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Chapter One
Matt Russo rubbed his forehead wearily, then swung a right at the next light, kicking his own ass for agreeing to this dinner. He was too hungover—an uncommon state for him—to deal with this shit tonight. He never drank to excess, but he had last evening. Or more accurately, this morning.
The bottle of Scotch he’d consumed in the wee hours before dawn had been the final fuck-up in a long list of mistakes he’d made last night.
Matt sighed, concerned the three ibuprofen he’d just taken weren’t going to kick in before he got to the restaurant. This dinner date was going to be tricky enough with all his faculties functioning. Doing it with this nonstop, throbbing pain behind his eyes…shit.
He applied the brakes at a red light, his mind drifting back to why he was in this predicament to begin with.
Last night had started just like any other night. He’d donned his tuxedo, picked up his current plus-one-with-benefits, Patricia Eddington, and headed to the Ritz-Carlton for the Snowflake Gala, a fundraiser held by the Philadelphia Initiative to raise money for the Promise House. The charity was a good one, one he was more than happy to support, seeing as the money went toward helping teenagers in the city who were facing homelessness or who had been victims of sex trafficking.
The problem wasn’t the fundraiser; it was the organizer.
Liza Moretti.
Simply the name Moretti should have been enough to ensure Matt kept his damn distance from her, but Liza had captured his attention a year and a half ago, and since then, she’d been the cause of too many sleepless nights.
As chairman of the board overseeing the Philadelphia Initiative, Matt crossed paths with Liza more than was comfortable—for either of them—as they tended to butt heads regarding the Initiative’s goals. Of course, their professional disagreements notwithstanding, they were also dealing with the fact their families had participated in a four-generations-long feud fueled by marital infidelity, broken hearts, destroyed businesses, and outright petty revenge.
Matt wasn’t stupid enough to pretend the Russos hadn’t been the perpetrators of most of the bullshit, and that he hadn’t contributed more than his fair share to the continued ill will.
The moment he’d walked into the gala last night and seen Liza in that deep red ball gown, he’d known he was in trouble. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, and in a moment of weakness, he’d asked her to dance. That dance had been his first mistake because holding her in his arms, recalling the softness of that tiny bit of skin exposed by the keyhole slot in the back of her gown, had sent his thoughts down paths best left untrodden.
Unfortunately, his date hadn’t appreciated him paying so much attention to another woman. Asking Patricia out had originally seemed like a smart move because they traveled in the same circles, both had more money than God, and neither of them was looking for a relationship. In hindsight, he could see he’d been short-sighted, given the fact he had quite a few business ties with her father—her doting, spoiled-Patricia-rotten father.
Matt hoped Richard wouldn’t be petty after the way things had ended between him and his daughter, but he couldn’t bet the bank on that, either. Patricia had given off “woman scorned” vibes when she’d stormed out the hotel last night.
Matt pushed the gas when the light turned green, recalling his argument with Patricia. After the gala, he had broken things off between them in the lobby of the Ritz, proclaiming their relationship—the word he’d really wanted to use was “association”—had run its course. Patricia, whose jealousy had reared its ugly head throughout the evening, took his rejection badly.
Very badly.
* * *
“How dare you end things this way!” Patricia yelled.
“Keep your voice down, Patricia. I have no interest in drawing a crowd.”
“I will not keep my voice down. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to expect my date to treat me with courtesy. To pay attention to me. I didn’t enjoy watching you staring at her all night.”
“She has nothing to do with this,” Matt replied.
“Bullshit,” Patricia scoffed.
* * *
Absentmindedly, Matt raised his hand to his cheek, the one Patricia had slapped before stomping off. The argument had been unfortunate, but he hadn’t viewed it as something he couldn’t recover from. He suspected everything might have been okay…if his night had ended there.
But there had been a witness to his and Patricia’s confrontation.
Liza Moretti.
She’d seen—and heard—everything.
* * *
“She slapped you?” Liza asked.
“Yes.” Matt didn’t bother to touch his cheek. “I will admit she’s not the first woman to slap me.”
