“Maybe this fling is a bad idea,” she said.
He’d blown it, all right.
Big-time.
SEVENTEEN
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.”
