The last thing Hayden felt like doing on Sunday night was attending a fundraiser hosted by a wealthy entrepreneur she didn’t even know, but when she’d called her father to try to get out of it, he wouldn’t have it. He insisted her presence was essential, though she honestly didn’t know why. Every time she socialized with her father and his friends she ended up standing at the bar by herself.
But she didn’t want to let down her dad. And considering how she’d left things with Brody on Friday night, maybe it was better to get out of that big penthouse and away from her thoughts.
It was just past eight o’clock when she neared the Gallagher Club, a prestigious men’s club in one of Chicago’s most historical neighborhoods. It had been founded by Walter Gallagher, a filthy rich entrepreneur who’d decided he needed to build a place where other filthy rich entrepreneurs could congregate.
The Gallagher Club was by invitation only, and it took some men decades to gain membership. Her father had inherited the membership when he’d purchased the Warriors from their previous owner, and he loved flaunting it. When Hayden was in town, he never took her anywhere else.
She drove down the wide, tree-lined street, slowing her rental car when she spotted a crowd at the end of the road. As she got closer, she noticed a few news vans. The dozen or so people milling by the curb were reporters.
And since she couldn’t think of anyone else currently involved in a possible criminal investigation, she knew the press was there because of her father.
This was not good.
Taking a few calming breaths, she drove through the wrought iron gates leading to the Gallagher Club, turning her head and averting her eyes when a few of the reporters started to peer in at her. She exhaled as she steered up the circular cobblestone driveway and slowed the car behind the line of vehicles waiting near the valet area.
Had the reporters harassed her father when he’d driven in? Had he stopped to speak with them, to deny the absurd news report?
A voice interrupted the troubling thoughts. “Good evening, madam.”
She lifted her head and saw a young man in a burgundy valet uniform hovering over the driver’s window.
“May I take your keys?” he asked.
Her gaze flitted to the massive mansion with its enormous limestone pillars and the stone statues lining the marble entrance. Her father was probably already in there, most likely smoking cigars with his rich friends and acting as if the presence of the media didn’t bother him. But she knew it had to bug him. Presley’s reputation mattered to him more than anything.
With another sigh, she handed the valet her keys and stepped out of the car. “Davis will escort you inside,” the young man informed her.
Davis turned out to be a tall, bulky man in a black tuxedo who extended his arm and led her up the front steps toward the two oak doors at the entrance.
He opened one door and said, “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you,” she answered, then stepped into the lavish foyer.
Miles of black marble spanned the front hall, and overhead a sparkling crystal chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. When she took a breath, she inhaled the scent of wine, cologne and all things expensive.
She paused next to the entrance of the coat check and quickly glanced down to make sure there were no wardrobe mishaps happening. She’d worn a slinky silver dress that clung to her curves. Not to mention that it was slit up to the thigh, revealing a lot of leg. A light touch of eye makeup and some shiny pink lip gloss, and the ensemble had been complete.
Annoyingly, she’d thought about Brody the entire time she’d gotten ready. How much he’d probably enjoy seeing her in the dress—and how much he’d love taking it off her.
It still bothered her, how they’d left things. Brody hadn’t spent the night, and he’d headed for the elevator with the air of a man leaving a battlefield in defeat.
She’d felt pretty defeated, too. What was she thinking, suggesting they go out on a real date? She was the one who’d made it clear she wanted a fling.
She’d just really enjoyed their conversation—talking to him about art, hearing about his parents. It was really nice. Comfortable. And before she knew it, she was falling right back into her old ways, looking to embark on a new relationship.
Their argument was just the wake-up call she’d needed. It reminded her precisely what she wanted—someone stable. Someone who wouldn’t be out of town for half the year, while their relationship took second place.
As wildly attracted to Brody as she was, she knew he couldn’t be that someone.
“Quade has outdone himself this year,” a male voice boomed, interrupting her thoughts and reminding her where she was.
Smoothing the front of her dress, she followed the group of tuxedo-clad men into the large ballroom off to the left. It was a black-tie event, and she found herself surrounded by beautifully dressed people, some older, some younger, all strangers. A dance floor graced the center of the room, in front of a live band that was belting out an upbeat swing song. Before she could blink, a waiter handed her a glass of champagne.
Just as she was about to take a sip, a familiar face caught her eye.
“Darcy?” she called in surprise.
Her best friend’s silky red hair swung over her shoulders as she spun around. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“My dad demanded I make an appearance.” She grimaced. “And to think I almost believed he wanted to spend some time with me.”
Bitter much?
Fine, so she was bitter, but really, who could blame her? She’d come here to support her father and bridge the distance between them, and yet he seemed determined to avoid spending quality time with her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Darcy, who was clad in a white minidress that contrasted nicely with her bright red hair and vibrant blue eyes.
“I know the host. He’s a regular at the boutique and pretty much threatened to take his business elsewhere if I didn’t come.” Darcy snorted. “To be honest, I think he’s dying to get into my panties. Like that will ever happen.”
“Who exactly is the host? Dad neglected to mention.”
“Jonas Quade,” Darcy answered. “He’s filthy rich, calls himself a philanthropist and spends thousands of dollars on his many mistresses. Oh, and he’s also a pompous ass, but I can’t complain because those thousands I mentioned, well, he spends them at my boutique. He likes getting his lady friends to try on lace teddies and model them for him, that sleazy bastar—Shit, here he comes.”
A gray-haired man with the build of Arnold Schwarzenegger and an orange tan made a beeline in their direction. A plump blonde woman tagged on his heels, looking annoyed by her escort’s obvious enthusiasm for Darcy.
“Darcy!” Jonas Quade boomed, grinning widely. “What a treat to see you here.”
“Nice to see you, Mr. Quade,” Darcy said politely.
Quade turned to his companion. “Margaret, this is the owner of the shop where I buy you all those intimate gifts.” He winked at the blonde. “Darcy, this is my wife, Margaret.”
Hayden could see the barely contained mirth on her friend’s face. She had to wonder if Quade’s wife was aware that her husband wasn’t buying intimate gifts only for her.
“And who is your lovely friend?” Quade asked, peering at Hayden.
Since she didn’t particularly enjoy being ogled, Hayden felt a flicker of relief when, before Darcy could introduce them, Quade’s wife suddenly latched on to his arm and said, “Marcus is trying to get your attention, darling.” She proceeded to forcibly drag him away from the two women.
“Enjoy the party,” Quade called over his shoulder.
“That poor woman,” Darcy said. “She has no idea…”
“I’m sure she knows. He might as well have adulterer tattooed on his forehead.”
She and Darcy started to giggle, and Hayden decided this party might not be so bad after all. She hadn’t spotted her father yet, but with Darcy by her side, she might not have such an awful time.
“Can I interest you in a dance?”
But she should’ve known her best friend, with that indecently short dress, wouldn’t be available for long.
The handsome, dark-haired man in a navy blue pin-striped suit eyed Darcy expectantly. After a moment she shrugged and said, “I’d love to dance.” She handed her champagne flute to Hayden, adding, “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
“Sure. Have fun.”
Hayden’s shoulders sagged as her friend followed Handsome Man onto the dance floor. Great. Seeing Darcy had been a pleasant surprise, but now her enthusiasm returned to its original level: low.
Then it swiftly dropped to nonexistent.
“Hayden, honey!” Her father’s commanding voice sliced through the loud chatter and strains of music. He strode up to her, a glass of bourbon in his hand and an unlit cigar poking out of the corner of his mouth.
She stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek. “Hey, Dad. You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am.” He squeezed her arm and beamed at her. “You look gorgeous.”
Something about his overly broad smile troubled her. She wasn’t sure why—he was just smiling. And yet, an alarm went off in her head. She examined him more closely. His face was flushed, his eyes a touch too bright.
Like an unwanted visitor, Sheila’s words filled her head. Your father’s drinking again.
“Are you okay?” she asked, unable to stop the wariness from seeping into her tone. “You look a little…tense.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m absolutely great.”
“You sure? Because I saw those reporters outside and…”
And what? And I wanted to make sure that they’re all just lying about your involvement in illegal sports betting?
Presley’s eyes darkened. “Ignore those bloodsuckers. They’re only trying to cause trouble, conjuring up their delusional stories to get clicks.” He took a slug of bourbon. “This isn’t the time to discuss this. Martin Hargrove was just asking me about you. You remember Martin. He owns a chain of restaurants—”
“Dad, you can’t just ignore this,” she cut in. “What about the announcement that one of your players came forward? I tried calling you yesterday afternoon to talk about it, but I kept getting your voicemail. I left you two messages.”
He ignored the last statement and said, “I was golfing with Judge Harrison. No cell service out on the course.”
God, why was he acting like none of this was a big deal? One of his own players was alleging that Presley fixed games, and her father was brushing it off like a fleck of lint on his sleeve. Going to parties, smoking cigars, mingling with friends. Did he honestly think this would all just blow over? Hayden refused to believe her father had done the things he was accused of, but she wasn’t naive enough to think they could just close their eyes and blink the whole mess away.
“Did you at least talk to Judge Harrison about what your next move should be?” she asked.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because this is starting to get serious.” She clenched her fists at her sides. “You should give a press conference maintaining your innocence. Or at the very least, talk to your lawyer.”
He didn’t bother replying, just shrugged, then lifted his drink to his mouth. After swallowing the rest of the liquid, he signaled a passing waiter and swiped a glass of champagne.
Hayden took the opportunity to place her and Darcy’s drinks on the waiter’s tray, suddenly losing any taste for alcohol. Both times she’d seen her father this past week, he’d been drinking, but tonight it was obvious he was drunk. His rosy cheeks and glazed eyes, the way he was swaying on his feet. The blatant case of denial.
“Dad…how much have you had to drink?”
His features instantly hardened. “Pardon me?”
“You just seem a little…buzzed,” she said for lack of a better word.
“Buzzed?” He frowned. “I can assure you, Hayden, I am not drunk. I’ve only had a couple drinks.”
The defensive note in his voice deepened her concern. When people started making excuses for their inebriated state…wasn’t that a sign of an addiction problem?
She cursed her stepmother for putting all these absurd ideas into her head. Her father wasn’t an alcoholic. He didn’t have a drinking problem, he hadn’t had an affair and he certainly hadn’t fixed any Warriors games to make a profit.
Right?
Her temples began to throb. God, she didn’t want to doubt her dad, the man who’d raised her alone, the man who up until a few years ago had been her closest friend.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he cut her off before she could. “I’m sick of these accusations, you hear me?”
She blinked. “What? Dad—”
“I get enough flak from Sheila. I don’t need to hear this shit from my own daughter.”
His eyes were on fire now, his cheeks crimson with anger, and she found herself taking a step back. Tears stung her own eyes. Oh, God. For the first time in her life she was frightened of her own father.
“So I made a few bad investments. Sue me,” he growled, his champagne glass shaking along with his hands. “It doesn’t make me a criminal. Don’t you dare accuse me of that.”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t—”
“I didn’t fix those games,” he snapped. “And I don’t have a drinking problem.”
A ragged breath escaped his lips, the stale odor of alcohol burning her nostrils and betraying his last statement. He wasn’t just drunk—he was wasted. As she stood there, stunned, a tear crept down her cheek.
“Hayden…honey… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
She didn’t answer, just swallowed again and swiped at her face with a shaky hand.
Her father reached out and touched her shoulder. “Forgive me.”
Before she could respond, Jonas Quade approached with jovial strides, clasped his hand on Presley’s arm and said, “There you are, Pres. My son Gregory is dying to meet you. He’s the Warriors’ number-one fan.”
Her father’s dark green eyes pleaded with her, relaying the message he couldn’t voice at the moment. We’ll talk about this later.
She managed a nod, then drew in a ragged breath as Quade led her dad away.
The second the two men ambled off, she spun on her heel and hurried to the French doors leading to the patio, hoping she could keep any more tears at bay until she was out of sight.
