I’d had a weekend with Evangeline under my roof in Aspen, and not so much as an inkling to seduce her. We played our roles, smiling for cameras while we’d sampled chefs’ signature dishes, and privately vented to each other about the tedium of it. We’d discovered a comfortable ease with one another.
We’d never be anything more than friends.
But we were friends. If nothing else came out of my campaign for redemption, at least she was a genuine and honest person, exceptionally rare in Cape Hill, and had become someone I respected.
And I hoped one day my friend would be able to find a love again like the one she’d had.
“Your smile is getting better,” she whispered when we embraced in brief hug. “I kind of believe it’s real.”
“It is real.” This party was necessary, but I despised frivolous small talk. With her, it was easier. She did most of the talking, and I stood at her side, participating only when required. “I’m pleased you could come. You make me look good.”
She grinned knowingly.
The door swung open, and three people spilled into the entryway, all sharing the Hale name. Marist was in a deep purple dress, and both of my sons in tuxedos, and rather than go to her, my gaze drifted to Vance.
He looked more like me than Royce did, although his hair was a lighter shade of brown. He had his mother’s smile, which he used as a weapon. It made women forget to breathe and looked excellent on promotional material, evidenced by the Cape Hill Yacht Club’s website and membership brochure.
It had been years since I’d seen it in person, leaving me to wonder if I ever would again. Vance could barely hold my gaze, and it could be caused by a variety of reasons. He had guilt about his affair with Alice, but perhaps he felt shame both at what I’d done to her and tried to do with Marist. How I’d spent most of my sons’ lives pushing them to be better, sometimes to their breaking point, and even pitting them against one another.
“It’s good to see you,” I said to the group. “Thank you for coming.”
I was treated to awkward nods, but Evangeline unwittingly made it worse when she spoke. “Macalister, I’d forgotten what a beautiful family you have.”
Perhaps she was thinking I wasn’t alone, that at least I had my sons after my wife’s death. She meant well, not understanding that my desire for control had forced my family to crumble inside my dominating grip.
Royce was masterful at ignoring tension and delivered an easy smile. “It’s my wife. She makes the rest of us look good.”
Evangeline chuckled as she glanced at me. “He sounds just like you.”
Royce didn’t bother to hide his grimace at the comparison.
“Yes, well,” I lifted my chin and addressed my family, “Damon is already outside, so don’t let us keep you from the party.”
They understood what I meant, how there was work waiting for them. I’d done an enormous amount of damage to the Hale name, and their help was needed to restore it. The event had to be a success. We would remind Cape Hill which family was American royalty.
Once they disappeared down the hall toward the back of the house, more guests arrived. Some were still intimidated by me and some were curious, and a few had the audacity to look down their judgmental noses, but I forced a tight smile and greeted them as friends.
Tonight, I couldn’t be ruthless. I was to be the benevolent king.
I’d set a schedule with Sophia that I would only receive guests until seven-thirty, and then I would move outside and join the party. Those who arrived late would be guided by staff, and I’d be updated on arrivals periodically throughout the evening. I checked my watch, and frustration crawled along my back and made my neck hot.
DuBois hadn’t made his appearance, and it would be much easier to control the conversation if our introduction was made this way. He was set to attend, though. He’d accepted Damon’s invitation and RSVPed to Sophia.
There were only a few minutes left when I caught a glimpse of him at the back of the receiving line, and the tightness in my chest released.
He wore a single button tuxedo jacket, white shirt, and a black bow tie, and while it fit him well enough, it wasn’t tailored. A rental. A smile peeled back my lips. He was just a visitor to my world, an observer. I would do everything in my power to make sure he saw what I wanted him to see.
“Good evening,” I said and offered my hand when he approached. “Macalister Hale.”
He was my age, with short, sandy brown hair and a tough, rugged face that morphed into a charming one when he smiled. His hometown of New Orleans rang through in his accent. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. James DuBois.”