonight? Isn’t she the one who laid waste to my pride with those scathing opinions? I’m Archer Léon Stratton for fuck’s sake. Who the hell is she?

“Well, Quinn,” I growl, “I think you’re a gullible woman, who as an museum employee, should know better than to toss falsehoods around like some naive girl.”

Her indignation turns to rage before my eyes.

“Now you know how I feel,” I say, pleased. “Sucks to have someone talk shit about you, huh?”

“I never—”

We find ourselves joined by a willowy blonde in a pink froufrou dress. “Won’t you introduce me?” she coos. She may be talking to Quinn, but her attention’s on me.

Quinn runs a hand over her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose hard. When she looks up again, her lips are stretched into a strained smile, not a trace of anger left on her face. “Absolutely,” she says with fake enthusiasm. “Archer Stratton, this is my colleague, Valerie Winter.”

“What a pleasure, Mr. Stratton. I’ve been dying to meet you,” she says, offering me a delicate hand. I take it, stroking the top of her hand softly with my thumb as we shake.

“Ms. Winter. But, please, call me Archer.”

“And I’d be delighted if you called me Valerie,” she simpers.

I smirk. She’s pretty and knows it. I’ve had plenty of women just like her: obsessed with themselves, vapid, self-esteem somewhere in the depths of the Grand Canyon. Always a great lay, but not very compelling outside the bedroom.

“I’d love to be introduced to your date as well,” Valerie says.

Doesn’t waste any time, I see. “I didn’t bring one,” I admit.

“I don’t believe it! A gorgeous man like you? Dateless?”

Quinn snorts. I ignore her. “I don’t date.”

“Why not?”

“Too complicated.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right woman yet…” Valerie suggests.

Quinn tries to hide her sniggering behind a cough, but I hear it.

“Doubt it,” I say to Valerie. “All women are complicated. It’s easier not to get involved.”

Valerie pouts. “That sounds like a pretty lonely existence.”

I shrug. “It’s how I prefer things. Work is my only concern, and anything that interrupts or competes is secondary. Women included,” I add.

Quinn jerks her head up. “You’re telling me that everything comes second to work.”

“I guess,” I say.

She scoffs. “Bullshit.”

Valerie’s eyes almost pop out of her head. “Quinn!” she hisses.

“What about family?” Quinn asks, ignoring her colleague.

I stare at her. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She rolls her eyes. “That’s a yes. You should be ashamed of believing that.”

“I’m thirsty,” Valerie says. She tugs at Quinn’s arm. “Would you go get us—”

“I’m not ashamed of anything,” I cut in. “Work is steady, and constant, and—”

“So is family,” Quinn cries, “because they love you, and love is constant. You may love your work, but it doesn’t love you back.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Ambition is a poor substitute for family or a life partner.”

Valerie lays a hand on my arm. “Let me steal you away for a mome—”

“Yeah, I love my work,” I argue, shrugging her off, “but so do you. You said so yourself only hours ago. Would you sacrifice that for something as stupid as love? For a man?”

Quinn steps toward me and looks straight into my eyes. I know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth.

“Yes,” she says plainly. “Without a second thought.”

I hold her gaze, unable to look away. “Then you’re an idiot.”

“Boy, is it hot in here?” Valerie fans her face with her hand.

Quinn blinks and drags her eyes from mine. I suddenly feel hollow and empty. That was the second most interesting conversation I’ve had in a while.

“I’d really love to continue this…fascinating conversation,” Valerie says, throwing a nasty look at Quinn, “but I’ve been dying to ask you about your family’s interests at the museum, Archer. Your father’s done great things over the years, but what are you interested in? Let me tell you about…”

I find myself growing restless as Valerie drones on, and my attention soon wanders back to Quinn. A soft smile tugs at her lips as she listens to her colleague, suggesting polite interest, but her hands betray her. They twist and tug and pull at the soft fabric of her dress in quick, sporadic bursts.

I find Quinn’s thoughts on love and family to be ridiculously childish and naive; in fact, that about sums up my impression of her. She’s just this inexperienced, soft, innocent girl who believes the world’s just a bunch of sunshine and rainbows. Too bad the world’s actually a long rat race, and the sooner she figures that out, the sooner she can get out of her own way.

Marisa’s return saves me from the chore of deflecting Valerie’s not-so-veiled beeline for my bank account.

“Hello, dears, I’m back!” Marisa sings as she wedges herself into the circle, forcing Quinn to move closer to me. By the way she’s worrying her bottom lip, I say she’s finding this new arrangement as disagreeable as I do.

Marisa squeezes Valerie’s arm. “Ah! I see you’ve met my other protégée. Isn’t she wonderful?”

I grimace a response, my attention consumed by not touching Quinn.

“What have you three been chatting about?” Marisa asks. “I hope my dream team has been filling you in on all things museum?”

“I was just talking to Archer about the impact that this wing renovation has had on the whole museum,” Valerie exclaims.

Quinn brushes my arm as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“But of course, I could never put it like you, Marisa,” Valerie coos.

Marisa preens under the compliment. “I’d be happy to fill you in. Valerie is right, this wing renovation has opened up our eyes. We now see how much more is needed…”

A few minutes later, Quinn stirs. “Excuse me,” she murmurs before quietly slipping away. I watch her weave through the crowd, stepping around guests and darting through gaps with grace. Then her purple gown melts into the sea of people gossiping and laughing around me, and I turn my attention back to the two ladies jabbering on in front of me.

Fuckin’ hell…