She stands near the silent auction tables, navy dress hugging curves that her father probably wishes she’d hide. Chestnut hair swept into some complicated updo that probably took her stylist an hour. Emerald eyes that would be stunning if they weren’t so carefully vacant, that false smile every politician’s daughter perfects by age twelve plastered on her pretty lips.
The kind of girl who’s never pumped her own gas, never waited tables, never wondered if she could afford both groceries and rent.
But there’s something else. The way she holds herself, spine a little too straight. The smile that doesn’t quite reach those eyes. And when an older woman in pearls touches her arm, I catch it—the flinch. Barely there, covered almost instantly, but real.
Interesting.
I move closer, positioning myself near the auction table she’s examining. Some hideous vase that costs more than my first car. She leans in to read the description card, and I notice the makeup. Expertly applied, but there—just at her jawline. The slightest discoloration her foundation can’t quite cover.
My fingers tighten around the champagne flute.
“The Qing dynasty piece?” I keep my voice light. “Overpriced, if you ask me. But I suppose that’s the point of charity auctions.”
She turns, and up close, she’s even more beautiful.
Those emerald eyes meet mine, and I watch her calculate. Recognize me, probably—most people in Ravenwood’s upper circles do. Criminal defense attorney. The man her father loves to hate.
Her smile turns sharp. “Everything’s overpriced when you’re paying for the right to tell people you donated.”
Quick. I like that.
“Liam Hayes.” I extend my hand.
“I know who you are.” She takes it anyway, her grip firm. “Cora Pike.”
“The mayor’s daughter.”
“Unfortunately.” The word slips out before she can catch it, and something flickers across her face. Not embarrassment—frustration at the slip itself.
I file that away and release her hand, though I note how her pulse jumped when our palms touched.
Six women in the Hunt this year. Xavier confirmed it when I called.
Perfect.
I’ve spent three years rebuilding my reputation after her father’s little media campaign. Three years of taking smaller clients, watching my carefully constructed network crumble because William Pike needed a villain for his re-election bid.
But revenge isn’t why I’m studying the faint bruise beneath her makeup. The way she positions herself with the auction table at her back, protecting her angles. The practiced smile that never wavers, even as her eyes dart toward her father across the room.
No, revenge would be simple. Crude.
This is something else entirely.
“Your father’s quite the orator.” I nod toward the mayor, who’s holding court near the bar. “Though I imagine you’ve heard enough speeches to last a lifetime.”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. “You have no idea.”
“Actually, I think I might.” I lean against the table, careful to keep my posture open, non-threatening. “My father was a state senator. Every dinner was a campaign opportunity. Every conversation had an angle.”
Truth strategically deployed. I watch her process it, see the slight softening around her eyes.
“Was?”
“Died when I was in law school. Heart attack during a fundraiser, ironically enough.” I pause, let sympathy do its work.“I’m guessing your father still views you as an extension of his political brand?”
Her fingers tighten around her own champagne flute. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me, Mr. Hayes?”
“I’m an attorney, Ms. Pike. Psychoanalyzing people is practically in the job description.” I offer her a smile that’s disarming. “Though I promise my interest is purely conversational.”
