Page 2 of Collateral Claim
Wilfred turns his head toward the stage, where my dad stands frozen. Charlotte’s hand is over her mouth, but not because she’s laughing (or barking). She looks like a frightened, wide-eyed doe. Next to her, my niece’s mouth gapes open.
Palms up, arms bent at the elbows, I shrug in a universalI don’t knowgesture.
“Almost there,” the man says, his voice raspy and confident as he tightens the strap on my sandal. Once done, he slaps the inside of my thigh and steps back. Dark eyes lift at the corners as he asks, “What’s a good girl say?”
Instead of saying what’s really on my mind, I smile. “Thank you.”
As a family who breached the barriers to the elite social circles only a few years ago, we’re heavily scrutinized by the people in attendance. Moreover, this is our first large party with strategic invitations intended to grow my dad’s businesses, and we can’t afford any mishaps.
“Don’t mention it, luv.” He looks me over, blatantly checking me out. “Scarlett Pembroke.” He states my name as if tasting it. “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be.”
The music stops, and everyone is staring at us now.
“Excuse me.” I move toward the stage.
The man offers his elbow.
I want to refuse, but I must accept. He’s a gentleman who fixed my sandal and wants to escort me to the stage to make sure I don’t trip and fall like a teenager who’s never worn heels before. These heels were my grandmother’s, and they’re my go-to for parties where I’ll walk or stand a lot. They’re vintage sandals, which is probably why the metal piece on the strap came loose.
As I place my hand on his forearm, I notice a skull and crossbones tattooed on his middle finger. The dark, carefully trimmed stubble enhances his strong jaw and cheekbones, adding to his untamed appearance. His smile is easy, and he smells nice, his cologne carrying a touch of fresh spice I can’t quite identify.
The tattoo and the dark stubble create a rugged appearance, and danger lurks behind his dark eyes. When he looks at me, I think he dares me to object to his forward approach. Which is precisely why I don’t. Any scene I or the man make could potentially cost my dad his reputation when he’s considering running for office next year. I’m choosing peace for now.
“Do we know each other?” I ask in a near whisper as we walk toward the stage where my dad’s holding a microphone. He looks pale. Is he scared? I frown. I don’t know. I’ve never seen my father scared. Well, maybe once. The night before my mother died.
The man doesn’t answer.
I try a different question. “Who are you?”
“Endo Macarley.”
We reach the stairs, and the man sweeps me up into his arms. Bewildered, I let him manhandle me as the crowd gasps. Some women clap, cheering him on, probably thinking we rehearsed this.
Once on the stage, he puts me down and spreads his arms at my dad as if he’ll welcome him into his embrace. But my dad now looks not only pale but panicky. This man’s clearly at the wrong party.
“Hi, Dani,” he says to my dad, whose name is Daniel, not Dani, but I guess one could call him Dani if they were good friends. Are they friends?
When the man forces my dad into a hug, my dad doesn’t appear to be hugging a friend. He appears…terrified. Maybe alittle angry. It’s hard to tell with my father. He’s a man of few emotions, and most of them are various stages of angry ambition.
Endo grabs the microphone and throws an arm around my shoulders. It’s not heavy or crass, but a gentle touch and a squeeze as if he’s trying to comfort me.
“Get your hands off my daughter,” my dad hisses.
“Dearly beloved,” the man says as if he’s about to read wedding vows. “Thank you for gathering here on this blessed day, my friend Dani’s sixty-fifth birthday. Let’s have a round of applause for this amazing man.”
The people clap.
In the back, Charlotte’s watching with bated breath. I notice that the four men Macarley came with are standing near her and my niece as if surrounding them. Something is not right with that.
“A toast,” Macarley says and leaves briefly to fetch us each a glass of champagne. He hands me one and holds up his. “For those of you who don’t know me because I live on the other side of the country, my name is Endo Macarley. This wonderful doctor”—he looks at me, dark eyes devoid of emotion—“pulled three bullets out of my body and saved my life.”
Gasps all around.
I’d say he confused me with another woman, but he knows my name and my father’s name. I have a feeling champagne won’t do for whatever is unfolding in my life right now. I should fetch a scotch.
Endo continues. “Yes, yes, she did. While in recovery, I asked her out many times, but she kept rejecting me. I think she even discharged me early so I’d stop annoying her.” He pauses, allowing people to laugh. “But I didn’t give up. And then, one day, I showed up with yellow tulips. Not because I knew thosewere her favorites, but because that was all the grocery store had left.”
The crowd laughs again. I notice Duchess Harlow’s cheeks reddening like the line on a positive pregnancy test.
