Page 129 of Falling for the Enemy

Who?

He laughed, imagining the territorial tone in those three little letters. Glancing up at the back of his driver’s head, he smirked.

A bald, middle-aged man named Russel. Nothing to be concerned about.

Well, Russel better watch it.

They texted until he reached the gala—until Soren was painfully hard and in desperate need of relief. He awkwardly climbed out of the car, sporting a boner like a teenager who had absolutely no control of his body. Rather than follow the other guests toward the lit archways leading into the enormous stone home, he walked the grounds a bit so his raging hardon could go down. Just when he thought his body had calmed enough to enter the gala, Jocelyn texted him one last time.

Annnnnd…I came.

Jealous and hard again, he groaned and bit his knuckle hard enough to leave dents in his skin. She was trying to kill him.

YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE RESTING!

The Aldrich estate was a century-old relic, and one of the closest things to a palace America could claim. The main mansion wore wealth in details that couldn’t be purchased today, aged marble worn satin-smooth by time, portraits arranged into galleries by lineage dating back to the Revolutionary War, and servants who held their positions by birthright, hailing from a long line of relatives who had served the Aldriches generations before.

Soren surrendered his coat to a valet and crossed into a ballroom where guests gathered beyond a set of gilded doors. Beeswax tapers and hothouse lilies scented the air. The murmur of two hundred guests rose toward the ceiling frescoed with murals that had faded long before the Hawthornes ever owned a boat.

This was a legacy more than a home. Aldrich’s claim to one of the largest shipping companies in the world had found its roots right here on the New England coast.

Soren snagged a glass of champagne from a server and drifted into one of the appointed rooms where guests could overflow. The library was two stories tall with vaulted ceilings, gothic stained-glass windows, and three walls insulated across every inch by books.

Pocket doors led to a study where men were served brandy and offered cigars from Warren’s personal humidor. Framed nautical charts lined the wall beneath museum lighting, each tracing a trade route Aldrich freighters had run since before the Great War.

Soren took in the deliberately arranged scenery, each piece polished and displayed to inform guests exactly what kind of power this family had, all without uttering a single word. A scale model of a container vessel sat on display under glass by the wet bar, hull as long as a coffin, stacked with miniature cargo boxes painted by some patient hand. A portrait of Warren’s grandfather presided on the far wall of the study, his name and title engraved on the plaque beneath it.

“It’s a great shot, isn’t it?” a man Soren didn’t recognize commented as he approached his left.

Soren nodded, his gaze returning to the portrait of the man standing dockside against a rampart of steel hulls, arms crossed, surveying an empire measured in tonnage and horizon. “It is.”

“You’re Magnus’s boy, aren’t you?”

Recognized, he turned and held out a hand. “Soren Hawthorne.”

“Eli Goldstein, family friend and accountant for the Aldriches for forty years.”

“I’ve heard of you. Nice to put a face to the name.”

“Pleasure’s mine.” Biting down on the wet tip of his cigar with yellowed teeth, he pulled out a card. “If you’re ever in need.”

Soren pocketed the card and thanked him, knowing full well he’d never hire anyone who identified him as Magnus’s boy before actually learning his name.

Waiters in white gloves threaded the crowd collecting crystal stemware from guests who sampled the towers of vintage Krug. Caviar glistened on chipped-ice beds beneath priceless chandeliers. Ossetra was served with mother-of-pearl spoons and diamonds caught the candlelight from every hand, wrist, and throat that passed by. Somewhere a string quartet played baroque refrains beneath the din.

People would kill for an invite to such a private, elite affair, and yet he found himself unable to appreciate any of it, only wishing he was home, with his stormy-eyed Viking temptress.

He’d make the rounds, see who he needed to see, then head back to the hotel—hopefully in time to call her before she went to sleep. He was already resenting the long morning ahead and planning to play his best to speed through the eighteen holes. The sooner he checked off his trip’s objectives, the sooner he could return to Hideaway Bay—to Jocelyn.

Damn. He really needed to get his head in the game. He reminded himself why he was here and what he had to gain.

Hawthorne might lay claim to a fleet of vessels and pride themselves on being able to haul in catches from around the globe, but catching was only part of the fish trade. Moving the product was a whole other animal.

Their harvest meant nothing unless it was delivered cold and whole into every port. That meant contracts, capable shipping vessels, and connections. The Warsaw warehouse and the Poland expansion lived or died on his ability to work out a fair deal with Warren Aldrich. It was a pipeline that would move them into the future and bring about generational wealth his family had never had under Magnus’s leadership.

Warren Aldrich was paramount to his plan. The freighters and the port authorities were already in his pocket. As one of the top shipping magnates, he had deals decades old. His ships were approved to cross borders where other younger shipping companies were not. Those refrigerated routes threaded a tight sinew across half the map, giving Hawthorne Fishery the advantage and access it needed to scale.

Aldrich knew what Soren wanted to achieve. Why not get his own ships into the deal? This wasn’t a one-sided negotiation. Soren needed the access and vessels. Aldrich wanted loyalty—a ten-year contract that eliminated any competition. It was a steep ask, but one that would benefit both families, which was why Soren agreed to offer him an exclusive deal.