do like Thai,” she said. Still being honest. Forward, Gracie, she told herself. Move forward.
“Excellent,” he said, treating her again to that bewitching smile. “I’m Harrison, by the way,” he added. “Harrison Sage. If you hadn’t already figured that out.”
Gracie bit back a strangled sound. “Yeah, I kinda did.”
“And you are?”
It was all she could do not to reply, “I’m the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m—I’m Gracie,” she said instead.
She was hoping the name was common enough that he wouldn’t make the connection to the woman he probably hated with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. But she was pretty sure he did make the connection. She could tell by the way his expression went stony, by the way his eyes went flinty, by the way his jaw went clinchy...
And by the way the temperature in the room seemed to drop about fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—degrees.
Harrison Sage told himself he must have misheard her. Maybe she hadn’t said her name was Gracie. Maybe she’d said her name was Stacy. Or Tracy. Or even Maisey. Because Gracie was a nickname for Grace. And Grace was the name of the woman who had used her sexual wiles to seduce and manipulate a fragile old man into changing his will to leave her with nearly every nickel he had.
This was that woman? he thought, taking her in again. He’d been expecting a loudmouthed, garishly painted, platinum blonde in a short skirt, tight sweater and mile-high heels. One who had big hair, long legs and absolutely enormous—
Well. He just hadn’t expected her to look like something out of a fairy tale. But that was exactly the impression he’d formed of this woman when she first walked into the room. That she was some fey, otherworldly sylph completely out of her element in this den of trolls. She was slight and wispy, and if she was wearing any makeup, he sure couldn’t see it. Stray tendrils of hair, the color of a golden autumn sunset, had escaped their twist, as if all it would take was a breath of sorcery to make the entire mass tumble free.
And when had he become such a raging poet? he asked himself. Golden autumn sunset? Breath of sorcery? What the hell kind of thoughts were those to have about a woman who had robbed his family of their rightful legacy? What the hell kind of thoughts were those for a man to have, period? Where the hell had his testosterone got to?
On the other hand, he was beginning to see how his father had been taken in by her. Obviously, she was the kind of grifter who got better results as a vestal virgin than a blonde bombshell. Harrison had almost fallen into her trap himself.
It didn’t matter how she’d conned his father. What mattered was that she’d swindled one of the last century’s most savvy businessmen and convinced him to turn his back on everyone and everything he’d loved in life. Well, as far as his father could have loved anyone or anything—other than his fortune, his commercial holdings and his social standing. But then, what else was there to love? Money, power and position were the only things a person could count on. Or, at least, they had been, before everything went to hell, thanks to this, this...
Harrison took a step backward, and met Grace Sumner’s gaze coolly. “You’re the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger?” he asked. Then, because something in her expression looked genuinely wounded by the comment—wow, she really was good—he tempered it by adding, “I thought you’d be taller.”
She mustered a smile he would have sworn was filled with anxiety if he hadn’t known she was a woman who made her way in the world by conning people. “Well, I guess zero out of five isn’t bad.”
Harrison opened his mouth to say something else, but Bennett Tarrant—another thorn in the Sage family’s side for the last two years—appeared next to Gracie, as if conjured by one of her magic spells.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Sage,” he said unnecessarily.
“Yep,” Grace said, her gaze never leaving Harrison’s.
Tarrant turned to Harrison. “And I see you’ve met Miss Sumner.”
“Yep,” Harrison said, his gaze never leaving Grace’s.
The silence that ensued was thick enough to hack with a meat cleaver. Until Tarrant said, “We should head for our seats. We’ll be starting shortly.”
Instead of doing as Tarrant instructed, Harrison found it impossible to move his feet—or remove his gaze from Grace Sumner. Damn. She really was some kind of enchantress.
In an effort to make himself move away, he reminded himself of everything he and his mother had been through since his father’s disappearance fifteen years ago. And he reminded himself how his mother would be left with nothing, thanks to this woman who had, by sheer, dumb luck, stumbled onto an opportunity to bleed the last drop out of a rich, feeble-minded old man.
Fifteen years ago—half a lifetime—Harrison had gone down to breakfast to find his parents seated, as they always were, at a dining-room table capable of seating twenty-two people. But instead of sitting side by side, they sat at each end, as far apart as possible. As usual, his father had had his nose buried in the Wall Street Journal while his mother had been flipping through the pages of a program for Milan Fashion Week. Or maybe Paris Fashion Week. Or London Fashion Week. Or, hell, Lickspittle, Idaho, Fashion Week for all he knew. So he’d taken his regular place at the table midway between them, ensuring that none of them was close enough to speak to the others. It was, after all, a Sage family tradition to not speak to each other.
They’d eaten in silence until their butler entered with his daily reminder that his father’s car had arrived to take him to work, his mother’s car had arrived to take her shopping and Harrison’s car had arrived to take him to school. All three Sages had then risen and made their way to their destinations, none saying a word of farewell—just as they had every morning. Had Harrison realized then that that would be the last time he ever saw his father, he might have...
What? he asked himself. Told him to have a nice day? Given him a hug? Said, “I love you”? He wasn’t sure he’d even known how to do any of those things when he was fifteen. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do any of them now. But he might at least have told his father...something.
He tamped down a wave of irritation. He just wished he and his father had talked more. Or at all. But that was kind of hard to do when the father spent 90 percent of his time at work and the son spent 90 percent of his time in trouble. Because Harrison remembered something else about that day. The night before his father took off, Harrison had come home in the backseat of a squad car, because he’d been caught helping himself to a couple of porno magazines and a bottle of malt liquor at a midtown bodega.
Five months after his father’s disappearance had come the news from one of the family’s attorneys that he had been found, but that he had no intention of coming home just yet. Oh, he would stay in touch with one of his attorneys and a couple of business associates, to make sure the running of Sage Holdings, Inc. continued at its usual pace and to keep himself from being declared legally dead. But he wouldn’t return to his work life—or his home life—anytime soon. To those few with whom he stayed in contact he paid a bundle to never reveal his whereabouts. He’d come back when he felt like it, he said. And then
