Jack stayed close. His hand found the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin silk of my dress. The touch shouldn’t have grounded me as much as it did.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
“You can tell?”
“The terrace is through those doors if you need air.” His thumb traced a small circle against my spine. “But you won’t need it. You belong here,” he murmured, like it was a fact he could will into existence.
“That’s a beautiful lie.”
“It’s not a lie.” His voice was quiet, serious. “You outshine every person in this room. You just don’t see it yet.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing, and let him guide me deeper into the glittering crowd.
I saw Simon Tucker across the room.
Tall, dark-haired, instantly recognizable from weeks of research. The man whose story could make my career, standing twenty feet away like fate was playing some kind of joke on me.
Jack followed my gaze. “Would you like an introduction?”
My heart was pounding. I’d told myself I wanted to earn this on my own, that accepting his help would feel too much like owing him something. But Simon Tucker was right there.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
We crossed the room together, and Simon turned as we approached, his expression warming slightly when he recognized Jack.
“Jack.” His voice held genuine welcome. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Last minute decision.” Jack’s hand pressed warm against my back as he guided me forward. “Simon, this is Pauline Wells. Pauline, Simon Tucker.”
Simon’s eyes moved to me with something resembling curiosity. He shared a look with Jack, I didn’t know what they were communicating but they were definitely discussing me right in my presence. And for some reason I felt slightly anxious, a little worried what his friend might think about me—it shouldn’t concern me.
I recognized the woman at his side immediately.
Hannah Tucker. I’d seen her once in Vegas, but also in photographs in various magazines—usually accompanying articles about philanthropy. She also used to be engaged to Michael Ashford.
She was striking, blonde hair gleaming in the chandelier light, eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Hannah Tucker,” I said, extending my hand. “I’ve been wanting to meet you—officially, I mean, since we’ve technically met before.”
Her eyebrows rose, a smile playing at her lips. “Should I be worried?” she asked, but her eyes were already cataloging me—sharp, assessing, amused.
“Only if you have secrets worth investigating.” I let my own smile linger, genuinely curious about the woman who’d captured Simon Tucker’s attention so completely.
“Which, given the circumstances, I imagine you do.”
Simon’s arm tightened around Hannah’s waist—the movement was subtle, instinctive, protective. I noticed the way Hannah leaned into it rather than pulling away, the way her body seemed to curve toward his without conscious thought.
“Every family has secrets, Ms. Wells,” Hannah said, her voice light but her eyes still sharp. “Some are just better at hiding them than others.”
She was good. Polished but not plastic, warm but not naive. I respected that.
“Call me Pauline.” I tilted my head, studying her. “And I suspect you’re better at hiding them than most.”
It was my journalism instinct speaking, Jack cleared his throat beside me. “We should let you two enjoy the evening. I’m sure you have plenty of people to convince.”
Simon’s mouth curved. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s spent years reading people professionally.” Jack’s smile took the sting out of the observation. “You’re doing fine. Better than fine, actually.”
