married a tycoon like my grandfather and dazzled New York society on his arm.”
“That seems like a waste of your intelligence and drive.”
“It’s hard being a disappointment.”
“I agree.” This they shared. No matter how much either of them accomplished, they weren’t living up to their parents’ perception of success. “It spoils what you’ve achieved, doesn’t it.”
She looked surprised by his insight. Her gaze became keen as it rested on him. “It does.”
He lifted the bottle of Scotch. “Do you want another drink?” He was dying to watch her swallow another glass. And then lick her lips again. There’d been something so decadent, so wickedly un-Harper-like about the deed.
“I should get back to work.”
“See you tomorrow night.”
“Text me when Chef Cole agrees to come work for you.” She started to leave, but then paused. “Thanks for listening.”
He suspected voicing her gratitude hadn’t come easily. “Anytime. You know where to find me.”
Shaking her head in exasperation, Harper spun away and headed toward the exit, her stride purposeful. Whatever sharing she’d done, it was now over. Ashton was left with an increased appreciation for Harper Fontaine.
These past few months he’d assumed her arrogance was a natural byproduct of her family’s money and connections, that life was a breeze for her. He’d been as guilty of stereotyping as his critics often were. To be fair, her confidence had always been dent-free.
Now he realized there were a few pinholes in her armor.
And they had more in common than he’d have ever guessed.
* * *
Harper pushed lettuce around on her plate, her appetite deadened by the smell of cigarette smoke. The suite would have to be deep cleaned before any guests could be booked in here. Over dinner, her mother had refused to speak about the blackmail. Harper’s impatience was growing with each minute that ticked by. She set down her fork. It clattered on the china. The discordant sound startled her mother.
“We have to talk about why you’re here.”
“I don’t want to.”
“If you expect me to give you three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, I’m going to need to know why you’re being blackmailed.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Did you kill someone?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“That’s a relief,” Harper muttered. She left the table, needing activity to think. As she crossed the room, a dozen ideas sprang into her mind. She picked the most likely one and turned to confront her mother. “You stole something.”
“I’m not a thief.” Penelope stubbed out her cigarette and reached for another, but Harper beat her to the package.
“No more smoking.”
Her mother glared at her. “You are trying to provoke me into telling you something you’re not ready to hear.”
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