Good thing daddy’s little girl takes after her mama. A former Victoria’s Secret angel. I remember drooling over thoseSports Illustrated Swimsuitposters as a hormone-crazed teen, thinking I’d marry her someday.
When I finally met her at twenty, I reverted to a slobbering adolescent. She was—is—the epitome of genetic perfection.
Still can’t wrap my head around how she ended up with Madison. Bet she’s got some hot pool boy or tennis coach on the side.
But here’s her daughter, Willow, looking every bit the angel her mother was. She’s everything my little thief isn’t—delicate, fair, big doe eyes oozing innocence. Speaking of which . . . why the hell did that troublesome minx just pop into my mind? Thief is not my baseline for women.
“Quite the show, huh?” I remark, joining Willow at the bar. A quick gesture, and the bartender’s on it, two bourbons making their way to us.
“Connor Quinn in the flesh. The rumors were true. You’re actually here tonight.”
“Willow. It’s always a pleasure,” I shoot back, taking her in. She’s poured into a modest number meant to please Daddy Dearest. Funny, the material reminds me of the black silk my little cat burglar was wearing the night she played me.
Yet another visceral flash I didn’t invite. I force the interloper from my mind, focusing on the woman in front of me.
“Forced to attend as your father’s glamorous plus-one again?”
She offers a wry smile, circling her olive in her glass. “Mother refused duty tonight. I drew the short straw.”
“Then I guess I should be grateful for your ‘misfortune.’ You look stunning, as always.”
She glances up at me with a hint of mischief. “You’re not too hard on the eyes yourself, Mr. Quinn. But I think you already know that.”
“I clean up all right,” I reply, the corners of my mouth ticking up.
“I know your game, Connor Quinn,” she says, a touch of challenge in her tone.
My brow arches. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“Playing nice with the senator’s daughter?”
I let out a low chuckle. “I’m not sure the senator wants me playing with his only daughter.”
Madison talks a big game about family values. The Madisons aren’t just a political clan; they’re a squeaky clean, all-American brand. Willow proudly flaunts her purity ring, “saving” herself for some very lucky bastard down the line.
The bartender slides me another whiskey I don’t need. I knock it back, the burn failing to take the edge off.
“Rough night already?” Willow eyes me skeptically.
“Something like that.” I tap the glass, debating another.
She smiles sympathetically. “I just spent an hour hearing about vacation homes in the Hamptons and which designer does the best interiors. Believe me, I get it.”
She doesn’t. If only shallow conversations with the 1 percent were my biggest problem.
I catch a glimpse of an unwelcome face weaving through the crowd, heading straight for us, and mutter a curse. “Think I could pull off hiding behind that ice swan over there?”
Willow follows my gaze and laughs. “That I’d like to see.”
I grin at her. “Or maybe you could protect me for a while.”
I’m well aware Killian’s going to have my head for this later, but dammit, I’m in self-destruct mode after all the shit of the past few weeks.
She nibbles on her lip. “Hiding behind me might not work so well with you standing out in that Armani. It’s kind of hard to miss you.” Her cheeks flush as her eyes rake over me.
“Well, shit. I don’t want to be distracting,” I joke. “But hey, here’s a better idea. How about I give you a private tour of our brand-new art gallery upstairs? We can escape for a while.”
Willow glances uncertainly at Daddy Dearest before meeting my gaze again. “I’m not sure . . .”
