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“It definitely tested our relationship, but she understands my need to be gone a fair amount.”
“A fair amount?” Vance echoed, eyebrows raised. “It seems to me that you’ve been in New York a total of twenty days in the last year.”
“Sounds about right.” Roark focused on storing his gear. “But Elizabeth is very committed to her career. I’m convinced she didn’t miss me at all.”
“Quite a love match then.” A thread of sarcasm wove through Vance’s voice. Ever since falling for Charlotte, he’d become a champion of committed relationships.
“Exactly.”
“Tell me how you came to be engaged.” Vance drank deeply from his bottle of water, giving Roark a chance to decide what exactly he was going to tell his brother.
Deceiving Vance left him with a heavy conscience and a bitter taste in his mouth. Past experience had taught him to trust no one. That mantra had kept him alive more times than he could count. But Vance wasn’t a shady antiquities dealer with questionable associates. He was a well-respected businessman and Roark’s brother. Having family to guard his back was changing Roark from a solo operator into a team player, and adapting to the new dynamic wasn’t easy.
“We’re not really engaged,” Roark admitted, deciding that being truthful with Vance was best. “Cromwell approached me at the wine auction and told me Rothschild is after him to sell his shares and convince everyone else to do so, as well. He believes you, Ann and I are the future of Waverly’s. But with the near scandal surrounding Ann’s alleged relationship with Rothschild and my wild ways where women are concerned, he wasn’t feeling confident about our judgment.”
“That old man should talk. He’s got more than a few skeletons in his closet.”
As much as he would have loved to hear more about Vance’s allegations, Roark stayed focused on his story. “Anyway, he thought if my love life settled down, I would demonstrate an ability to behave responsibly.”
“So, you got engaged?”
“Elizabeth agreed to act as my fiancée until the situation at Waverly’s stabilizes.”
For a moment Vance looked mildly stunned, then he shook his head. “Did it occur to you that this is exactly the sort of thing that gets you into trouble?”
“Yes. But what else would you have me do? Waverly’s is going to end up in Rothschild’s hands if we can’t keep our board members from selling. And you have to admit that the buzz about the Gold Heart statue being a fake or stolen has died down with the announcement of my engagement.”
“Agreed.” Vance scrutinized him a moment longer. “And speaking of you being the future of Waverly’s, have you given any more thought to my proposition?”
“That I officially join Waverly’s management and go public with our connection?” Roark shook his head. “It’s not a good time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. With Uncle Rutherford off doing who knows what, Waverly’s needs you. Besides, you have the same rights to the company that I do.”
“You seem to forget I’m the illegitimate son,” Roark pointed out. “The black sheep of the family, if you will.”
“I’m sure if my father had had his way, he would have married your mother.” Vance picked up his gym bag. “He loved her.”
“You don’t know that.” Not once had his mother named Edward Waverly in her journals. When she wrote of her lover, she talked about his thick brown hair and the unhappiness she’d glimpsed inside him. “And there’s no proof he was my father.” Despite the rumors, Roark never bought an artifact without authenticating its provenance. He was damn well not going to claim
to be Edward Waverly’s son without a declaration from his mother that it was true.
“The DNA test—”
“Proves we’re related. We could be cousins.” Roark knew his statement was ridiculous before Vance shot him a wry smile.
“You think you’re Rutherford’s son?”
“I don’t know.” Roark tempered his impatience. “And that’s why I’m not keen on a public announcement.”
“Fine. But I think if you come forward as a Waverly, it would go a long way toward bolstering our stock.”
“Let’s see how things progress with my engagement and I’ll let you know.”
* * *
Elizabeth swayed on her feet, half asleep as she waited for the elevator door to open. At seven o’clock on a Friday evening, the office housing Josie Summers’s Event Planning was abandoned. Most of her coworkers were working events. The rest had left around five, eager to head home or swing by their favorite bar for happy hour.
Today had been a particularly difficult day. Not only because her newest client was a demanding perfectionist and unable to make a decision, but because she’d had a frustrating conversation with her mother about plans for Thanksgiving. With the number of parties booked around the holiday, Elizabeth couldn’t get away from New York and she’d been unable to convince her parents to leave Portland and come for a visit.
