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One for the Money
Skye Warren
Chapter One
Eva
Black tuxedos. Glittering gowns. Splashing champagne.
These things are common in my life. Mundane. I grew up under the warm glow of chandeliers. Laughter and conversation were my lullabies, the sound drifting up the spiral staircase to our bedrooms. I learned the planning of these events from my mother, the same way other daughters learn to quilt or bake or garden.
This particular gala benefits the Society for the Preservation of Orchids.
Ironic, considering the number of orchids we had to kill to build the elaborate sculpture in the foyer. My mother sits on the board. She doesn’t care about flowers.
She cares about connections.
It’s the family business, really. Making deals in ballrooms.
My father waves me over to him. He’s officially retired. Stepped down as CEO of Morelli Holdings. Replaced by my brother Lucian. Unofficially, he’ll only stop working when he’s six feet underground. It’s just the way he was made.
“Hi, Dad.” I give him a dutiful kiss on his cheek.
He pulls me close to his side. His mood is magnanimous. Probably because there’s a congressman, a famous filmmaker, and an oil tycoon from Texas hanging on his every word. “This is my daughter, Eva. Have you met her? She’s the one responsible for all this.”
The group responds with enthusiastic praise.
“The arbor is absolutely inspired,” the filmmaker says. “The way you used crepe paper to mimic the tree bark, the way the branches wind above you. It feels like you’re walking through a real forest. If you ever want to do set design, you have a place in L.A.”
My father’s hand tightens on my arm. “We could never let her go.”
I manage a gracious smile. “High praise, indeed. But you’re right. I could never leave New York. It’s home.”
The oil tycoon winks. “That’s right. I tried to lure her down to Texas. Unlimited barbecue and a swimming pool as big as a basketball court couldn’t sway her.”
My cheeks flush with old embarrassment. The man is handsome enough, in a white-haired kind of way. Smart enough. And definitely rich enough. But he didn’t even bother asking me out. No, he went straight to my father and offered to buy me in a business deal.
As if I were a head of cattle.
I excuse myself and stride away, directing a server to refill their glasses. I know what each of them likes to drink. I know where their vacation homes are and what racehorses they own. It’s part of my role as hostess, to make everyone comfortable.
To make everyone comfortable except for me.
My face feels tight from smiling. My feet ache from running around all day. I wore flats until the gala started, then I switched into heels, but it didn’t help. My calves are burning.
Since things are smooth in the ballroom, I swing through the kitchen. One of the cooks is shouting obscenities at a server who dropped a plate of appetizers. Even I have to cringe at the loss. Each large white spoon contains a thin slice of Japanese Shorthorn Wagyu beef with caviar and mascarpone cream, topped with delicately sliced jalepeños, red onion, and Asian pear.
“Clean this up,” I say to the server, mostly to get him away from the cook. Will he hire him again? Maybe not, but there’s no point making him cry in the middle of service. Then I address the cook. “Do we have any more of that caviar?”
“Yes,” he growls, still frustrated. “None of the beef.”
“Serve it on crostini with crème fraîche.”
“I don’t serve boring food.”
“You do unless you want the people to go home hungry.”
He curses fluently but turns to prepare the tray. My work here is done. For now, anyway. I head back upstairs. On the way I pass the head bartender, who looks harried.
