An elegant woman in shocking pink materialized at Liam's elbow. She had that specific brand of preserved beauty that came from excellent genes and even better aesthetics treatments—sharp cheekbones, perfect blonde highlights, predatory smile. Somewhere north of fifty but fighting it with everything money could buy. Her eyes swept over Libby with the kind of assessment that catalogued everything from her dress to her drug-store mascara in under two seconds.
"Liam, darling, you're finally here!" She air-kissed him with practiced precision. "Your mother said you might skip it this year."
"Kate," Liam acknowledged with perfect politeness that somehow conveyed distance. "I didn't realize the Bruins organization was attending."
"Oh, I'm here in a personal capacity. Your mother and I have that charity board meeting next week, and she insisted I come see how the Steel Foundation does things." Kate's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "And this must be the little reporter everyone's talking about! How brave of you to cover such ademanding beat. All those complicated statistics must be so challenging for someone from... where was it? Springfield?"
"Yes, we small-town folks struggle with numbers above ten," Libby replied sweetly. "We have to take off our shoes to count higher."
Liam made a sound that might have been a cough.
Kate's smile sharpened. "How charming. That dress is so interesting—vintage? I love how some girls can make last season's sales work. The Davenport Foundation is always looking to support eco-friendly initiatives."
"Kate," Liam said, his tone carrying a warning.
"What? I'm being friendly!" Kate protested with false innocence before sailing away.
Libby grabbed another champagne from a passing tray.
"That's your third," Liam observed.
"Are you counting my drinks?"
"I notice patterns. It's what I do." He paused. "There's food in the side salon if you need something solid."
Was Liam D'Arcy actually being... considerate? The champagne was definitely affecting her judgment.
"Libby!" Gray Wickham appeared, flashing his megawatt smile, though she noticed a subtle sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the perfect climate control. "You look absolutely stunning. D'Arcy, didn't expect to see you mixing with the common people."
Liam's expression cooled several degrees. "Wickham."
"Come on, Libby," Gray said, taking her elbow. "Let me show you the real party. The high-roller tables are in the other room." He signaled a waiter. "Two of your top-shelf whiskeys—put it on the Steel's tab, they won't mind."
Libby raised an eyebrow at his presumption, but Gray just shrugged with practiced charm. "Perks of being the enemy—they can't be inhospitable during a charity event."
As he guided her away, Libby glanced back to see Liam watching them go, his expression unreadable.
The side room was even more opulent, with serious-faced dealers running poker tables where the buy-ins started at numbers that made Libby's eyes water. She recognized several team owners, a few celebrities, and enough accumulated wealth to solve Springfield's budget crisis ten times over.
"Come on, one hand," Gray insisted, pulling out a chair at one of the tables. "Live a little."
"I don't really play poker," Libby protested.
"Even better—beginner's luck!" Gray's phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He ignored it, but Libby noticed his jaw tighten. "Besides, it's all for charity. Tax write-off for these people."
A Portland player appeared at Gray's shoulder. "That guy from the card room was looking for you."
A faint red tint appeared across Gray's cheekbones. "I'll find him later," he said with easy charm, though his hand tightened slightly on his glass.
The player shrugged and moved off. Gray's phone buzzed again.
"Everything okay?" Libby asked.
"Of course," Gray said. "You know what? You should definitely play. I'll stake you—just for fun."
Before she could protest, he was pushing chips toward her. The dealer—expression professionally blank—began shuffling. Libby looked at the chips, trying to calculate their value, but the denominations weren't clearly marked and the champagne was making everything slightly fuzzy.
"I really shouldn't?—"
