“Nina is like a sister to me!” Sam glared at him. “She would never blow our cover. She’ll take my secrets to the grave.”

Marshall threw up his hands, chuckling. “Okay, jeez. You’re talking like the characters from Pledged.”

Sam was oddly irritated by the reference to Kelsey’s show. “That’s insulting,” she said haughtily. “My vocabulary is leagues above their garbage dialogue.”

“Fair point. No one watches Pledged for the banter.” Marshall came to sit next to her, clasping his hands around his knees. “Nice pool,” he added. “It’s almost as big as the one at our Napa house.”

“A giant pool in a drought-prone region? No wonder everyone in Orange likes you so much!”

He smiled appreciatively. From somewhere in the vicinity, a bird called out a few notes of song, then fell silent. Sam kicked listlessly at the water.

“Jeff and I used to come out here all the time when we were kids,” she went on, almost to herself. “We were always racing, or playing pirates, or whacking each other mercilessly with pool noodles.”

She wasn’t sure when the competitive streak between her and Jeff had begun. Maybe it came from being a twin, feeling that she and her brother were always jostling for attention, for space. Or maybe because the entire world kept reminding her that she mattered so much less than Beatrice. Whatever the reason, Sam was constantly challenging Jeff to something—bungee jumping or a ski race, beer chugging or even their childhood games of Candyland.

Marshall smiled. “My sister Rory used to make up these elaborate pool games that involved floating basketballs and relay races and more rules than anyone could keep track of. Sometimes I think she changed the rules mid-game just to ensure that she’d win.” His eyes lit on Sam. “You two would get along.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam agreed. “If I was playing pool games against a varsity swimmer, I would definitely cheat.”

“I play water polo, actually. That’s where my broken nose came from.”

She looked over at Marshall’s profile. His nose did have a slight bend, but in a serious, Roman way. “Your nose is distinguished,” she decided. “It has character.”

“Try telling my family that. My mom must have tried a thousand times to get me to quit. She said water polo is the sport of hooligans.”

“Has she seen ice hockey?” Sam quipped, and he barked out a laugh.

The heavy spring darkness closed around them, the only illumination coming from the lights embedded in the sides of the pool. Sam’s toes, painted a bright watermelon pink, glowed beneath the surface of the water.

“I don’t know why I thought you were a swimmer.” She cast him another sidelong glance, her voice ringing with amusement. “Didn’t you challenge the Duke of Sussex to a swim race in Vegas?”

“It was the Duke of Cambridge, actually, and he challenged me.” Marshall’s eyes gleamed at the memory. “When the paparazzi got wind of it, his younger brother was the one who took the fall.”

“That’s what the spare is for, isn’t it?” Somehow the question came out with less bitterness than usual.

Marshall didn’t contradict her. “I guess the British didn’t want to hear about their future king betting on a late-night swim race, especially not against a notorious hedonist like me.”

The words were cavalier, yet something in them made Sam wonder if Marshall was growing as tired of his party-boy image as she was of hers.

“So, who won? I assume you upheld our national honor before the Brits?”

His mouth tugged up at the corner. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Oh my god,” Sam cried out. “He beat you, didn’t he?”

Marshall seemed to be struggling against an outraged protest. “I’d had a lot of beers that night, okay? And I didn’t have my swim cap—”

“Of course, your swim cap,” Sam said knowingly. “I suppose the duke was more aerodynamic, since he’s balding?”

“I tried to challenge him to a rematch, but he wouldn’t accept!”

She burst out laughing, and then Marshall was laughing too: that low, rumbling laugh of his. It seemed to weave a hushed spell around them.

“You want to head back?” Marshall said at last, rising to his feet.

“Sure.” Sam nodded—but before she could stand, Marshall put his hands on her back and shoved her into the pool, dress and all.

She gave a startled yelp as she tumbled forward. Then the water closed over her head, and everything was suddenly hushed, and languid, and warm.

Sam shot back up into the moonlight, spluttering as she whirled on Marshall. “I can’t believe you!”

“Oops,” he said brightly, and held out a hand to help her out.

“Thanks.” Sam leaned forward, reaching for his hand.

Then she braced her legs on the side of the pool and yanked Marshall into the water alongside her.

He broke the surface with a powerful kick and shook his head, spraying water droplets from his close-cropped dark curls. Sam sensed that it was a habitual movement, something he’d done a thousand times during water polo games. He was still wearing his button-down and jeans, and the fabric of his wet shirt clung to the muscles of his arms, settled distractingly in the curve of his throat.

A slow, eager grin curled over his face. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”

Sam squealed in delight as he lunged toward her. She kicked frantically back out of his reach, the two of them chasing each other in an exhilarating zigzag. The pool echoed with their splashing laughter.

Marshall caught her ankle and began dragging her back toward him. Sam sucked in a breath as they slipped, wrestling, under the water. He kicked them forward, holding Sam tight against him, though she was no longer trying to escape.

Suddenly their faces were close, their bodies intertwined. Sam could see each individual water droplet in the fan of his eyelashes, glittering like liquid stars.

Marshall must have felt the shift in her, because he went still, too.

It was shallow enough for Sam to stand, yet she stayed where she was, floating in a strange, enchanted sort of stillness. Her dark hair fell riotously over one shoulder, like a mermaid’s. One of Marshall’s hands had looped beneath her legs, the other braced behind her back, yet his hands seemed to drift over her with only a whisper of a touch.

Marshall reached up, tucking back one of her damp curls. Then he brushed his lips lightly over hers.

All too quickly he’d moved on, tracing teasing kisses along her jawline, nipping at the flushed skin below her ear. Sam circled her fingers around Marshall’s neck, trying to catch his mouth with her own. His grip on her waist tightened.

Finally his lips found hers again. Sam kissed him back urgently, feverishly. She had shifted, her legs wrapped around his torso, her bare thighs circling the wet scratchy denim of his jeans. His palms slid farther, to settle on her lower back. They seemed to scorch her everywhere they touched—

At the sound of raucous shouts, her head shot up.

She twisted out of Marshall’s arms and looked behind her, to where the gate to the gravel path stood wide open. A flock of partygoers had spilled onto the terrace and were staring at Sam and Marshall’s tangled forms with hungry curiosity. Sam caught the unmistakable flash of photos being taken.

Before the party, she had instructed the front drive not to bother with collecting everyone’s phones the way they usually did. The head of security had argued, of course, but the only person who outranked Sam, and could countermand a direct order from her, was in Boston right now. Sam had wanted her guests to take a lot of pictures tonight—preferably pictures of her and Marshall that would make Teddy burn with jealousy.

It looked like her wish had come true.

Sam lifted her eyes to meet Marshall’s, but she didn’t see shock or outrage or even regret on his face. All she saw was a guarded sort of amusement. And the realization hit her like a blow—he’d been facing the right direction, had seen all those people. That kiss hadn’t been for Sam’s benefit, but for theirs.

Sam forced her lips to bend into a smile. She let go of Marshall, stepping back and adjusting the straps of her dress as if she hardly noticed she was wearing it.

“Nice work,” she said softly. “We put on a good show, didn’t we?”

She managed to inject the words with her usual cavalier nonchalance. It wasn’t hard. Sam was very good at pretending that things didn’t matter to her.

She’d been doing it for most of her lifetime.

“Where are you taking me?” Beatrice followed Teddy across Walthorpe’s back lawn, toward a wooden, barnlike structure that she’d assumed was a garage.

“You’ll see,” he replied, with that eager dimpled smile that seemed to light up the room.

It struck Beatrice that something fundamental in their relationship had shifted. This walk out to the barn was not at all the same as when they’d walked into Walthorpe together just a few hours ago—before they’d shared such secrets with each other.