The Temptation (Filthy Rich Americans Book 5), page 1
ONE
VANCE
Tension was something I was so accustomed to in my life. I wore it effortlessly, the way my father wore a bespoke suit as a second skin, as he did now. He sat in the chair across from me in the formal living room, dressed in his standard three-piece black suit.
My gaze snagged on the colorful silk peeking out from his front breast pocket.
His girlfriend’s doing, for sure. Macalister Hale had obsessed over tradition his whole life and embodied a classic look. He much preferred people’s attention stay on him rather than his pocket square, but Sophia was pushing him to be fashion-forward. Or at least to join this century.
Any other time, I would have enjoyed the idea that a woman half his age had such power over him, but I was too distracted to focus on it. My father had shown up at the Hale estate and announced he had something important to discuss. He’d arrived without warning, likely because if I’d known he was coming, I’d have avoided him.
So, I’d reluctantly followed him into the front room of the house which had once been his and dropped down onto the couch my former stepmother had reupholstered the year before her death.
Of course, I immediately regretted my decision.
Alice loomed large between us, and the weight of unspoken words pressed down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe in my father’s presence. He already knew what I’d done, but it did nothing to ease my guilt.
“This will only take a minute,” he said.
His tone was full of his usual commanding indifference, the one that was so effective at telling you only his opinion mattered. His posture was rigid and straight, as if he were perched in a throne and not a chair, but again—this was normal. He was an imposing figure to the rest of the world. He made other people uncomfortable with a simple look.
But I saw through it today, and this was what had me so distracted.
Whatever he wanted to discuss, it gave him hesitation. In fact, the great and powerful Macalister Hale seemed . . .
Nervous.
My stomach churned with unease. My father didn’t do nervous. I swallowed thickly. Fuck, was he going to bring up Alice? Was this the conversation we desperately needed to have—the one I still wasn’t prepared for?
My father’s gaze shifted away from mine. “I’m planning to ask Sophia to be my wife.”
I blinked in my lack of surprise. My family had its fair share of secrets, but the way my father felt about Sophia? That wasn’t one of them. The entire town of Cape Hill knew, thanks to my father’s proclamation five months ago at Damon Lynch’s disastrous campaign dinner. The only thing surprising to me was that my father hadn’t proposed already. We Hale men were nothing if not decisive, and I was sure his mind was set. Once his decision had been made, what was the point in waiting?
He wanted her.
And he’d raised me to understand Hales took what they wanted.
“All right.” I was unsure what I was supposed to do with this information. “You wanting me to wish you luck?”
“No, I don’t need luck.” His cold blue eyes snapped back to me. “I would, however, like your permission.”
I was suddenly grateful to be sitting because the floor threatened to swallow me whole. “What?”
He drew in a deep breath, making his shoulders lift. “She’s the same age as you, so it’s understandable if that gives you unease.” He had one arm draped over the armrest of his chair, his fingers tensed in a fist, and his thumb brushed back and forth over his knuckles. “I don’t need to tell you how much I care for her. You heard what I said that night, which wouldn’t have been possible without your help. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
My brain was still stuck on the part where he’d ask for my permission. It ranked right up there with him admitting defeat.
It was something he never, ever did.
“It was no big deal,” I said automatically.
He ignored my statement. “I’ve spoken to Royce already, but I’d like your approval as well.”
He hadn’t asked my opinion about marrying Alice, but then again, that had been fifteen years and a lifetime ago. Had he ever asked for permission in his life? Until recently, he had no need for anyone else’s approval.
God, he’d changed so much.
He hadn’t exactly softened—his edges were still sharp and exact. But there was a thoughtfulness in him now. An awareness that the world might not always turn at his command. That people did not have to bend to his will.
His fall from grace included time behind bars, and it had been one of the most difficult things we’d had to endure. Like my mother’s death, the consequences he’d faced had been a turning point in his life.
Only, instead of receding into himself, this time he’d grown. He’d begun to open the doors he’d used to close himself off, and the man he’d once been started to reemerge. At least, that was what Royce said. I’d been seven when our mother had passed away and barely remembered either of my parents before that event.
I was off-balance now but did my best not to show it. Being caught off guard meant I was at a disadvantage, and that wasn’t allowed in this house, even if he no longer lived here. I drew in a breath and sat back in my chair, pretending to be uninterested in giving him permission. “I appreciate the gesture,” I said, “but it’s not needed.”
“I assure you it is.” His hesitation dried up, and his voice filled with conviction. “I won’t ask her for her hand without it.”
I cocked my head. This had to be a bluff, but what game was he playing at?
Whatever expression I was making, it must have prompted him to explain. “You are my son, and you have a say in who becomes part of this family.”
Distrust moved through me like the blade of an oar cutting through still water. “Yeah? So, if I say no, that you don’t have my approval—what happens then?”
His eyebrow arched. “I work to try to change your mind.”
That did nothing to ease my distrust. “Why do you care?”
“I believe I just explained that. You’re my son, and your opinion matters.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Never did before.”
“I know.” He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “And I’m . . . sorry. I’m trying to be better.”
If I wasn’t so shocked at hearing an apology, I might have appreciated the way he acknowledged the truth. But I was too stunned to do anything but simply stare at him, contributing to the stillness of the space between us.
The elegant sitting room we occupied was rarely used. Like me, it was curated. Designed to serve a purpose. Its task was to be a lavish display of our wealth, but this room didn’t make the house a home any more than my existence made me part of the Hale family.
But things were changing.
We’d both made awful mistakes, but tearing the family apart came with a surprising upside. It cleared a space for us to build something new, and he seemed willing to rise to the challenge.
I was less sure.
Scared, my mind corrected.
My father had a relentless gaze, but it warmed as it focused in on me, and his voice went uneven. “I love you, Vance.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
He’d never said it before, and my mind reeled. After my mother’s death, no one in the Hale family knew how to care for anyone else. Under my father’s brutal regime, the best chance at emotional survival was to not have feelings at all. Royce and I had learned all about self-preservation, and quickly, too.
And I wondered if the absence of love between us allowed space for something else to grow in its place. He was a difficult man to love.
For years I found him much easier to hate.
Things were far more complicated now, but my knee-jerk reaction to him saying he loved me was pure instinct. “You can’t.”
Disappointment and displeasure glanced through his expression. “Why not?”
My heart banged in my chest. It was what made me speak without thinking. “Because I had an affair with your wife.”
The second my confession was out, I would have done anything to take it back. My affair with Alice wasn’t news to him, but my father recoiled anyway. At least I’d returned the favor, and now he was the one caught off guard.
Weakness. It was whispered through my head, spoken in his voice.
But I was the one who felt weak, and my guilt was so acute, I could barely look at him.
“Vance,” he started, unsure where he was going with it, “that’s . . . irrelevant.”
I repeated the word in disbelief. “Irrelevant?”
“You’re my son regardless, and therefore I will always love you.”
Faint, hurried footsteps outside the room grew louder as they approached, but he seemed unaware. His focus was fixed on me.
“I have done a great number of things,” he continued, “that I am not proud of. I hope you’re able to look beyond them and feel the same way for me as I do for you and your brother.”
There wasn’t time to contemplate what he’d said because Elliot, the head of our household staff, appeared in the doorway. His normally calm eyes were wide, setting me on edge.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said quickly, “but two police detectives are here and would like to speak with Mr. Hale.”
My father drew in a deep, preparing breath. Whatever this was about, he wasn’t expec
ting it, and he was resigned as he rose to his feet. “I’ll speak with them in here.” His voice returned to his cool, confident one. “Please show them in.”
Elliot’s eyebrows tugged together, and he struggled with how to respond. “Actually, I believe they’re interested in questioning the younger Mr. Hale.”
What? My heart skittered as I processed what he’d said, but my body moved instinctively. As I stood, I kept my gaze locked on Elliot, and felt my father’s attention snap toward me. It burned with unease and perhaps . . . protectiveness? His curiosity wanted to know what I’d done to bring police to our doorstep, but I didn’t have an answer for that.
I kept my nose clean, both figuratively and literally. A lot of the people in my social circle did drugs, and everyone knew Richard Shaunessy was a cokehead, but me? I’d never strayed into the hard stuff.
And certainly not anything to put me on anyone’s radar.
“All right,” I said. “Can you show them in, please?”
There was a tightness in my chest when the two men were ushered into the room. Their gazes briefly wandered over the lavish furnishings and snagged for a moment on my father, before settling on me.
“Mr. Hale,” the taller of the two men said, taking a step my direction, “I’m Detective Hawkins, and this is my partner, Detective Lewis.” They both wore suits with their gold department badges hanging from their breast pockets. “We have some questions for you.”
My father’s tone was brusque. “Don’t say anything without a lawyer.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts, likely looking for his attorney’s number.
My whole life, I’d done what he wanted. The path of least resistance was usually the fastest, and when you fell in line, you often got overlooked. It meant I could get away with things and gave me freedoms Royce never had.
No one looked too closely at the younger Hale boy.
And, yes, it was smart for my father to be cautious, but had he forgotten I was an attorney? Not that I was stupid enough to represent myself, but I hadn’t done anything wrong. I could listen and always lawyer up if I didn’t like the line their questioning took.
Detective Lewis, the older, rougher-looking cop, rested a hand on his hip and studied me critically. “Do you feel like you need a lawyer?”
His partner scowled. “We’re not here to charge you. We just want to have a conversation.” He tacked it on to the end as a threat. “For now.”
A challenge rose in Lewis’s small eyes. “If you’d rather we do this at the precinct, we can make that happen, but let’s save us all the time, yeah?”
I swallowed dryly. “What’s this about?”
Hawkins nodded, satisfied. “When was the last time you were in contact with Jillian Lambert?”
Concern welled inside me. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Please answer the question, sir.”
“A few days ago.” I searched my mind for the specifics. “Friday. We spoke on the phone.” Which was odd, now that I thought about it. I was twenty-seven. Like everyone else my age, I was phone adverse, and all my conversations were done via text.
“What did you talk about?”
I paused. “Stuff.”
Irritation heated Hawkins’s face. “What kind of stuff?”
“Personal stuff,” I answered with a clipped voice. “What’s this about?”
When my question went ignored, it made worry spike further in me. Had Jillian done something?
“What is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Lambert?”
My gaze darted to my father. “It’s complicated.”
The detectives exchanged a knowing look before Lewis’s attention swung back to me. “I bet two smart guys like us can figure it out, plus we’ve got the time for you to explain it.”
I took in a breath, causing my chest to lift. “We’re friends.”
He didn’t believe me. “Like the kind of friends who sleep with each other?”
“No.” Not that it was any of their business. “Not anymore.”
“Was that what you talked about? Did she end things with you?”
“No, we stopped dating a while ago, and it was mutual.” Abruptly, my pulse jumped, and my concern grew exponentially larger. I didn’t bother to disguise the worry in my voice. “Has something happened to Jillian?”
Years ago, it was decided it would be advantageous to align our family with the Lamberts. Wayne Lambert was an enormous asshole, but he was also tight with the president, and my father had political aspirations. I’d been instructed to seduce the oldest daughter, and like the dutiful son I was, I’d done it.
I’d been forced into a relationship, only to discover the same was true for Jillian. Her father wanted to see her married off to a Hale. So, I wasn’t lying when I said we were friends. The pressure we both felt gave us a kinship I’d never had with anyone before. Plus, she was attractive, easy to hang out with, and the sex was solid. We dated to appease our families, and if Alice hadn’t gone over the balcony railing and died, it was likely Jillian would have become my wife.
But then my father went to prison, and the tarnish on the Hale name was enough to release her from her obligation. We were both relieved. Our future together would have been an empty, fabricated marriage where we’d likely have grown to resent each other.
Hawkins tilted his head. “What makes you think something’s happened to her?”
“Because you could easily ask her these questions and not me . . . unless there’s a reason you can’t ask her.”
Once again, the cops exchanged a look. They seemed to come to an agreement, and Lewis’s shoulders shifted, giving up the tough act. His face softened. “Ms. Lambert took her father’s boat out on Friday afternoon without permission and—”
“Which one?”
My interruption threw him. “What?”
“Which boat?” Like us, the Lamberts had several in the marina.
“The Trident.”
I smirked. “Wayne Lambert got bent out of shape over her borrowing The Trident? She’s better at captaining it than he is.”
Crewing one of her father’s elite keelboats in the Constitution Regatta had brought Jillian and me together, and what sustained our friendship after the relationship ended.
“She didn’t have permission when she left port,” Hawkins’s tone was ominous, “or anyone else with her.”
My heart thudded to a stop. Single-handing The Trident was possible, but sailing alone was always dangerous. A boat that size would be a lot of work, and a beast if the weather were anything less than perfect. Oh, shit. Hadn’t there been a storm Friday evening?
I tried to convince myself as much as I did them. “She’s an accomplished sailor.”
The air in the room turned heavy as neither man said anything. The painful silence dragged on, winding tension tighter inside me.
For the first time ever, I’d forgotten my father’s presence, so it jarred me back to life when he spoke, even when his voice was quiet and somber. “What happened?”
“A fishing vessel found The Trident adrift this morning,” Lewis said. “Ms. Lambert wasn’t aboard.”
For a moment, I couldn’t process what that meant. She’d gotten off her boat while it was at sea?
I blinked slowly as cold realization moved in.
“No.” My mind refused to accept it. Jillian was too smart to make a mistake and go overboard. “There was a storm on Friday. She must have been forced to abandon ship.”
The sadness in the cop’s eyes was hard to take, and his gentle voice was worse. “There doesn’t appear to be any damage to The Trident, and the life raft was still onboard,” he hesitated, “along with her wallet and cell phone.”
No.
There weren’t many good people in Cape Hill. Jillian was one of the few, and my only real friend. She couldn’t be . . . gone.
“We’re still waiting on the phone records,” the cop added, “but it appears you were the last person to speak with her before she boarded that boat. So, I ask you again, Mr. Hale—what exactly did you talk about?”
TWO
VANCE
Sleep would not come, and I sighed when I checked the screen of my phone and discovered it was nearly two in the morning. My father suffered from insomnia. Was I developing it, too? Fuck, I didn’t want to be like him any more than I already was. It was already too much.
