“You’ve done your research.”
She glanced away from him, shrugging a slim shoulder. “My sister, Angelique, is a computer science whiz. When she discovered I worked with you, she might’ve raved about you. Fair warning. My parents didn’t allow her to attend this party, but I can’t promise she might not crash it anyway just to meet you. I’m not saying she’s a stalker, just very enthusia—”
“Mycah.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and finger, turning her head back to him. Her lips parted, trembled, and heat flashed in her dark eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For wanting to defend me.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “With information received from your stalker little sister.”
Mycah laughed, and he chuckled with her.
“Achilles, Mycah. Dinner is ready to be served.” Cherise appeared next to them, her gaze zeroing in on his hand still gripping her daughter’s face. He slowly released Mycah, turning to meet her mother’s narrowed eyes. “As our special guest, we’ve reserved a place of honor at our table for you.”
Achilles didn’t trust that smile or the cold gleam in her eyes. And forty-five minutes later, he knew he’d been right to trust his instincts.
The “place of honor” was a seat at the far end of the table stuck between the gallery owner with several failing shows on his left and the aging society maven on his right... Or the maven would’ve been on his right if Mycah hadn’t insisted on switching with her much to the barely contained fury of her parents. Achilles hadn’t been privy to the brief but furiously hushed conversation, but from the glares they’d shot his way, Laurence and Cherise had placed the blame of their daughter’s etiquette rebellion squarely on his shoulders.
“So, Achilles, tell us,” Cherise said, her voice clear and loud in the sudden silence of the dining room. Over twenty-five pairs of eyes focused on him, and though frigid skeletal fingers crept over his skin, he calmly met her gaze. “How are you enjoying Boston? It must be so different from...Seattle, is it? That is where you’re from, right?”
Achilles set his spoon down next to the chocolate cherry mousse that had been set in front of him moments earlier and centered his attention on Cherise. Because only a fool didn’t direct all his focus on a snake when he came face-to-face with one.
“I was born and raised in Seattle, yes, but I’ve lived in Tacoma for the past few years. As far as Boston, it’s a beautiful city. Same as Seattle. They have their similarities. Some differences, too.”
“Similarities?” Laurence chuckled, surveying his guests as if polling them. “How so?”
“Both cities have a lot to offer as far as culture, arts and business. Their histories are different but proud and they’re rich in ethnically diverse neighborhoods. Classism exists, but for the most part, at least from my experience, the people are the heart of each city.”
Only a lone uncomfortable cough from somewhere to Achilles’s left broke the thick silence. Even from the length of the long dining table, he caught the tightening of Laurence’s mouth and the flash of anger in his hazel eyes. But then he laughed again, leaning back in his chair.
Beside Achilles, Mycah stiffened, the cadence of her breath shifting. Almost as if she were warning him. But he didn’t need her to caution him.
Italian suit or orange jumpsuit. Glenlivet or Wild Irish Rose. Socioeconomic differences didn’t matter. Predators were predators. He’d been educated long ago on how to handle them.
And he’d graduated with honors.
“Still, this must be all so new to you. This world.Ourworld.” Laurence waved a hand, gesturing toward the crystal chandeliers suspended above the table, his bejeweled guests. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your mother a...waitress?”
Rage poured through him. When Laurence had said “waitress,” the connotation had been synonymous withprostitute. The bastard had said it that way on purpose, seeking a reaction from Achilles. No doubt attempting to get the Feral Farrell to make an appearance for his guests. And from the low murmuring around the table—not to mention the smug smile Laurence didn’t even try to hide—they were eating it up.
“Dad, this isn’t—”
Achilles closed his hand over Mycah’s.
“Yes, my mother was a waitress,” Achilles said, none of the fury that roared inside him evident in his tone. “Just as your great-grandmother was a domestic. And your grandmother—” he glanced at Cherise “—was a server in a speakeasy.” He ignored the gasps that echoed in the room and deliberately picked up his spoon and slid a serving of mousse into his mouth. He paused and savored it as if the dessert was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten, but in reality, it tasted like a mouthful of ashes. “They were admirable professions that all three of us should be proud of because of the women who worked hard to provide for their families and made sure they didn’t go without.”
“Damn,” Mycah whispered next to him.
Yeah, Achilles silently snorted. Damn. Computers were his life, and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do with them—or find on them.
“There’s a big difference between your waitress mother and our ancestors, isn’t there?” Cherise sniped, anger threading through her voice. “What happened with Barron Farrell? She must’ve thought she hit the jackpot when she met him. And yet she ended up stuck in some truck stop. Abandoned.”
“Mother,” Mycah snapped from beside him. “What the hell?”
Cherise gasped. “Mycah, excuse me?”
“No, I won’t. Achilles is a guest in our home.”
A sneer curled her mother’s mouth, curdling her beauty into something spoiled, ugly. “Oh, please—”
