She studied him, nothing coy in that straightforward gaze. “You’re welcome,” she said, not pretending to misunderstand him. Another thing he’d always liked about her. Reagan Sinclair didn’t play games. At least not with him. “That’s what friends are for. And regardless how it appears right now, you have friends, Zeke,” she said softly, using his nickname.
He stared down at her. At the kindness radiating from her eyes. An admonishment to hide that gentle heart of hers from people—from him—hovered on his tongue. The need to contradict her skulked right behind it.
Instead, he set his cigar down on an ashtray some enterprising soul had left outside on a wrought iron table. He wasn’t an animal, so he didn’t stub it out like a cigarette, but left it there to burn out on its own. In a while, he’d come back to dispose of it.
Turning to Reagan, he crooked his arm and waited. Without hesitation, she slid hers through his, but as they turned, the balcony door swung open and Douglas Sinclair stepped out.
Ezekiel knew the older man, as he was a member of the TCC. Tall, lanky and usually wearing his signature giant Stetson, he could’ve been an African-American version of the Marlboro Man. He shared the same brown eyes as his daughter, and right now those eyes were trained on them—or rather on Reagan’s arm tucked into his.
A moment later, Douglas lifted his gaze and met Ezekiel’s. Her father didn’t voice his displeasure, but Ezekiel didn’t miss the slight narrowing of his eyes or the barely-there flattening of his mouth. No, Douglas Sinclair was too polite to tell Ezekiel to get his hands off his daughter. But he stated it loud and clear just the same. Ezekiel might be a TCC member as well, but that didn’t mean the traditional, reserved gentleman would want his precious daughter anywhere near him.
Not when Ezekiel’s family had been accused of falsifying inspections on the jets that WinJet, a subsidiary of Wingate Enterprises, manufactured. Not when three of their workers had been injured on the job because of a fire in one of the manufacturing plants due to a faulty sprinkler system. Not when they’d been sued for those injuries because those inspections hadn’t been up-to-date as the reports had stated.
Even as VP of marketing for Wingate Enterprises, Ezekiel had found it damn near impossible to spin this smear on their name. No one wanted to do business with a company so corrupt it would place profit above their employees’ welfare. Not that his family was guilty of this sin. But public perception was everything.
And while most of the club members had stood behind the Wingates, Douglas hadn’t been vocal in his belief in their innocence.
So it was no wonder the man didn’t look pleased to find his daughter hiding in the dark with Ezekiel.
Not that Ezekiel could blame him. Reagan shouldn’t be out here with him. But not for the reasons her father harbored.
“Reagan,” Douglas said, one hand remaining on the door and holding it open. “Your mother has been looking for you. It’s almost time for dinner, and Devon Granger is eager to escort you into the dining room since you’ll be sitting next to him.”
Ezekiel caught the soft sigh that escaped her, and felt the tension invade her slender frame. But when she spoke, her tone remained as soft and respectful as any dutiful daughter to a father she loved and revered.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be there in a moment,” she murmured.
“I’ll wait for you,” came his implacable reply.
If possible, she stiffened even more, but her lovely features didn’t reflect her irritation. Still, anger for the other man’s high-handedness kindled in Ezekiel’s chest. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, not a wayward toddler. His arm tautened, trapping hers in the crook of his elbow. Next to him, Reagan tipped her head up, glancing at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Deliberately, he relaxed his body, releasing her and stepping to the side.
“It was nice seeing you again, Reagan,” Ezekiel said. Switching his attention to Douglas, he gave the man an abrupt nod. “You, too, Douglas.”
“Ezekiel.” Then, extending his hand to his daughter, he added, “Reagan.”
She glided forward, sliding her hand into her father’s. She didn’t shoot one last look over her shoulder at him. Didn’t toss him another of her gentle, teasing smi
les or a final farewell. Instead, she disappeared through the door, leaving him in darkness once more.
And yeah, it was for the best.
No matter her father’s reasons for not wanting to leave her alone with Ezekiel, his concerns were valid. If anyone else had noticed that she stood alone with him in the shadows, the rumors would’ve burned like a brushfire.
And the longer they remained enclosed in the dark, the harder it would’ve become for him to remember that she was off-limits to him. Because of their history. Because she was too good for him. Because her parents were seeking out a suitable man for her.
And Ezekiel—a man with a slowly crumbling business empire and more emotional baggage than the airplanes WinJet manufactured—wasn’t a good bet.
Not a good bet at all.
Two
Reagan jogged up the four shallow stone steps to her family’s Pine Valley mansion. Once she reached the portico that stretched from one end of the front of the house to the other, she stopped, her chest rising and falling on deep, heavy breaths. Turning, she flattened a palm against one of the columns and, reaching for her foot, pulled it toward her butt in a stretch.
God, she detested running. Not even the beautiful scenery of the well-manicured streets and gorgeous multimillion-dollar homes of their upscale, gated community could distract her from the burn in her thighs, the hitch in her chest or the numbing boredom of it. But regardless, she exited her house every morning at 7:00 a.m. to jog past the mansions where Royal high society slept, the clubhouse larger than most people’s homes, the Olympic-size pool that called her to take a refreshing dip, and the eighteen-hole golf course. The chore wasn’t about pleasure or even staying healthy or retaining a particular dress size.