Page 3 of The Bourbon Bride

I swirl the bourbon in my glass and look around at all the people who would normally shun this nightclub in favor of the local country clubs. I smirk at seeing them inmydomain. I imagine this little party will work in my favor to put my exclusive club on their radar more so than I know it already was. The Southern Home and Garden feature of my rooftop garden would have seen to that, if my elusive presence wasn’t enough.

Despite having a few business ventures, The Abyss is a soft spot and I gravitate toward the Gothic Revival nightclub in “Slowvanna” when other work should keep me in Atlanta with my brothers. There’s something about the slow pace of the small city and the history of the only pre-civil war town in the South Shermandidn’tburn that draws me to the squares and cobblestone streets here. That and a particularly uninterested potential business acquisition.

I survey the party from the gilded balcony above the dance floor, looking from one powerful man to another. These debutante balls really do draw a spectacular crowd, placing the richest families in Savannah, and maybe even the entire state of Georgia, in one room and letting them tear each other apart behind fake veneers. My own family is Southern and rich, but my brothers and I made it through without being expected to take part in the debutante scene that is securely anchored in high society.

Thank fuck for that.

After observing this group for a few hours, it’s apparent I didn’t miss much. It’s what I would see at any other gala or charity event. The married women are unsatisfied in every way but don’t want anyone to know. It’s easy enough to spot how they put on a grand show of wealth to hide it, the diamonds getting bigger the more unhappy they are. The unmarried women are almost desperate gold diggers schmoozing their way through the crowd looking for any unattached man to sink their claws in to secure their futures. The men, both married and single, lazily eye fuck each woman who passes without regard, then return to their conversations about politics, golf games, and hedge funds. It’s sickening, really.

Yet one woman keeps attracting my attention for all the wrong reasons. Glowing in her virginal white gown, she’s hard to miss, even though she’s the last fucking woman I should be fascinated with. Her daddy owns the hotels I’ve had my eyes on, and knowing I’d like to rip the family legacy out of their hands would make me persona non grata to her. However, it’s always what is off-limits that captures my attention the most. My eyes track her movements like a wolf after a cute little bunny that has no idea it’s going to be dinner.

I smile hungrily as I watch her politely greet and thank those in attendance in between dances with her companion. She politely accepts invitations to dance with the very few others who have asked but returns after each to the slight man with the floppy hair, and I wonder at her attachment to this person and the lack of people sweeping her around the dance floor. As the belle of the ball, her dance card should be full and she shouldn’t have the opportunity to stand like a wallflower and chat with a friend. And friend he is, I decide. They don’t appear romantic in the least, but she seems protective of him, angling him away from unapproving glares and distracting him as they share whispers and giggles. It’s particularly interesting to watch her when the friend leaves to get a drink. I like the way she holds herself in perfect poise and refinement even though it’s obvious to me in the way she shifts her eyes around that she’s guarded. She knows the measure of the people who surround her but still gives into her joy on a dime when she thinks no one is looking.

Unfortunately for her, I’m always watching. Even when I shouldn’t be.

I turn away from the party and make a stop at the bar to hook my fingers around the neck of a new bottle of bourbon. I push the button for the elevator that leads up to the greenhouse, knowing I need to leave before giving in to the urge to make myself feel better about not belonging in my own club with the Savannah elite by crushing their dreams in my hands. Normally, I would just make a call to my assistant to do some digging on their financial states in order to take advantage of any lapsed contracts or unused property I could covertly buy up just to spite them. Tonight, I feel morose about the situation and prefer to leave it behind me.

Once I’m in the moonlit and humid oasis of the glassed-in rooftop, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and tropical flowers, I relax. I pull a cigar from my suit pocket and flick a silver lighter, illuminating the rock wall next to me as a waterfall splashes down into a small koi pond that flows through this slice of the greenhouse. I refill my glass and set the bottle on the ground, surveying the extravagant garden that has only recently been finished after a two-year construction timeline.

The Elysium Garden, my extravagant rooftop greenhouse full of the most coveted plants, is as close to heaven as I think I’ll ever get. I’m more of an underworld man, content influencing the life and death of companies that come into my corporation rather than schmoozing with pretentious pricks and their prissy wives, anyway.

I’m lost in thought when the French doors open, spilling the muffled party noise into my sanctuary for a moment before they softly close and return the silence. The spectral glow of a white dress floating into the dim space tells me who has entered my realm, and I’m not disappointed. From my shadowed spot against the rocks, I have the advantage of watching her walk through the lush greenery, one gloved arm extended at her side, fingers brushing the tall leaves and vines of flowers that spill out of every bed and hang from the industrial piping overhead while she delicately holds a flute of champagne in the other. She stops about ten feet from me, still unaware of my presence, and leans toward the low rock wall ringing the masterpiece of this garden.

“Careful, that one stinks like death,” I say just loud enough to be heard over the splashing waterfall, hoping not to scare her too bad, but enjoying the possibility if I’m being honest.

She jumps, surprised by my voice, and spins to find the source.

I puff my cigar before blowing out a smoke ring, allowing her eyes to find the burning tip before I stub it out next to the bottle of bourbon. I like knowing she’s watching me and take my time with it.

She says nothing, which surprises me. I would have expected her to demand to know what I’m doing here, even though it’s my garden she’s trespassing in. The party downstairs is strictly a first-floor affair. No guests were to come up here, despite the allure a rooftop greenhouse on an old historic building would attract.

Knowing I shouldn’t, I take a few steps out of the shadows toward her, carrying my tumbler with me until we’re both bathed in the moonlight that filters through palm fronds and glass windowpanes.

She watches me with rapt attention the whole time I move toward her, but fear never steals her composure. She finally drags her gaze up the length of my body to my face when we’re only feet apart, curiosity fighting neutrality on her face.

“You don’t look like the happy belle of the ball I was expecting,” I offer in greeting.

“I beg your pardon?” A confused smile raises her deep red pout, the look on her face emphasizing her resemblance to a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara, even in the dim light. “As this ismydebutante party, I would sure like to know what other belles you may have been expecting so I can lodge a complaint with the facility for double-booking events when we explicitly rented the entire club.”

The entitlement of her statement shouldn’t surprise me. She’s likely used to getting what she wants, including going where she pleases, no matter the off-limits designation, given her high-profile social status and family wealth. What’s surprising is that she shows no fear in the face of what could be considered a run-in with a dangerous stranger. Doesn’t she have even a little of the natural instinct toward self-preservation? It’s a damn good thing I mean her no physical harm because it would be too easy in this secluded setting.

A disjointed thought—I don’t want to hurt herorsee her harmed in any way— strikes me, and I check myself. Her safety isn’t my priority, but I should play nice regardless.

“Oh, no one but you, my dear,” I assure her with mock insistence. “I imagined you would spend the evening downstairs networking with all the powerful people in attendance, a big plastic smile pasted on your face as you played polite socialite. Instead, you’ve left the party to come up here and see a corpse flower that’s thinking about blooming and smelling like a dead body to attract pollinators.”

I offer her my tumbler of bourbon as I casually lean against the rock wall.

“Why would you offer me another drink when I have my own?” she asks, her white-gloved hand pushing the bourbon back toward me.

I shrug and lift the glass to my lips to drink. I swallow the burn of the liquor with the refusal of my offer.

“I’ve found that bourbon helps with social settings like the one you just came from. It gives a little more fire and fortitude than the bubbles of champagne.” I nod at the half-empty flute in her hand.

She self-consciously sets the flute on the rock next to her and turns back to me. Her bright eyes catch the moonlight and I feel a breath stick unexpectedly in my chest. Fuck, she’s beautiful. I knew this in an abstract way—I have eyes, after all, and my due diligence into the company I want pulled up all the information it could on the entire Fairchild family, including the squeaky clean and remarkably missing from social media, only daughter set to inherit. But a dossier on a debutante and the real thing right in front of me is like Heaven and Earth—you can only imagine what Heaven is like until you get to see it firsthand.

And this little one is positively angelic, so pure there is a part of me that wants to sully her innocence just to prove I can. Staying hands-off in my attempt to get what I want from her family may be harder than I anticipated.

She purses her lips and tilts her head inquisitively. “I’m sorry, I simply do not think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before, and I feel terribly rude not knowing your name now.” She extends a graceful, gloved hand. “I’m—“

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