Rand raised his glass as if it were a weapon. His opponent lined up across from him on the gleaming hardwood floor, his glass lofted as well, his manner taut and fine. The man beneath the politely focused mask shared the same golden-blond good looks as their sister, Catherine. Which was just as well, as Rand had been trained practically since birth to loathe them both equally.
“A toast! To my brother Rand, for coming home to spend this frigid winter with us, when anyone with half a brain would be still basking on a tropical island.” Laughter sounded all around, accompanied by a chorus of moneyed voices raised in cheers, then conversation started up again throughout the room.
“I haven’t seen you smile this genuinely since you smashed Billy Dodson with a polo mallet,” William said between his perfectly straight teeth, even as he nodded and made warm eye contact with a half dozen of Boston’s old guard, who were doing their level best to make sure both Winston brothers noticed they were there.
“He had it coming. And besides, you kept up your end of the bargain. You scheduled this event for a section of town where Father wouldn’t be caught dead. And ergo, he’s not here.”
“For which you’re in my debt.” William grinned expansively, more for the photographers’ benefit than for Rand’s. “Keeping him away from the spotlight is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Rand allowed his own smile to curve a little more as a camera flashed, the Winston’s select squad of media photographers preserving the moment of filial support. No doubt it would be used strategically in the ongoing tide of campaign propaganda for William’s bid to become a Massachusetts junior congressman. “You should oppose him more often,” Rand said, nodding to an expensively dressed woman whose name he probably knew at some point. “It will make you stronger.”
“I’ll leave the fighting to you, thanks. You’re much better at it.”
Despite himself, a muscle twitched in Rand’s jaw, but William kept going, as William always did. “Never saw him more furious than when you challenged his right to run the company last year. I wasn’t even in the line of fire, and the man scared me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you won.”
“The company had been left to me in trust,” Rand said coolly. “As Father well knew.”
William snorted. “Well, he was the only one who knew that—except you, apparently. Grandfather sure as hell didn’t write me in on that ticket.”
“You made your intentions about the family business clear a long time ago, William.”
“And you spent half your college nights in jail and the other half in some coed’s bed. So I don’t see how that impressed the old bastard.” William shook his head. “A controlling share of the company and automatic board position, all for turning twenty-five. Hell of a lucky break, you ask me.”
As harsh as his words were, there was no real jealousy in William’s voice. More curiosity, as there had always been. Upon their grandfather’s death two years earlier, each child had received their share of the Winston legacy. William and Catherine had received cash and property. Rand had received a promise. A promise his father hadn’t believed was legitimate, but a promise just the same.
And one his grandfather had damn well been certain he’d make good on: stay out of jail until he was twenty-five, and the company was his. He’d be in—and his father would be out. It seemed Granddad cared as little for his own son as Rand’s father cared for him. A family built on the rock-solid foundation of bloodline contempt. Rand’s lips twisted. Regardless of how thin that blood had become.
Still, Rand had happily complied with his grandfather’s terms, removing himself to the family’s Caribbean property for two booze-soaked years. His twenty-fifth birthday had occurred a week before the annual board meeting last summer, and he’d met with each of the board members in quick succession before dropping his bomb on his father.
It had quite possibly been the happiest day of his life.
William was clearly waiting for him to say something, however, so Rand offered him a mild shrug. “Luck has a habit of favoring me.”
“Yeah, well, sprinkle a little bit of it on the campaign. You’re the head of family business, for chrissakes. Show up for some photo ops and make me look good.” William laughed easily, but Rand watched his older brother with some surprise—and more than a little disdain—hearing the thread of insecurity in his words. How had he ever manned up enough to put together a political campaign? Rand supposed he should thank William for deciding to run for office, though. It kept everyone busy, and despite William’s whining, it required very little of his own time. Which was how he preferred it.
He’d already paid his family dues, and then some.
This night’s event was one of only a few he’d consented to attend to support William’s campaign, and his patience was already wearing thin. Still, the last political soiree had inadvertently given him the opportunity to meet Dani Michaels. So he supposed it wasn’t a total loss. “What other events do you have coming up?”
“You’ll have to talk to Catherine for that. She’s completely out of control. I think she’s half-convinced she’s the one running for office.”
Probably more than half, Rand thought. “Well, tell her to give me the schedule. I’ll be taking on a new initiative over the next few weeks, however. I suspect I’ll be quite busy.”
“An initiative? You?” William’s voice sounded a bit too surprised, and Rand quelled his irritation. For all that his older brother had—a law practice, wife, and new baby on the way—he still was an insufferable ass. Rand watched him move off to glad-hand another group of campaign supporters who either didn’t agree with Rand’s assessment, or were too smart to show it. Congressman-hopeful William Winston and dear sister Catherine played to the blue-blooded crowd well, with their engaging laughter and open smiles, so different from Rand’s own hawklike reserve. Even from birth, his older siblings had seemed so perfectly matched that his father had broken with tradition, deciding not to saddle his golden firstborn son with the patriarchal name. Or at least that’s what he’d told everyone.
Then Rand had come along, his arrival costing more than anyone had wanted to pay, and he’d been the one assigned his father’s name as a squalling, red-faced, furious baby—his own birth a footnote amid the tragedy of his mother’s death. Of course, Rand’s name was only one of many great regrets in his father’s past, but life was filled with disappointment, wasn’t it?
Still, now he needed to turn his focus to more intriguing pursuits. Pursuits such as Dani Michaels.
Since the night he’d had her arrested, he’d been consumed by thoughts of the woman. Intensely, almost fanatically consumed. He didn’t have to delve too deep to understand why, of course: She’d opted for jail over his offer for dinner, yes, but that wasn’t the interesting part. No. The interesting part was that she had seemed positively driven to beat him. To one-up him. To win.
Their first encounter had been easy enough to explain away—she’d wanted to help out her friend, and what better way than to con some rich fool into parting with his cash? But the second time they’d met…no. The game she’d played then hadn’t been for any other reason than her own pleasure. Dani Michaels had sashayed into his office dressed to impress, clearly looking to get him to make a play—and the moment he had, she’d turned him down flat. So she’d won once. Then, when all she’d had to do was make a clean getaway, she’d ruined her own exit by stealing something of no discernible value. Just to prove she could, so that she could win a second time. And when he’d caught her, giving her the option of dinner instead of getting arrested, she’d turned him down again, so she could win for the third time.
Winning had trumped all, despite the undeniable attraction that had burned between them. From the moment she’d entered his office, the woman had pushed him away like it was her job, but he hadn’t mistaken her intensity, the nervous flutter of her hands. In turn, he’d been mesmerized by the simple act of skimming his hand over the soft skin of her neck, especially as the pulse beneath his fingers had skyrocketed when she’d realized he’d caught her, that he’d known she’d artfully tucked the tiny crystal figurine behind the zipper pull of her dress. Had she chosen that spot deliberately, hoping he’d do exactly what he had—dip his fingers into her cleavage, his knuckles grazing the full swell of her breasts? Or was her choice of hiding places simply born of the moment, straightforward and efficient? Either way, he couldn’t get the feel of her soft skin out of his mind.
And if he didn’t stop thinking about it immediately, he was going to go stiff as a board—and then all of William’s campaign paparazzi would have something truly interesting to photograph.
“That’s not your best look, and it’s one I’ve seen before.” Catherine’s voice sounded like the expensive champagne in the crystal flute she cradled. She positioned herself at Rand’s side and scanned the room. “I cannot for the life of me decide who you’ve decided to engage in a hostile takeover.”
Rand nodded to her, her subtle warning prompting him to moderate his expression. He wasn’t supposed to draw attention here. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“About as much as you are, I suspect.” She slanted a glance at him. “I take that back, actually. You look like you’re enjoying yourself far too much, given who’s here.” Her eyes narrowed, realization suddenly dawning. “Who is she?”
“No one here, I assure you.”
“Then who…” Catherine frowned at him, now more in earnest. The expression on her face sharpened as she rotated through her datebook for the past few weeks, since Rand had been her de facto escort to all of William’s campaign stops. He could tell the moment she hit upon the only likely answer. “No,” she said succinctly. “Just no, no, and no.”
Rand’s brows lifted. “What, you don’t approve?”
“She’s a gallery shill, Rand, and it’s not even a very good gallery.”
“She seemed to be very effective at her job.”
“Only because you were bored.” Catherine let out an exasperated sigh. “Tell me you’re not seeing her. I mean, really, Rand. Surely even you can find a perfectly respectable woman to date, at least until William manages not to ruin his election bid on his own.” She tilted her head, considering. “Let me make some calls.”
Rand held up a hand. “No. I assure you, Catherine, my personal life will not interfere with William’s political aspirations. He’ll win the election, regardless of what I do. You both should stop worrying about it so much.”
Catherine’s glance would have withered a weaker man. “And you should worry more. About something—anything, really. Not everything happens the way you want it, Rand, just because you say it will.”
Rand lifted his glass to her. “Remember this conversation the next time I prove you wrong.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”
He smiled. “I’ve heard that before.”