Page 33 of Under His Skin

“Waverley, you’ve finally arrived,” said a tall, stately man coming toward them with silver-white hair and a natural imperiousness in his tone that told Reynolds it could only be Richard Abbott.

“Hi, Daddy. I’m sorry we’re late,” she said, letting his arm go to grip her hands together in front of her. “The snow made the trek here a little slower than we anticipated. I’d like you to meet Reyn—RJ Reynolds.”

Nice save.

Reynolds reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Abbott.”

The man took his hand and gave a quick but firm shake as he nodded. “You, too, Mr. Reynolds.” Richard turned as if looking for someone, then stopped to give a brief nod.

Immediately a guy that Reynolds pegged to be somewhere in his forties with dark sandy-brown hair parted on the side and a smug grin came toward them. He was wearing a navy Brooks Brothers suit with gold cufflinks and a row of gold logo buttons along the wrists and shiny Italian loafers. A guy who was all flash and polish and, like this house, hoping to intimidate and impress.

Nothing that Reynolds hadn’t expected, which was why he’d dusted off his dress slacks and dinner jacket that he’d paired with a pressed white button-down dress shirt and his own expensive Italian shoes.

He’d had to dress to impress once before, back when he was with Rachel. Knew what to expect. How to dress, how to act, how to talk. Things he’d thought were behind him and yet here he was…

But his coming here was meant to impress Waverley’s old man, not give him ammunition to hold against her new beau. So he was sucking it up. Grudgingly.

“Waverley, I believe you remember Stanton Chrysler,” her father said. “He’s one of the attorneys at the firm representing you in the criminal forfeiture case.”

“Um, it’s good to see you again,” Waverley said in a tone that told Reynolds she definitely did not. “This is my boyfriend, RJ Reynolds.”

Reynolds shook the guy’s hand, then stepped back and put his arm around Waverley’s waist, wanting to make it clear his role here.

“Stanton here actually hails from Massachusetts. Graduated from…”

No. Don’t tell him. Harvard.

“…from Harvard Law and has been working in London and Boston most recently. Thought he might like to meet some of our friends since he’s new to the area. Maybe give you a personal update on the progress of your case while he’s here.”

“How…generous. Maybe if I have some time later,” Waverley said vaguely.

“Excellent,” Richard Abbott said. “Before I make the formal introductions, would you two like something to drink?”

“I’ll have a mimosa.”

“A screwdriver for me if you have it.” It seemed more appropriate than asking for a cold beer.

Richard Abbott signaled to an older woman wearing an actual maid outfit—the black dress and apron, no less—who went to get the drinks, before he started the introductions, group by group as Stanton Chrysler moved into the background, the only thing distinguishing him from the rest of the crowd being that he was under sixty.

The reception from the rest of the room was about as warm as Richard Abbott’s, with nods and brief hellos, as they looked back at their host for cues as to how effusive their greetings should be.

Well, everyone except for Waverley’s aunt Sabine, who seemed to be genuinely happy for Waverley compared to the rest of the austere group.

“So tell us about yourself, RJ,” said a woman he remembered being introduced as Lucinda Asherton. “We know so little about you.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked the dark-haired woman he placed somewhere in her early seventies with a jeweled broach the size of an apple pinned to her top.

“Well, what is it that you do for a living to start?”

He gave the well-rehearsed spiel about his job as an independent cybersecurity adviser to several big national companies, a position he’d chosen because of the flexibility he imagined it would provide, such as allowing him the luxury of working anywhere in the world.

When they asked about where he went to school, he mentioned MIT, a name reputable enough to impress most of the people without sounding too smug, like if he’d said Harvard or Yale, like some others he could mention.

“And your family? Do they live here in Denver? Maybe we know them…” Sabine asked.

“They live in Portland, where I was raised.”

“You’ll have to excuse our little inquisition, RJ,” Richard Abbott said. “I’m afraid that your relationship to my daughter has come as something of a surprise to many of us, particularly since we weren’t aware she was even dating in light of her recent divorce.”

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