CHAPTER 9
Vaughn
There was always the danger, with an early September gala, that the ballroom would end up looking like autumn had vomited. The party planner I’d used a few years ago had gone so overboard with decorative gourds that I was concerned for the structural integrity of the side tables, to say nothing of my guests’ aesthetics.
But Charlotte Fox was as good at her job as her brother claimed to be at his. The décor was perfectly balanced between elegance and modernity—exactly the message I wished to send about the Vaughn Foundation and our pursuits. In the entryway were huge bouquets of pink, orange, red, and yellow cockscomb, their muscular stems, intricate folds, and fiery hues a dramatic welcome to the gala, evoking the turning leaves without being as literal as the decorative gourds.
The long banquet table was patterned with lines of sticks, each with a square of chocolate tied to it. Guests’ names and table numbers were printed on the chocolate’s paper wrapper, with a note that told guests they’d see what to do with it when they arrived at their tables.
The tables were draped with flannel tablecloths in subtle, elegant plaids. Centerpieces were made up to look like tiny campfires, with pieces of wood and kindling cleverly arranged around enclosed burners that looked like flames. Each plate was a circle of wood, as if a log had been sliced like cookie dough, and piled on the plaid tablecloths were large, homemade marshmallows, each one branded with a familiar VF, and stacks of perfectly-formed hand-baked graham crackers, as well as more chocolate.
Already, guests were gathering at their tables, fitting the marshmallows onto the sticks they’d carried in from the foyer, and toasting them over the centerpieces’ flames, sharing s’mores as gleefully as children. It was a masterful job of creating an immediate sense of community, fun, and anticipation, all from a stick and a snack. I had never seen as many smiles at a charity function before the bar was half tapped. I made a mental note to engage Charlotte Fox for every foreseeable event, even if I never saw her brother again.
And it seemed like that might be a very real possibility, given the way we’d last parted.
You’re a liar.
Will’s words echoed in my head, feeling as immediate now as they had when he speared me with them after we’d shared some of the hottest sex of my life. Of Will’s too, I was willing to bet, if the way he’d clawed at my desk and begged me for more was any indication.
But apparently although he would fuck a liar, he wouldn’t go out on a date with one.
It wasn’t the way things usually went. In fact, over the years I’d gotten so used to partners who were after me because of my money or my family’s position that I’d often defaulted to sex just to avoid the complications that came with dating. And, all right, the heartache that came with finding out that people you thought cared about you viewed you instead as a means to, well…means.
When Valerie and I had first transitioned from friends to lovers, we’d been twenty-four. I was fresh out of business school and she’d just gotten her first position at Holcum and Whitt. We’d known each other since we were children, always running around in the gardens of estates where our parents had taken us to parties, or playing hide-and-seek in the museum hallways during benefits.
It had just happened one day. We’d been down at the lake, lounging on the dock, and the sun had lit the droplets of water in her ash blonde hair like a halo. Her shoulders had been sunburnt from the day before and she was teasing me, pushing at my shoulder and rolling her eyes. And suddenly, for the first time, she was different. She wasn’t my friend, Val, whom I’d known forever. She was beautiful, her very being changed suddenly.
It was the longest relationship I’d ever had. I was convinced that had been in part because we were already such good friends, and in part because for four months of it, Val had been in New York. We had been good together. A good team. But while we’d had a deep affection for one another, and were very sexually compatible, we weren’t…in love. Certainly, we bickered enough that our friends joked we’d be married by Christmas, but our fights were the moments we were most passionate about our relationship. For the most part, we were invested in one another’s happiness more than we were in our happiness together. And so, after a year and a half, we’d parted ways with a wistful sadness—regret for how perfect it would’ve been if we’d been able to translate a deep friendship into a lifelong romance and partnership. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. And we’d known it would have soured if we’d kept on past the expiration date. Her friendship was still precious to me, and I was so happy when she’d found Dallas Fairbanks.
Unfortunately, I’d never been as lucky again.
After Val, I’d dated widely and shallowly, as if I were making a point to anyone who was watching that I wasn’t simply a prize to be won, or a meal ticket. But my next relationships all crashed and burned, or fizzled out—some in a few weeks and some a few months, but most never even lasted long enough to be considered relationships at all.
There was Terrence, the stockbroker who’d wanted me to fuck him on a bed strewn with hundred dollar bills. Millie, the lawyer who’d worked so much that we didn’t actually see each other, merely texted back and forth to make and break dates for two months. Dhruv, a flight attendant who’d taken an interest in me during a brief period of frequent flights between D.C. and Houston, where he was based. Jonathan, whom I’d thought was a fundraiser and turned out to be a party promoter, with all the scare quotes the title implied, who was trawling for investors. And designer drugs. Sharon, who’d been sweet, but clearly had no interest in me sexually. Her mother, it turned out, had encouraged her to get involved with me, hoping we’d marry and help with her debts.
After Tucker, who thought I was looking to play sugar daddy in exchange for an escort to parties, I went into self-imposed dating hibernation for a few years. It wasn’t as if it was something I actively enjoyed, after all. I liked people a great deal, but I was always more interested in figuring them out, like solving a puzzle. It was easy for me to be charming and ingratiating—after all, it wasn’t just my job; it was basically my birthright. But it was no fun figuring people out when all they were after was money. That really was my job. And I didn’t actually need to turn on the charm, since anyone who wanted my money wanted it in spite of my temperament.
No, one-night stands in neutral locations and platonic friends to accompany me to social engagements had served me just fine for years.
Until I’d met William Fox, who had somehow distinguished himself from all those one-night stands before the night was even over. And now, rather than me turning heel and leaving as soon as it was polite to do so, he was the one who had made it clear that he had no interest in our further acquaintance. No interest in getting to know me, though I was now more intrigued by him than anyone I could remember.
Because he was smart, and decent, and somehow still kind, even in his line of work. Because he wore terrible suits but still looked gorgeous, like a fine present in a wrapping of newsprint. Because he was ever so slightly awkward and terrible at flirting, or even being flirted with. Because his mouth and his scent and his body did things to me that no one’s ever had before.
Because he upheld the law, and I flouted it. Oh, not just because of my extracurricular activities with regards to art. I’d simply never had to play by the rules. Growing up with the might of the Vaughn name and bank balance behind me had let me know from a very early age that there was no law you couldn’t sidestep, no rule you couldn’t bend. The world wasn’t regulated, as we were meant to believe. That was just a convenient fiction we all perpetuated because the alternative was to acknowledge how very little we could depend on.
I could feel a fog of melancholy descending so I shook it off and made myself begin the rounds of greetings. Many of the partygoers were people I’d known much of my life, who’d been attending the annual galas since their inception. A few were even friends of my parents who’d known me since I was a boy.
A flash of red in my periphery had me turning to see James Novack, art forger extraordinaire, sweep into the hall with two friends. He wore black jeans and a bright red sweater, and when he caught my eye, he dipped his chin to me in greeting, flipping his tousled hair. Then he turned back to his friends and they found their places at one of the tables where students had been seated. As he sat down, he caught my eye again, and casually hooked a finger in the collar of his red sweater, and then he winked at me. Scarlet. He’d worn a sweater the color of the paint I’d told him Meredith Palmer edged her greens with. I had to give the little shit credit for a stylish play. He was proving to be very interesting indeed.
I signaled to Charlotte that she should start the appetizers circulating, and watched to see people’s reactions to the food. Charlotte’s caterer was one I hadn’t used before and I hadn’t had the time to sample the menu, instead giving her the go-ahead via text, but the trays coming out of the kitchen looked beautiful and people seemed impressed.
Butternut squash tartlets with fried sage leaves; a trio of bite-sized adult PB&Js—almond butter and blueberry jam, peanut butter and strawberry preserves, and cashew butter with fig spread; slices of roasted parsnip spread with white-bean puree; puff pastry parcels of smoked salmon, cream cheese, and capers; slices of perfectly pink roast beef dotted with spicy mustard and black garlic aioli; golden-brown balls of fried pumpkin risotto topped with a fluff of shaved asiago cheese. The platters emptied within minutes and I caught a glimpse of Charlotte walking briskly back toward the kitchen to signal the second wave.
I was considering sneaking into the kitchen myself, to sample the food before the whole night passed without me trying anything, but as I turned in that direction, I saw him.
William Fox. Standing at the entrance hall, his hands clasped behind his back completely spoiling the line of what was a far better-cut suit than anything I’d seen him in previously. It was a chocolate brown that made his coloring look warm and somehow more delicate than I’d noticed he was. I had no doubt Charlotte had picked it out for him, and probably the light blue shirt as well.
Suddenly self-conscious, I slid the paper with the points I needed to make during my speech into the pocket of my vest and ran a hand over my hair, which was queued back tightly. My dove gray Chittleborough and Morgan was tailored perfectly, from the Milanese buttonholes to the pick stitching. There was a slight sheen to the fabric, silk lending an airiness to the soft vicuña wool, that made my light eyes sparkle and my hair glimmer. I knew I looked perfect. So why didn’t I feel it?
I’d hoped he might show up—had made it clear to Charlotte that she should feel free to extend a plus-one of her choosing, knowing she would choose him. I thought again, as I had at Oakley’s party and at Val’s wedding, how out of place William looked in this world. But then, perhaps that was the lot of an FBI agent? Never quite of the milieu in which you spend your time. Always examining it from a detached distance. Always in service of it, or suspicious.
I wondered where in the world William Fox felt completely, totally comfortable. Absolutely himself. And damned if I didn’t want to see what it was like to be there with him.