Page 46 of Claim

I slipped my hand into his. “Theo Langford.” I said his name as if announcing it in court. “I’ve been brought up to speed.”

“Have you?” His smile deepened, and we let go. “How delightful. Your mother and mine appear to have formed a support group.”

“My condolences.”

He laughed and glanced around the room. “Quite the event. I didn’t realise one could hire this many hydrangeas without triggering some kind of government inquiry.”

“They multiply when left unsupervised.”

“As does your family. This is the warm-up act, yes? Your first niece or nephew on the way is the real headline.” He nudged my elbow. “Congratulations. That’s… rather lovely. A new generation of Hale-Fitzroys to terrorise the dinner table.”

“We just won’t feed them.” I took a sip of drink.

“Oh, I think they’ll be spoilt rotten. Tragic toys. Impeccable schools. Emotional repression.” His met my gaze, eyebrows rising, amused. “We all survive it. Mostly.”

I studied him.

He spoke well. Easily. Threading enough substance through the charm to suggest there was a mind behind the smile. Not depth, perhaps, but polish. I could see precisely why Mother thought this would be a sensible match. On paper, our courtship would read beautifully. Effortless headlines. Glossy spreads. The sort of union reassuring investors and editors alike. It would balance on a bank statement just as neatly.

It was a shame that love and attraction refused to obey such orderly arithmetic.

And how I was disastrously in love with a felon.

“I’m told you’ve started a think tank.” I continued the conversation for no other reason than there was very little else for me to do here.

“I have. Or rather, I’ve bullied a few considerably cleverer people than myself into starting one with me.” He leant back against the wall, idly circling his glass. “Public ethics. Institutional accountability. The gentle art of making very powerful people mildly uncomfortable.”

“Brave.”

“Stupid, according to my father.” He smiled. “But I do occasionally get shouted at by dashing men in impeccable suits who dislike being questioned.”

“A fortunate perk.”

“Indeed. And then there’s the invitations to these sorts of soirees.”

I glanced around. “Surely a baby shower isn’t where one uncovers corruption.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He drifted his gaze over to the hydrangeas, the champagne, the careful excess. “Though I consider this more anthropological. I enjoy observing how the top one percent celebrate continuity. Succession. Legacy.” He grinned. “It’s very… ritualistic.”

He returned his gaze to me, eyes bright with curiosity, as if he were already drafting the footnotes.

“You’re slumming it, then.”

“On the contrary. I think this is where the real power myths live.” He dipped closer to me. “Besides. I was told you’d be here.” He nudged my elbow. “And I’m glad,” he added in a drawl down my neck.

I held his gaze, champagne at my lips.

Then, as if commenting on the temperature, Theo inclined his head. “Fancy a fuck in the baby’s room?”

I choked on my drink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on.” His mouth curved wickedly. “Let’s corrupt something pristine. Heard you’re a randy bugger who enjoys rebelling, so long as it’s within tastefully selected lines.”

I opened my mouth to ask who the hell had been feeding him that particular character reference because it certainly hadn’t been my mother, but he anticipated it with a soft chuckle.

“Oliver Montgomery’s father is an investor of mine.” He winked. “People talk.”

Ollie. Still managing to piss me off with his poison tongue from afar.