Page 50 of Cross My Heart

Did Max lure her away from the party here, promising a private tour? Did one of his fancy friends pull her away from the party, casually offering a spiked drink?

I pause, puzzling over the connection. Wren never once mentioned Max, or the Lancasters, or hanging out in such an exclusive crowd.

But why not?

She shared everything else about her time in Oxford before the attack, sending late-night texts full of exclamations and photos, FaceTiming to catch me up on all her fun tourist activities. And even after coming clean about what happened, she never mentioned Max as a suspect, or someone who might have known what happened to her.

Unless it was some kind of secret she was mixed up in…

Unless she was trying to protect me, somehow.

“This area is off-limits to guests.” A rich, heavy voice interrupts my thoughts.

I startle, whirling around with a yelp. “Sorry, you scared me,” I blurt, my heart pounding. It’s an older man with thick graying hair and steely gray eyes. He’s about my height, but there’s something imposing about him, a stout figure full of authority.

“Were you looking for something?” he continues, assessing me.

“Oh, no. I was just looking around. All the art, it’s an impressive collection,” I add, unnerved. The grand salon we’re standing in is lined with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames, classical landscapes and religious scenes that clearly are worth a fortune. I’ve been keeping an eye out for anything that looks like the crown and serpent Wren drew—the tattoo on the thigh of her attacker—but nothing has seemed familiar.

“Impressive…” the man echoes. “That’s a word people use to be tactful, when they don’t actually like something.”

I blink. “Well, I guess I have to wonder where it came from. All of this,” I nod around us, at the house clearly built by generations of wealth and luxury. “Like Balzac said, behind every great fortune is an even greater crime.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. After all, this guy doesn’t exactly look like an outsider plus-one… which means he’s probably just as wealthy and well-connected as the rest of them.

But the man doesn’t react, just stands there, watching me, until my skin prickle. “But you’re right,” I say brightly, “I shouldn’t be here. Nice meeting you!”

I quickly make my escape, heading back outside to the party before anyone else can bust me for trespassing where I shouldn’t be. I look around for Saint, and spot him chatting to Hugh, so I go to join them.

“There you are,” Saint greets me with a smile—and a light kiss on my lips. “I was worried you’d made a run for it.”

“You’re the flight risk, not me,” I say, teasing, and Hugh chuckles, wearing a preppy salmon pink shirt with his navy suit jacket.

“When we were younger, he climbed out a window to escape a particularly boring dinner,” he confides, grinning. “And it was on the third floor, too!”

“I’m an expert tree-climber,” Saint says. “I was always sneaking out at boarding school after curfew.”

“To go seduce the local girls?” I ask, and he smiles.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

I catch sight of the stern man from inside, joining Max by the bar area. “Who’s that man with Max?” I ask, pointing them out. Saint turns.

“You mean, his father?”

“Cyrus Lancaster?” I gape.Shit. I just insulted the most powerful man in the Western hemisphere.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” I steal Saint’s drink and take a gulp, cringing, as the guys keep talking. It’s a good thing I’m never going to cross paths with these people after my time in Oxford, because I’m not exactly making the best first impression.

“… We have so many applications for grants, I hate turning anyone down,” Hugh is saying.

“Hugh runs the Ambrose family foundation,” Saint explains to me. “They do a lot of nonprofit and charity work.”

“That’s great,” I say, perking up. Before Wren’s death sent me spiraling off-track, I was working in the field, helping an arts foundation back in Philadelphia raise funds for local organizations and education. “The advantage of a foundation is you’re working with a set budget from the endowment, not scrambling to find fresh donors every quarter.”

Hugh looks interested. “You have some experience?”

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