Survival of the Richest by Skye Warren
“No, but I’ve heard about him. He’s new on the scene, so naturally all the old-money girls are obsessed with him.” Her voice turns speculative. “Apparently he’s very sexy.”
“If you like that Southern-boy charm.” Which apparently I do? I haven’t had much exposure to that in LA or New York City, but turns out it’s seductive in a visceral way. It was easy to friendzone the artists at Smith College. Easy to roll my eyes at the ambitious business students, enough like Christopher Bardot to make me hate them on sight.
Harder to ignore the masculine confidence inherent in Sutton Mayfair.
“It’s more than an act. He grew up on a ranch, so you know…” Her voice sounds like pure wickedness as the words trail off.
“So he likes mucking stalls?”
“He’s probably good with rope, I was going to say.”
That makes me laugh when I didn’t think it was possible, not in my current mood. This is why Avery is my best friend. She can make me laugh even when I’m walking the figurative plank over a circle of rabid sharks. “I’m absolutely one hundred percent positive I won’t be finding out whether he’s good with rope.”
“Never say never.”
I remember the heat in his blue-sky eyes and shiver with remembered response. “I’m going to the gala to see Christopher. I doubt I’ll even talk to Sutton there, especially if he has the old-money girls flipping their hair to get him into bed.”
“Okay,” she says cheerfully, clearly not believing a word.
“And even if I did talk to him, I have no interest in going to bed with some overmuscled Neanderthal who looks amazing in a suit. I like my men more… enlightened.”
“Mhmm. I’m going to have someone send over this dress I ordered online but haven’t worn yet. It’s red and shimmery and it will look incredible on you.”
“I don’t need a dress,” I say, even though absolutely nothing in my canvas carry-on is suitable for a gala. There are sundresses and skinny jeans and paint-splattered pj’s.
“Text me when you get home, or I’ll worry about you.”
“You’re just hoping I give you dirty details, but there won’t be anything dirty. There’s only going to be me telling Christopher he’s an arrogant jerk face, and him bending to my will.”
She laughs. “Okay, but text me anyway.”
The dress arrives an hour later, even more gorgeous than she made it sound. There’s a red silk bodice that makes my modest breasts look impressive in the ornate gold-plated wall mirror. And a black wrap skirt that floats around me like liquid when I walk, revealing an impressive amount of leg. It’s a dress that a modern-day goddess would wear, along with the black and red Louboutins included in the box. In short I’m dressed to kill.
The gala takes place in the Tanglewood Country Club, a place that charges enough money to its members that the carpet shouldn’t look quite as shabby as it does. It’s a place with more clout than taste, which probably says more about the historical society than they think.
I can hear the gentle hum of voices and clink of glasses from down the hallway. The suited security guard makes me wait while he searches a printed guest list, which I’m not on. Do they really have a problem with party crashers hungry for dry quiche and dry conversation? Maybe it’s been too long since we moved in wealthy circles, because my hands start to sweat. I don’t belong here, at least not in spirit, and even this random stranger knows it.
Only when he uses his phone to check his e-mail does he find my late addition.
Holding my head high, I stride through the room. Avery grew up in Tanglewood, so I’m guessing she knows most of the people in this room. I know basically no one, and I don’t see Christopher anywhere.
There are admiring looks because of the amazing dress.
Curious looks, because of my anonymity.
A familiar drawl slows my step. “Not sure it’s better falling down,” Sutton says, his back turned to me, speaking to an older woman who clearly does not appreciate his words.
“The Tanglewood Library has an important history, and it’s the job of the society to preserve that. We aren’t going to give it to just anyone who moves in with money.”
“It hasn’t been given away, Mrs. Rosemont. I bought it.”
Her face flushes red, and I realize I’ve stumbled into the scene that every single person will be talking about in Tanglewood tomorrow morning. Unless I somehow stop it.
“Do you think money counts for everything, young man? You’ll find that money can’t buy you everything. It can’t buy you a construction permit if we tell city hall not to give you one.”
“He bought it because he values the foundation,” I say, tucking my hand through Sutton’s arm as if I belong there. He stiffens only slightly but doesn’t give me away. “Maintaining the historical integrity is an important part of the Mayfair-Bardot corporate philosophy. They plan to work closely with the society to ensure they do it justice.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then why haven’t they contacted us before now?”
I shake my head, commiserating with her at the cluelessness of men. “They’ve been overly focused on things like paperwork and permits. That’s why they’re here tonight, though. To meet you and ask for your help in doing this the right way.”
“I see.” She looks pissed, but at least she stops threatening him. “The gala is hardly the place to discuss details.”
Sutton clears his throat. “We would be happy to host you at our offices at your earliest convenience. We wouldn’t dream of moving forward without the society’s input.”
“You need more than our input,” the woman says sharply. “You need our approval or you’ll never get the construction permits you need from the mayor’s office.”
I manage to keep a straight face, even though it’s painfully clear that Sutton and Christopher had planned to move forward without the society’s input. It may not have even occurred to them that the society might object—or that they could put in place roadblocks with building permits. I may not know the specifics of Tanglewood, but I know high society. Even if the society itself doesn’t have any power, the husbands of its members certainly do.
Sutton manages to use that Southern charm to win Mrs. Rosemont over, so that she’s blushing and trying not to smile by the time she’s called away by another woman.
“You saved me,” he murmurs the second we’re alone.
The words startle me, because I’m so used to being the one who needs saving. The one who gets saved again and again, even when I don’t want that. It’s an illicit delight, being the one who does the saving. No wonder Christopher likes it so much. “You would have figured it out.”
“I’m a lot better with a construction crew than I am with women.”
Considering the looks he’s getting from around the room, he’s underestimating himself. Even so I have to admit he wasn’t doing so well when I found him. “Were you really planning on restoring a historical site without consulting anyone?”
“It was less of a restoration, more of a teardown and rebuild.”
I groan. “City hall is going to block you so fast.”
“We own the deed,” he drawls.
“And they own the city. You can fight them, but that’s a last resort. Especially for people who are new to the city like you. It’s going to take a while before you have friends.”
He looks at me, mystified. “You made friends with that woman.”
“That’s because I’m interested in people more than money. You should try it sometime.”
A rough laugh, the kind I can imagine beneath a vivid sunset in the country. “It’s always the people who come from money who think it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s always the ambitious ones that crush everyone in their way.”
He pulls me close, and only then do I realize I’m still holding his arm. That we’re locked together in the middle of the ballroom. Everyone is looking at us and pretending not to see. They’ll be talking about the mystery woman to
My throat tightens. The idea that I can protect anyone… even metaphorically, it’s completely absurd. I’m the helpless one, aren’t I? At least that’s how Christopher Bardot sees me.
A shiver runs through me. I turn to find him behind me, as if conjured from my thoughts. I yank my hand away from Sutton, which only makes me look guilty. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’m allowed to be here, but Christopher always makes me feel like a troublesome child.
“There you are,” I say lamely.
His eyes are narrowed on me. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. You must have known I would come.”
“A phone call would have worked.”
“Not when it’s my mother’s health we’re talking about.”
“We should discuss this in private.” He turns to Sutton, and his eyes somehow grow even colder. “How did she even know I would be here?”
Sutton gives a small smile, completely undisturbed by his business partner’s fury. “You didn’t tell me she was skilled in diplomacy. She already smoothed things over with the historical society.”
“For now,” I say.
He studies me, as if looking at me through fresh eyes. Almost. The speculation is gone in a second, leaving only the cold remoteness I know so well. “Follow me,” he says, turning and leaving me to trail behind him.
Sutton holds out his arm, and I realize he’s going to come with us.
Or at least he’s offering to escort me. Does he think I need backup? Looking at his face, I realize he doesn’t. It’s something far more base. Male possession, except he’s asking my permission.
One of these men sees me as competent. The other as a helpless girl. One sees me as powerful. The other as weak. I put my hand in Sutton’s arm and walk side by side out of the ballroom, confirming the suspicion of everyone at the gala. They’ll all be certain we’re together, and the crazy thing is, I’m not sure they’re wrong.
We find a private room with a handful of old chairs and a fireplace. How many corrupt deals were forged between these four walls? How much money changed hands?
Christopher stands in the corner by the window, his back turned toward us. What does he see? Is he like some conquering warrior, looking at what he plans to take?
In contrast Sutton takes a seat near the fire, one leg slung over the other. His pose is casual, but I’m not fooled. His blue eyes are watchful. He’s a powerful adversary, but I’m not sure who he’s opposing. Christopher? Or me? Maybe the both of us.
We might be enemies, all three of us.
“You stopped payment to the hospital,” I say without preamble. He knows what he did. “I honestly thought you couldn’t sink any lower, but you proved me wrong.”
“It’s not that simple,” Christopher says, his expression grave.
“In case you’re wondering, I would have asked for Daddy’s help with this if he were alive. And you know what? He would have said yes, so don’t pretend this is the high road.”
“The instructions didn’t leave any ambiguity.”
“And you’re such a rule follower, are you? You didn’t even contact the Tanglewood Historical Society when tearing down a historical property.”
“I follow the rules when I agree with them.”
My mouth drops open. “You don’t agree with helping my mom beat cancer?”
“Hell,” he bites out. “That money wasn’t going toward medicine. You were buying a butterfly garden for the hospital. And what was that going to get her? A California king-sized hospital bed? A marble bathroom? A doctor to wait on her hand and foot like a goddamned pool boy?”
“I hate you.” Not the most logical and persuasive argument, but there’s something about Christopher that always cuts through my defenses. He turns me into the wild child that he thinks I am, no matter that years have passed since that night on the yacht.
He runs a hand over his face. “I’m not a monster. I cut off the hospital from taking any more installments from you, but I made sure there was a card on file for her medical expenses.”
“Your personal credit card.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m not letting you pay for her medicine. We don’t need your charity. It’s my responsibility, and it will be paid for with my money. As soon as you call the bank and tell them to lift the hold.”
Christopher stares at me, and I feel my stomach drop. I know determination when I see it, and it’s there in spades in his cold, black eyes. He’s not going to budge, but neither am I. We’re at an impasse, the same one we’ve been in since that night in New York City.
Sutton clears his throat. “It’s quite a moral dilemma you’ve got yourself.”
“She finds herself in those often,” Christopher says.
“I was talking to you,” Sutton says in that slow drawl that smooths his sharp words, a flowing stream over sharp rocks. “I knew you were mercenary, but this is cold even for you.”
Christopher gives him a sardonic look. “Is there any reason you’re here or do you just like seeing me at my worst?”
I’m mildly appeased to hear that I’m the reason for his worst days, but he looks remarkably composed if that’s true. Remarkably put together in his tux and shiny shoes. He fits into this room better than Sutton does, better than I do, even if he doesn’t respect the order of things.
“I have a solution to propose,” Sutton says. “Something that might appease everyone in the room. We need someone to smooth things over with the historical society. Neither you nor I have the time or the ability to make nice with them.”
Christopher barks a laugh that makes me flinch. “You’re not suggesting Harper.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I ask, stung more than I should be. Nothing he says should matter to me. It’s a weakness that it does. “That someone thinks I’m good for something more than shopping or spa days?”
Christopher blinks, looking, for maybe the first time in his life, uncertain. “Is that how you think I see you? You’re a talented artist, Harper.”
“And I’m stuck begging for my mother’s life.”
“She’s in remission.”
“How would you know that?”
Sutton leans forward, drawing my attention away from the man I want to throttle. Unlike Christopher he doesn’t look unmoved by my mother’s situation. Instead there’s a notch of concern between his eyes. “So she is in remission?”
“For now.” There’s a sense of relief, however brief, that someone other than me worries about Mom. That particular load, I’ve carried since I was six years old.
“Good.” He relaxes again, as if he cares about what happens to her. And maybe he does. That’s a normal trait, concern for your fellow human beings. “We have a lot poured into this reconstruction. Everything we have, in fact.”
Christopher makes a quelling motion. “This doesn’t concern her.”
“We worked out a thousand different angles with economics and real estate and legal, but we didn’t consider this. Which is probably why our permits have been tied up in city hall for weeks now. We didn’t realize the power the historical society holds—”
“Unofficial power,” Christopher adds darkly.
Sutton nods. “You saw what we missed in less than a minute.”
“Have you really put everything you have into this?” I know that Christopher doesn’t have as much money as the trust fund. Really, who does? His was a white-collar background, for all that his mother married into my family for a few seasons. But I don’t know what he has, specifically. He’s always refused to take even a nominal salary for the work in managing my inheritance. Which is annoying, really. A nice salary and bonuses for the kind of growth the fund has had should be standard. Why hasn’t he let me pay him for it, if he has limited funds?
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Christopher says, which means yes.
“We have enough for cons
“Why didn’t you put some of the trust fund into it? Like as an investment?”
His eyes flash. “That would be unethical.”
“Like letting a sick woman suffer because you’re a pompous asshole?” He could learn a thing or two about concern for your fellow human beings. He doesn’t care about my mother. And he definitely doesn’t care about me. Unethical. Ha!
“She’s not suffering. Her pain is manageable and her prognosis favorable.”
Surprise locks my muscles tight. There’s a healthy dose of suspicion along with it. “Favorable. That’s what her doctor told me last week. Now I want to know how the hell you know anything about her condition.”
“It’s part of my role as executor to make sure you’re safe.”
That makes me laugh. Safe, because he wants nothing more than to ride in on his damned white horse. He wants to spy on us and then call it protection. “If my mother isn’t allowed a single cent from the trust fund, then she’s not part of your stupid role. You don’t get to have it both ways.”
I turn my back on him to face Sutton, who I’m finding infinitely more reasonable to deal with. The fire burnishes his golden hair, making it seem as if he’s glowing. While Christopher is vibrating with tension and I’m flushed with frustration, he looks merely thoughtful. Those brilliant blue eyes sift through the things we’re saying… and the things we’re not saying.
“I hate to break it to you,” I tell him, “but I’m not exactly rooting for your success here. So I’m probably not the best person to help with your diplomacy problem.”
Sutton seems at ease in the tux and the Queen Anne chair and the stuffy old country club. It’s the kind of assurance that comes from being fully comfortable with who you are. He’s ambitious, but in a different way from Christopher, without the desperate, dangerous edge. His is a pure manifestation of hard work and hard play.