ISABEL SLIPPED INTO her little black dress—a knee-length frock with sheer sleeves that looked fantastic with strappy stilettos. She liked the sleeves because they covered her scarred arm, and the length masked most of the damage done to her leg. There was a time when she used to look in the mirror and criticize every square inch of her body. She’d imagine fat where there wasn’t any and wish that her nose was just a little bit smaller. Now, when she looked in the mirror, she saw a healthy body, and she was grateful. Her body somehow seemed more sacred now that she could appreciate how very fragile it was.
As she stood in front of her mirror—getting ready for a dinner party that she wished she could just skip—she wondered how much James trusted her. He’d been awfully protective of his sister the day before, and while she’d reassured him about her intentions, she’d seen something in him that surprised her.
He doesn’t trust me. And that hurt. James probably knew her better than anyone at this point. What that said about her social life was downright pathetic, but it was the truth. And when the person who knew you best didn’t trust you…
The newspaper reporter returned after James and Jenny left, just clarifying a few details. She’d done as she’d promised and named Jenny Harper as her assistant. Jenny deserved credit, and Isabel had been serious when she said she wanted her business to be different, better, more inclusive. Would anyone believe that of Isabel Baxter?
James’s truck rumbled to a stop outside, and Isabel stepped into her heels and checked her lipstick in the mirror one last time. Then she opened the door and stepped outside just as James was getting out of his truck. He froze when he saw her, then smiled awkwardly.
“You look great,” he said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
He wore a pair of black dress pants and black shirt, open at the neck. Silver cuff links shone at his wrists. He headed around the truck and opened the passenger door for her.
“I appreciate your coming to this,” she said as she scooted into the seat.
James came around the other side and slid into the seat next to her. “No problem.” He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. “So, tell me a little bit about these people.”
Isabel thought back to the group of people who would be at Carmella’s party. This was the group she’d been tight with back in high school, and she’d spoken to a few of them on the phone since she’d come back, but she hadn’t met up with them in person.
“Do you remember Carmella Rawlins from high school?” she asked.
He nodded. “Cheerleader, right?”
“That’s her. She married a ranching tycoon named Brad Biggins a couple of years ago. It was the wedding of the century around here.”
“Yeah, I think I remember that. What does she do now?”
Isabel smiled wryly. “She married Brad. She’s doing a lot of shopping.”
“Okay.” He laughed softly. “It’s the life, I guess. So who else will be there?”
“They’ll have invited Greg Cranken. His father owns the Cranken Beef empire, and he’s single.”
“So he’s the intended setup?” A smile twitched at the corner of James’s lips, and he turned to look behind him as he backed out of the drive and onto the gravel road once more.
“Afraid so. The rest are probably all from the same group. A couple of them went to school with us, but the others were from other parts of Montana. Beef, cattle and land. That’s where the money is out here, right?”
“True enough.” His tone was low.
“Carmella wasn’t from a privileged family, but she was gorgeous. She was the Miss Montana runner-up.”
“You were Miss Montana, weren’t you?”
Isabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I was.”
Her beauty queen days were well behind her, and she was glad about that. The pageants had been intensely competitive, and behind the scenes the girls could be savage. She’d been proud of her crown, but not always proud of what it took to get it.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, the lowering sun making Isabel squint.
“Did you know these people at all?” Isabel asked after a moment.
James cast her a wry look. “Did you know me?”
She felt her face flush again. Why did he have to keep reminding her that she didn’t remember him?
“I knew who they were,” he conceded after a moment of awkward silence.
It was more than any of them could say about James Hunter. Looking back on her high school days, her circle of friends had been small and elite. Her father hadn’t wanted to send her to private school. He said that she was welcome to move out when she was eighteen, but before that, she was living under his roof. She’d been secretly relieved, and since she was at the top of the food chain at Haggerston High, she’d been happy. The rest of the school didn’t seem important back then. It was all about friendships—she and her group would be together forever. They’d sworn to it. It seemed ridiculous now.
“Have you seen any of them recently?” he asked.
“I saw everyone at Carmella’s wedding.”
Carmella’s wedding had been beautiful—held on her father-in-law’s sprawling estate. No expense had been spared, and for the first time since high school the whole gang had been back together again. The first couple of evenings had been pleasant enough, but then the old irritations began to rub. Isabel had told off another bridesmaid for not being supportive enough of Carmella’s demands. She couldn’t remember her exact words, but the other woman had crumpled into tears and ran off. She’d had a strange talent for cutting right to the quick back then. Carmella had been the quintessential bridezilla. Brad had gone off and gotten so drunk the night before the wedding that his eyes were bloodshot for his vows. By the end of the night, both Brad and Carmella were drunk and stumbled off to their limo, leaving the last of the wedding party and the heartiest of family to finish the celebration without them. It was then that Greg asked Isabel to dance and she’d agreed. Why not? She’d recently broken up with another boyfriend and wanted to boost her ego. During that awkward, fumbling dance, Greg had tried to cop a feel.
“What do you think you’re doing, Greg?” She’d felt the laughter bubbling up before she could stop it. “This is a pity dance. Don’t you get that?”
I was awful. At the time she hadn’t realized it because they’d all been equally awful, but she wasn’t proud of who she’d been at that wedding.
“You’re nervous,” James said, pulling her back to the present.
“No…” She laughed self-consciously. “Okay, a bit. It’s been a while.”
“Are you sure you want me with you?” he asked with a wry grin. “The family lawyer and all… It might not be the impression you want to give.”
“What?” She shook her head. “Of course I want you along. You’re the only person who seems to see anything good in me.”
“No, Jenny is pretty taken with you, too.”
She shot him a questioning look. Too?
“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You know what I mean.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I wish I’d known you better in high school. You’re very sweet.”
The drive didn’t take long, and within a half hour, they’d pulled up in front of Carmella’s house—a modern, one-level affair that sprawled out over manicured grounds. Windows went from floor to roof, lit up from within and revealing wooden rafters and shining light fixtures. Several cars were already parked on the wide tarmac, and James pulled into a space next to a white Mercedes.
This felt comfortable, somehow. She had been used to nice things—expensive cars, large homes, lavish vacations. In a way, this felt like coming home—coming back to the life she’d led. Yet with that affluent lifestyle came pressure, too. Nothing ever came without strings attached, and as her gaze flowed over the pond, the cascading waterfall, the stone walkways and the wide, dark front door, that familiar heaviness settled back onto her shoulders.
It was funny. Sitting in this truck, looking at the luxury she’d always expected to have, made her wishes for a business of her own feel so much less possible. Privilege—at least the kind that came in this county—was narrower than most people knew. And perhaps that was why they were all so awful to each other—because they knew just how trapped they really were.
“Nice place,” James murmured, then he pushed open his door. “Ready?”
* * *
THEIR HOSTESS, CARMELLA BIGGINS, was tall and lithe with a slightly prominent nose and soulful eyes. She gushed and chatted with Isabel, giving James a quick once-over with a practiced eye. James had the feeling he’d just been evaluated and priced on the spot.
“I’m so glad you made it,” Carmella was saying. She lowered her voice and leaned closer, just under James’s hearing.
“This is James.” Isabel turned and shot him a brilliant smile. “And yes, he counts as a date.”
Carmella didn’t look entirely convinced, but she shrugged her milky-white shoulders and smiled in his direction.
“Nice to meet you, James. What are you into?”
“Into?” James mouthed at Isabel.
“He’s a lawyer,” Isabel replied, giving him the translation in her answer. She turned to her friend. “Now, exactly how scathing has everyone been so far?”
“Oh, they’re all still on good behavior.” Carmella slid an arm through Isabel’s and led her out of the entryway and toward the sound of muffled voices. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”
James wasn’t entirely sure if Carmella was looking for support or if she was issuing a veiled warning to Isabel, but the taller woman didn’t stop to see where her words landed, and she ushered them into a brightly lit sitting room.
The room was broad, two glittering chandeliers hanging from the rustic rafters. The couches and chairs that were arranged around the room were a mixture of leather and hand-polished wood, but the carpets were elegant Persian rugs, woven with gold and scarlet, giving the effect of something royal mingled with down-home charm.
A few people lifted their gaze as they entered, and after a moment, all eyes were on them. Expressions ranged from surprise to wan smiles, and then the wide smiles and nods kicked in—the chosen reaction to cover the initial one. He was used to watching for these things in a courtroom, but tonight, it hit him in the gut.
So these are Isabel’s friends.
“I hope you don’t mind if I steal Izzy for a bit,” Carmella said over her shoulder, tugging Isabel after her. He wasn’t really being consulted, and Isabel allowed herself to be led away to the first gaggle of guests. They greeted her with gushing and kiss-kissing, and James looked away. At the moment, he wished he hadn’t come. She didn’t really need him here, and he wondered why she’d invited him along at all. If Carmella had set her mind on finding Isabel a wealthy husband, he highly doubted that his presence would deter her.
“So you’re with Isabel, are you?”
James turned to see a shorter man sauntering up to him. He was balding, narrow through the shoulders and wider at the hips. His sport jacket was forgiving, and expensive. The cut was precise.
“Sort of,” James said. “I’m a friend.”
“Ah.” The man looked mildly amused. “I’m Cranken. Greg Cranken.” He said it like James Bond would, and James laughed, but then stopped when he realized the man was entirely serious.
“Nice to meet you.” He covered his earlier mirth by shaking his hand. “I’m James Hunter.”
Greg nodded and lifted a glass of champagne. “She doesn’t look too bad, does she?”
Greg wasn’t looking at James. His eyes were trained on Isabel, now across the room.
“Everyone changes,” James said as diplomatically as possible.
“Not that much,” Greg muttered. “But she’s now in my league. That’s something.” He glanced over at James. “You still aren’t in hers.” He laughed to himself and took a sip from his glass. “No offense.”
“None taken.” James recognized the name as the man Isabel’s friends would attempt to set her up with, and he wondered if the match was even likely. He found the little man distasteful on first meeting, and he couldn’t imagine that he would improve over time.
“So, seriously, how bad is it?” Greg rose up onto his toes, narrowing his eyes. “I need to know before I go over.”
James didn’t answer, and when Greg glanced over at him, James shook his head. “Did any of you ever like her?”
“Like her?” Greg widened his eyes in surprise. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t like her. This is a welcome-back party.”
“Ah.”
Greg didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm in James’s reply. She’d brought him along for good reason, it seemed. If these people were her friends, what did she need with enemies? He was used to some pretty intense competition from law school, but this wasn’t a group of competing law students—this was supposed to be a relaxed gathering of friends for a little dinner and catch-up. Apparently, a friendly dinner party meant something entirely different to him than it did to the Greg Crankens and Carmella Bigginses of the world.
“Oh, well…” Greg drained his glass and set it behind him without looking. “Don’t take me too seriously. Did you know her before—” He winced. “How does one refer to that in polite company?”
“Yes,” James said simply. “I knew of her, at least.”
“Then you know why I might be a tad bit ornery. She was gorgeous—completely and wildly beyond the likes of me—and I was the Quasimodo of the group. She never looked at me twice, even if I were to trip over her foot. It’s ironic, at the very least.”
James could actually understand that—partially, at least. He’d been in the same boat. He hadn’t even registered on her radar enough to warrant her looking in his direction…until she needed a favor. And then he’d been forgotten again just as efficiently. He’d been invisible to the likes of Isabel Baxter, but it hadn’t bothered him. He’d simply accepted that he ran in different circles. Andrew, of course, had been more hopeful…
“You want to know what I heard?” Greg leaned closer, and the smell of alcohol was strong on his breath. “She never should have been Miss Montana.”
James frowned. “Says who?”
“There was a girl who was prettier and more talented, but our Izzy was smarter.”
Was Greg referring to Carmella—the runner up? James narrowed his eyes, wondering what the man was getting at, but he didn’t ask. These kinds of conversations with slightly intoxicated people were generally a bad idea, but somehow he couldn’t quite make himself walk away.
“Smarter…” Greg repeated.
“Yeah, she’s pretty smart,” James agreed nonchalantly.
“No, you don’t get it.” Greg chuckled. “She knew how to get sympathy. She claimed to work with war amputees. But she never did. Okay, their gardener had lost a hand in the war, and apparently, she’d spoken with him, but her work—” he put air quotes around the word work “—was highly exaggerated. He was the one who worked—for her family. And it was the sympathy vote that won it for her.”
“You think she campaigned for a sympathy vote?” James asked, not entirely convinced that this bitter story was based in fact.
“That’s not the only time,” Greg retorted. “She used blind puppies for another beauty pageant. They’re all born blind, by the way.” He chuckled. “She knows how to work the sympathy card. She’s smart. I like that. A good woman wins at all costs. I could use a girl like her on Team Cranken.”
James had never suspected what life must have been like for Isabel. He’d imagined—as most people did—that she simply breezed through her days, looking down on everyone else who had less. But this atmosphere was like a lion’s den, and he thought he could see the forces that had created Isabel Baxter. She was kinder than this group—gentler. She didn’t seem to have their instinct to crush the competition. If Isabel had these people to rely on in her formative years, he could only imagine the courage it would take for her to open up and be genuine—with anyone. He didn’t like the way Greg was talking about her. Someone needed to stand up for Izzy.
“She’s not in the beauty pageants anymore,” he countered. “She’s opening a store, actually.”
“That’s a real thing?” Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought that was just a wicked rumor.”
“No, it’s real. Everyone deserves a fresh start.”
Greg huffed something halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Well, mark my words, she’ll have a sympathy card up her sleeve somewhere. Maybe she’ll play up her own injuries. Whatever she does, it’ll work. She’s got the touch.”
A sympathy card—like a woman with Down syndrome working in the kitchen? He didn’t like the possibilities, and he shoved the thought away.
“Okay, she’s coming this way.” Greg nudged James and drained another flute of champagne. “Give me some space.”
“What?” James demanded.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Greg rolled his eyes. “I think we both know that you don’t have the resources for the Baxters. Now get lost.”
James shot him an icy look but stood his ground.
Isabel had worked her way around the room, and she fluttered a wave in James’s direction as she headed back. When her gaze fell on Greg, her smile faltered, but she didn’t change course. Her black dress was feminine and clung in all the right places, but it still left an awful lot to the imagination. Even so, James didn’t like the way Greg leered at her. He had an urge to remind him that her face was up about ten inches.
“Sorry to abandon you like that,” Isabel said as she came over. She gave Greg an uncomfortable look and turned away from him slightly. “Did you survive?”
“Oh, I’m tougher than you think,” James said with a dry laugh. That was a pointed message to Greg, if the other man cared to take it. James took her by the elbow and steered her away. The smaller man glared in their direction, obviously not used to having his peevish demands thwarted. James felt a surge of satisfaction. If he did nothing else tonight, he’d thoroughly annoy that little troll.
“By the way,” James said, leaning down so only she could hear him, “that Greg guy is no friend of yours.”
Isabel glanced back. “Really? What did he say?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
James’s cell phone vibrated, and he pulled it from his pocket. He had a text from Mr. Baxter:
Come by the house. I have some documents for you to take care of.
That was nebulous. Mr. Baxter was never one to explain, and he expected a prompt response. James paused for a moment, weighing his options. This party was a school of sharks, and he couldn’t say that he was completely comfortable leaving Isabel alone with Greg Cranken.
“What is it?” Isabel asked.
“Your dad wants me to swing by the house.”
“Oh, feel free to go,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but I kind of do,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “These are your friends?”
She nodded. “Why?”
“I hate to say it, but I don’t think these people like you.”
Was that harsh? Probably, but how else was he supposed to phrase it?
“Oh, you mean Greg.” She looked back over her shoulder. Greg had another glass in hand and was chatting with two women. Greg looked in their direction, his expression sour.
“Yeah, Greg.”
“He’s always been like that. Don’t worry about him.” She appeared entirely unconcerned. “He’s just…it would take me a month to explain him to you.”
James glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell your father that I’ll go by in the morning.”
“Are you honestly worried about me?” she asked with a low laugh. “I’m a big girl, you know.” Despite her words, she deflated slightly as she glanced around the room.
She was an adult. He knew he was being too protective. These were her friends, after all, and this party was in her honor. Who was he to her, anyway?
“You know what,” she said after a moment. “Let’s go.”
It was James’s turn to balk. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I don’t want to cut short your fun. Apparently this is a welcome-back party. Maybe there’s cake.”
She shook her head. “Do you ever just get tired of it all?”
“The social shark pool?” he asked with a wry smile.
“Yes, the shark pool.”
“Sometimes,” he agreed, and truthfully, that had been a factor in his decision to settle down in Haggerston after law school. He liked the idea of community and family. He liked being able to count on people, not constantly watch for the knife in his back.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m still a shark. Just a wounded one, and I can sense them circling.”
“You aren’t like them,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not from what I can see.”
“It’s a choice,” she replied, sadness in her dark eyes. “I know how to hurt every single one of them—Greg included. I could crush them all with a snip here and a withering look there. But I don’t want to play these games anymore. Not only am I no longer the most beautiful woman in the room, which is a major loss to my arsenal, but it takes too much bile. You have to let yourself marinate in it in order to be sharp enough to cut. Does that make any sense?”
“Yeah.”
But looking into her face and seeing her emotions sparkling in her eyes, he admired her for that choice. Vulnerability in the face of all of this—that was bravery.
Isabel started toward Carmella, presumably to make her excuses, and James typed a response to his boss:
Be there in twenty minutes.