Page 26 of His Vow

"I'm three minutes early."

"For normal people, that's late. For my father, that's an insult." She adjusted my collar with both hands, smoothed the fabric, and straightened the line where it met my jacket. Her fingers moved with the ease of a woman who'd decided this man was hers. She rose on her toes and kissed me. Quick, warm, her lips tasting like champagne and the vanilla lip gloss she wore. My hand found the small of her back. She took my hand and pulled me down the hallway.

The Lattimore house opened around me. Wide marble foyer, staircase curving to the second level. A hallway to the left — Hugh's private study. The door was closed. An Impressionist original hung above the console table. I squeezed Soleil's hand. Smiled when she looked back.

The living room buzzed with forty-five guests — hardly intimate. Candles flickered everywhere, a string quartet battling laughter and clinking glasses as waiters threaded through with champagne trays. Camille held court by the fireplace in white silk, her untouched flute a mere prop. Bianca leaned in close in emerald, whispering something that made Dominique stifle a laugh. Sloane scrutinized a distant painting like a critic gearing up for a loud takedown. Petra stood apart, quietly observing — watching was safer than joining.

Soleil pulled me through the crowd, pausing to accept kisses and birthday wishes, squeezing hands, laughing when someone complimented her dress. A waiter passed, and she snagged two glasses of champagne without breaking stride, handing one to me.

A woman with a dark bob leaned against the bar, watching us approach. Margaux. Her eyes moved from Soleil to me, and she took a slow sip of her drink.

"So you're the one who's been making my boss useless," she said when we stopped in front of her. Her handshake was firm. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Margaux," Soleil warned.

"I'm being friendly." Her gaze held mine. "It's nice to finally meet the man behind the disappearing acts."

I held her grip an extra beat. "Likewise."

She released my hand and picked up her glass. Her eyes followed me as Soleil steered us toward the dining room. I filed her — the one person in the room who wasn't performing.

"Nolan!"

I turned. Rhys was crossing the room toward us, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his other hand already extended. Charcoal suit, tailored to perfection. Hair pushed back. The golden-boy smile was deployed at full wattage.

"So you're the mystery man." His handshake was strong, his eye contact easy. "Rhys Lattimore."

"Nolan Reeves."

His hand went slack. The grip didn't release. It loosened, his fingers going soft for a fraction of a second, like the fist of someone who's just taken a blow they didn't see coming. His smile held, but his eyes emptied. The color drained from his face, the blood moving somewhere else.

"Reeves," he repeated. He said it slowly, like he was turning the word over in his mouth, checking it for edges.

"That's right."

He blinked. Once, twice. His smile reset, but his hand left mine too quickly, and when he reached for his whiskey, his fingers fumbled the glass. A splash of amber hit the tablecloth. He laughed it off, dabbing the spot with his napkin, shaking his head.

"Clumsy tonight." He tossed the napkin on the table. "I should — I need to say hello to Gerald. Excuse me."

He turned and walked toward the bar. Not toward Gerald. Toward the bar. He caught the bartender's eye before he was halfway there, two fingers raised, and a fresh whiskey was in his hand before he'd fully arrived.

Soleil watched him go, a crease forming between her brows. "That was weird."

"Maybe he's just had a long week," I said.

The crease smoothed. She slipped her hand into mine. "Come on. Daddy's been asking about you."

The crowd parted around us as she led me toward the back of the room. A waiter stepped aside. A woman in pearls touched Soleil's shoulder and wished her happy birthday. A man I didn't recognize raised his glass in our direction. The room moved with bodies shifting, laughter swelling, and the quartet switching to a slower piece. Through it all, Soleil pulled me forward like a current.

Hugh Lattimore stood beside the fireplace with a glass of champagne and the posture of a man who owned the mantel, the fire, and every brick in the chimney. Silver hair swept back. Navy suit. White shirt. A pocket square in muted gold. He was shorter than I expected — 5 ft 10 in, maybe — but he filled the space with gravity.

He turned when we approached. His eyes landed on me, and he set his champagne on the mantel.

"So you're the man my daughter's been hiding from me." He extended his hand.

I took it. His grip was firm, dry, measured. His eyes held mine. Warm on the surface. Underneath, machinery.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Lattimore." My voice was steady. My pulse was not. Fifteen years. This hand. This man.