A Man in a Million. Jessica Bird

Crown Derby plates, sipping from Baccarat glasses. And yes, the Maguire family signet ring was on his right ring finger.

      As their father had always worn it.

      Looking at the stamp in the heavy gold, everything slid into place.

      Richard was like a Brooks Brothers bobble head spitting back criticisms that had made her cringe when she was growing up: her father back from the dead. That was why she was so weak around her half brother. It wasn’t just because he’d been hard on her when they’d been younger.

      Putting a label on the dynamic kind of helped and she wondered why she hadn’t figured it out sooner. Then again, she’d always done her best to avoid thinking about Richard.

      Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

      Mad blotted her lips, returned the damask napkin to her lap and realized that she’d crossed her feet together under her chair like a good little girl.

      Oh, hell, no, she thought. If she was going to make it through this weekend in one piece, she needed to fight the urge to fall into place.

      Feeling like a rebel, she eased up, cocked one foot under her butt, and sat back down with her leg on the chair.

      “Isn’t that right, Madeline,” Richard drawled.

      “Excuse me?” She deliberately played with the tassel on her loafer. Sure enough, Richard caught the movement and his eyes bugged out.

      He opened his mouth as if he were going to scold her, but seemed to realize that would have been absurd.

      As he cleared his throat, it seemed more curse than cough. “Penelope was commenting on the new Rubens exhibition at the Met. But I told her you wouldn’t have seen it because that kind of thing doesn’t interest you.”

      “Oh…well, I didn’t know there was one.” She’d always liked Rubens. His colors had such depth, it was as if you could dive into his paintings, swim in them. “I haven’t been to the Met in a while.”

      “Penelope goes all the time. She’s on the board.” Richard smiled over at the woman and their eyes held.

      Penelope was dressed in something white and expensive. And had about forty-five pounds of pearls around her throat, but no wedding ring. Maybe the two were a couple?

      Richard lifted his wineglass. “Yes, I’m afraid the Met is of no interest to Madeline. She didn’t make it through college and art seems to elude her. She likes boats.”

      “Boats.” Penelope’s drawn-on eyebrows arched. “How lovely.” As if the interest were as inexplicable and unattractive as a flying pig.

      Mad opened her mouth to try and do some damage control, but then shut it because she didn’t really care what Penelope of the pearl noose thought of her.

      She picked up her salad fork and—

      From out of nowhere, a deep, throaty growl reverberated into the room. The bass throbbing grew louder and louder, until it cut off all conversation. Then it stopped altogether.

      One of the guests laughed to fill the silence. “Maguire, old man, is Newcomb using your lawn as a landing pad?”

      “That helicopter of his is horrid,” a woman answered. “I mean, honestly.”

      Conversation lit up with a vengeance, a spark catching fire and blazing as the guests talked about whoever the “Newcomb nightmare” was.

      Mad heard a knocking at the front door, but went back to poking the endive on her little plate. She was definitely not interested in any new arrivals.

      Abruptly, the table went completely quiet again. And then the butler said, “Miss Madeline’s guest is here.”

      Mad’s head jerked up.

      Spike was standing in the dining room’s entryway, six feet four inches of raw man in black leather. He had a motorcycle helmet dangling from his hand, that infamous half smile on his face and his hair was a jagged crown. At his side, the butler looked kind of pasty and worried.