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“It matters,” Delilah ruthlessly insisted. “Especially in this day and age.”

“It matters if you’re a racehorse, I guess. Otherwise …” Livia’s disgust was forgotten as the interview ended and Winston stepped away from his fiancé, turning so Livia could see his profile. Her brows snapped together. There was something familiar about the line of his nose and the tilt of his head. As if she’d recently met him. But where? A second later, realization hit, smacking her in the face like a blow. “Oh my God.”

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s Winston?” she breathed.

“Of course it’s Winston. Who else would it be?”

“I’ve seen him.” Livia instinctively reached into her pocket, only to come up empty. She’d left her phone in her suite.

“I’m sure you have. He lives in the neighborhood.”

Livia struggled to think clearly. That profile was the same as the man who’d snuck into her house to attack Jacob Pearson. She was almost certain of it.

“Not here. In New Orleans.”

“He’s an important business executive. He travels to the city on a regular basis.”

“He was …” Livia swallowed her words. She needed time to consider before she blurted out something she couldn’t take back.

“He was what?” her aunt prodded.

“Never mind.” Livia cleared her throat and stepped back. “I’ll let you get back to your spying.”

“I’m not spying,” Delilah snapped before she could halt the words. Then, straightening her shoulders, she sent Livia a chiding glance. “Cocktails will be at six. I’m expecting guests, so please wear something appropriate.”

“Whatever.”

With a roll of her eyes, Livia turned to stroll back toward the house. It wasn’t until she was inside that she gave in to the sharp impulse to race to her rooms and grab her phone out of her satchel.

Then, with trembling fingers, she scrolled through the photos to pull up the grainy image of Jacob in her bedroom. It was even more blurry than she remembered and, zooming in, she realized that she’d only caught a portion of the stranger.

He looked like he had the same build as Winston Durand and was about the same height, although it was hard to tell since he was leaning forward as he pressed Jacob against the wall. And the profile looked similar, but if she was being honest, she couldn’t deny that it might have been a thousand other men. Plus, there was the fact that he was supposedly in Ireland for the past few weeks.

She must have made a mistake, right?

No. Her gut instinct refused to accept the obvious. There was something about him that convinced her he’d been with Jacob that morning. She wouldn’t rest until she knew one hundred percent it wasn’t him.

CHAPTER 4

Not sure if she was imagining things to distract herself from being stuck at the Willows, not to mention enduring two weeks of Celeste’s gloating at landing a rich husband with royal connections, Livia put on a black cocktail dress that hugged her curves and was cut low to emphasize her full breasts. It was her gown of choice when she was trying to aggravate her cousin, who hated when Livia attracted male attention.

Impervious to the knowledge she was being petty, Livia headed down to the private sitting room. She stepped inside, vaguely disappointed that Winston wasn’t there. It was possible that he’d gone home to change for the festivities, but she was hoping he would arrive early to please his soon to be mother-in-law.

Glancing around the long room that was bigger than her entire house, Livia wasn’t surprised to discover that Delilah had changed the furnishings since last year. The pale green and ivory sophistication had been replaced with bright turquoise couches that looked as uncomfortable as the yellow chairs strategically placed around the new white carpet. The original wallpaper remained along with the heavy crystal lights that spilled a dull glow over the room. Her grandfather had explicitly insisted that the bones of the house remained the same, but every year her aunt did her best to bury the past beneath layers of modern fixtures.

“Hello, Livia. Welcome home.”

Her uncle stepped through the open French doors that led to the back terrace. The middle child and official heir of Henri and Olivia Benoit, Adrian was a slender man with dark brown hair that formed a widow’s peak just like his father. His face wasn’t as square, and it lacked the same defiant ruthlessness as Henri, but it was obvious he was a Benoit.

He was holding an empty crystal glass in his hand, as if he’d snuck down early to get his cocktail hour started. Livia arched a brow. She wasn’t judging. There were more than a few nights she needed a glass of wine as soon as she walked into her house. But since her oldest aunt, Helene, was constantly criticized for her habit of overindulging, it was rare to see anyone drinking more than a sip of wine from the cellar that had cost her grandfather a small fortune.

“Hello, Adrian.”

The older man moved to place his empty glass on the sideboard before turning back to study her with a practiced smile.

“I’ve been hearing good things about your agency, Livia. You landed the Hillcrest subdivision, didn’t you?”