Headlights swept across the front windows. A luxury engine rolled up the drive. Cal.
Grant’s knuckles went white against the doorframe. Burke picked up his hat. “That’ll be him.”
Izzy reached for her wrap, smoothing it over her shoulders with practiced ease. Grant stepped back, creating space. He’d made his decision. He didn’t get to want her. He just had to make sure she walked out of this night alive.
Outside, the silver Escalade idled. Cal stepped out—all effortless charm. His eyes lifted to the porch and stopped. For a split second, his practiced smile actually faltered.
“Isabella,” he said, stepping forward. “You just made every other woman at that gala irrelevant.”
Izzy gave him a controlled smile. “That wasn’t the goal.”
“Shame,” Cal said softly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Grant didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. He adjusted the brim of his Stetson, the shadow hiding the raw, jagged hunger in his eyes.
Burke moved past him, his voice low. “We stay close. No unnecessary moves. If something feels off, we pull her.”
Grant nodded. “Something already feels off.”
Engines turned over. Burke’s truck. Cal’s Escalade. The quiet hum of deputies moving into position. From the ridge, Scout watched through the glass. From the road below, Luke’s cruiser eased into the shadows.
Izzy slid into the passenger seat of Cal’s vehicle. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Grant watched the taillights disappear. The night felt heavier now. Like the mountain itself was holding its breath.
“Let’s go,” Burke said.
Grant grabbed his jacket and followed him into the dark. Saturday had come. And whatever was waiting up on that ridge… wasn’t waiting quietly anymore.
* * *
Hollis Estate
The gates at the guard shack stood wide, the typical scowl of the security detail replaced by professional nods as they waved the line of luxury vehicles through. Lanterns in hammered copper housing lined the winding drive, their flickering light dancing off the hood of Cal’s Escalade as he pulled up to the main entrance.
A team of valet attendants in matching vests moved with practiced efficiency, whisking cars away toward a nearby pasture that had been cleared and lit for the night.
When the massive oak front doors swung open, the atmosphere hit like a wave of silk and champagne. It wasn’t the tense, high-alert environment the Scott brothers had braced for. It was easy. It was lavish. It was the kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout.
The Great Room was cavernous, dominated by a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, but the real draw was the back wall. Four sets of towering terrace doors stood open, blurring the line between the mahogany-clad interior and the sprawling stone veranda outside. Beyond the railing, the Blue Ridge Mountains were a jagged silhouette of deep indigo against a violet sky.
Izzy stepped into the room, her hand light on Cal’s arm, and stopped.
Peonies were everywhere. Massive, lush blooms in shades of cream and pale coral spilled out of crystal vases on every available surface. They were her favorite—a detail Cal had clearly noted—and their soft, heady scent fought back the smell of bourbon and expensive tobacco.
In the corner, a four-piece jazz ensemble played something low and melodic, the notes drifting out through the open doorstoward the mountains. Uniformed servers glided through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, while specialized stations offered everything from local trout tartare to imported caviar.
“It’s incredible, Cal,” Izzy said, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.
“I wanted it to be right,” Cal murmured, leaning in close. “The mountains are beautiful, but they can be cold. I thought we should bring a little warmth to the ridge tonight.”
Grant and Burke entered ten minutes later.
If the Scott brothers felt out of place, they didn’t show it. Grant’s charcoal suit and silver-belly Stetson made him look like a man who owned the mountain, while Burke’s dress blues commanded an immediate, silent respect from the room. They didn’t head for the bar. They moved to the edge of the crowd, their eyes scanning the terrace doors and the dark line of the woods beyond the veranda.
Wade Hollis stood near the center of the room, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, looking every bit the king of the castle. He saw the Scotts enter and offered a slow, mocking toast with his glass, but he didn’t move toward them.
For now, the masks were on. The music was playing, the candles were flickering in the mountain breeze, and the wine was flowing. To any outsider, it was the social event of the season.
