He’s the only influential person my father hasn’t manipulated in Newport Beach.
I’m sure it’s not for the lack of trying.
Although, as he manages my father’s money, maybe Dad doesn’t dare meddle in Nico’s business.
The fleeting thought fills me with a warm, fuzzy feeling because I associate Nico with the portfolio my father set up in my name a few years ago. An award, a prize for the years of serving his needs. I’m supposed to gain access to it once I graduate.
Unless it’s a lie my father conjured to ensure I obey every command. A carrot on a stick he can hold over my head.
The private event room is relatively empty. Less than thirty people sporting fake smiles and real diamonds. Apart from my father’s associates, there are a few new faces in the crowd, including the man from the front page of theNewport Gazettethat Dad handed me on our way here.
He didn’t answer when I asked why my workload had tripled since I moved out of his house three months ago.
I haven’t worked this many men in such a short time since I turned eighteen. Looks like Dad’s squeezing the most out of me before my twenty-first birthday. Once I can access the portfolio, he’ll lose his bargaining chip.
Casting a quick glance around, I examine the man I’ll be flirting with tonight. He’s in his fifties with a head of silver hair, an unlit cigar in his mouth, and an expensive suit hugging his tall frame—Archibald Duke—the chair of the Orange County planning committee.
Last year, spurred by whispers of an upcoming highway project, my father bought a substantial tract of land from an old-time farmer. He offered double the market price, betting on the highway rumor enabling a big payday.
As fate would have it, the highway plans fell through. Now he’s stuck with overpriced land and a huge dent in his wallet.
Dad didn’t explain his next move, but using the Planning Commissioner must mean he’s trying to flip the land to residential. If he gets the green light, he can sell it to a developer without breaking a sweat.
And I bet he already has a developer in mind: Stone and Oak. Since Logan Hayes took the reins two years ago, they’ve been buying land like it’s a Black Friday sale.
Logan’s a visionary. The best architect in Orange County. A skilled businessman, too. Rumor has it that he doubled the company’s revenue within two short years by taking the bold risks his grandfather refused to take.
“Smile,” Dad barks in my ear, snaking his arm round my waist to lead me further into the room, greeting people as we pass. “Everything is set up. When I give you the signal. Do what you do best.”
Plastering a convincing smile to my lips, I let him walk me around the room, my job well defined: a silent coquette.
I scan the men my father introduces me to. Over the years I’ve got this down to a T, learning what makes men like my father’s associates tick. I lick my lips, smile, and bat my eyelashes.
My dress rolls up with every step, and I tug it down just enough to cover the bare minimum.
“Sweetheart, meet Mr. Duke,” my father says when we finally make it across the room, stopping before the star of the evening.
He’s alone. No woman hanging on his arm. The man he’s been speaking to for the past five minutes bobs his chin and walks away, offering a fleeting sense of privacy in a crowded room.
“Mr. Duke,” I say, my voice sweeter than sugar. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read so much about your recent success.”
“It’s Archibald, my dear. I insist.” He dips his head to kiss my hand. “Your father’s told me a lot about you, young lady.”
I don’t breathe while he talks to me about college and some sketches my father apparently showed him. Once the oxygen deprivation has done enough to create a fake blush, I subtly take a breath.
“Well, thank you, Mr...” I purposely trip over my words, biting my lip. “I’m sorry,Archibald.”
“I would love to hear more about your volunteer work,” he says, dropping his gaze to my breasts before it roams lower, eating up every inch. “It’s admirable, Blair. Your father is very proud that you’re spending time at the hospital.”
Bullshit. My father is only proud of the eight digits he sees when he logs into his bank account.
But I play my part as expected, faking smiles as I run a gentle hand down his arm. “Of course. I’d love to.”
“Can I get you a drink?” He glances from me to my father. “You’re old enough to drink, sweetheart, aren’t you?”
“Barely,” my father huffs, wearing the mask of a concerned, loving, but not-so-strict parent.
If those masks we both wear were tangible, we’d have quite the collection between us.
