The members’ party at the Bayfront Yacht Club was nothing short of spectacular with a Valentine’s Week theme that Fallon had helped to plan with the event staff, incorporating tons of red and gold twinkle lights, candles, and all the fires lit throughout the club and on the patios. The weather was still mild so guests could enjoy the piers and terraces enhanced by the heat radiating from the tall heaters with pyramid-shaped tops that held roaring flames.
Fallon was excited to attend as a guest, since she was off work for the evening. The management had sent her a personal invitation in appreciation for the extra hours she’d put into helping to bring the black-tie event together long before Devon and Morgan had returned to California. She wasn’t even sure they knew she’d be here.
As she wove her way through the throng of people—an incredible turnout from Bay Area and wine country members as well—she hoped both men would come to see that this was a lively establishment filled with three generations of Bayfront residents, dating back to Devon’s and Morgan’s grandfathers founding the community, and that they would recall all the reasons it had meant so much to them to construct the club initially.
Of course, not all of Bayfront could afford to belong to the yacht club. But those who could, called the club their exclusive haven. And Fallon didn’t want it ending up in the hands of someone from outside the circle who might not see it in the same light. Or that of the two men who’d built this club from the ground up.
However, for the evening, she tried not to let the potential change of hands bring her down. She greeted members who only knew her as the hired help, but treated her kindly, and also those who were longtime friends. She wound her way through the cavernous informal dining room that flowed into the cocktail and cigar lounge that flowed into the formal restaurant.
And pulled up short.
Shit. She should have known better than to venture this far into the high-society den on a night like this.
Gigi and Liza McMillan were holding court in the center of the room. Max’s and Davis’s wives. Always the belles of the ball, no matter how tedious anyone found them.
The wives were Bayfront princesses by virtue of marrying grandsons of one of the founding fathers of Billionaires’ Cove. Both women also held prestigious San Francisco society pedigrees, but it was much easier to lord over a newer community of Bayfront’s size than the vastness of the legendary City by the Bay, where the elite’s ties were rooted deep and spanned centuries. A competitive force difficult to penetrate, whereas Bayfront offered ample opportunity to advance one’s station.
Fallon had never been interested in all the maneuvering and scheming, though she had naturally been subjected to it because of her close affiliation to the McMillans via her friendship with Devon. He’d been exasperated from the onset as to the lengths his family would go to reign supreme—and was even more disgusted when his older brothers had brought home trophy wives who did everything a breath shy of wearing tiaras to convince the town that they were the be all, end all when it came to Bayfront’s upper-upper echelon.
So it was particularly disconcerting that Fallon’s attempt to make the rounds from both a casual social and a club PR perspective led her to Gigi and Liza.
They were both draining martinis when they spotted her.
Fallon was this close to making an about-face and a clean escape when Gigi called out, “Fallon!” in a shrill tone that was equivalent to the snap of her fingers at a servant.
She resisted the urge to grind her teeth and instead smiled congenially and approached the women.
“Gigi, Liza. Lovely to see you.”
“And you,” Gigi blandly commented while looking around the room—for someone noteworthy to speak with, no doubt—and thrusting her glass toward Fallon. “I could use a refill.”
“I’m not on the clock this evening,” Fallon politely said. “But I’ll have someone bring you a fresh drink.”
“Please do so,” platinum-blond Gigi said. Then she tore her gaze from the crowd and told wheat-blond Liza, “Pepper Linley. Tell me, for God’s sake, has no one ever explained to that woman that she should never walk out her front door wearing winter white without at least eight layers of Spanx underneath? I mean . . . Really.”
Fallon bit back a gasp. Pepper Linley had recently shed thirty pounds after having a baby . . . Only a few months ago. She hadn’t done anything extreme or taken any easy ways out. Pepper spent endless hours at the same fitness center where Fallon exercised. Sure, Pepper could afford an in-home personal trainer, lipo, and all manner of quick fixes. But when ten o’clock at night rolled around and everything was calm and quiet at the Linley estate, Pepper hit the gym.
Liza said, “What do you expect, Gee? Have you seen her mother’s hips? At that point, just throw your hands up in the air and admit you’re not meant to have children because of genetics. Some women simply weren’t meant to breed.” Liza sighed dramatically. Then, as though she suddenly remembered Fallon was standing there, she cast her gaze on Fallon and said, “I could use a vodka martini, extra dry. Oh, you know how I like it,” she dismissively added.
Fallon was just about to reiterate—again, as politely as she possibly could—that she was a guest this evening, when Morgan swooped in.
Morgan in a designer tux.
Fallon would have swooned but she remembered she was currently at odds with the man.
“Ladies,” he said, “let me get you another round.” His gaze shifted to Fallon and he gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Champagne for you?”
“Champagne?” Gigi scoffed. “Fallon’s a rum and Coke girl, right?”
“Actually,” Morgan said, “she favors private-reserve Dom. And has recently turned me on to it. I’d give up the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay any day to sample Dom à la Fallon style.” He took the women’s glasses. But quietly added to Fallon, “You’re stunning in red, by the way.” He sauntered off.
Fallon stared after him, a bit aroused as she thought of their boat excursion. And a bit miffed as she recalled how it had ended. With Morgan slipping out while she slept.
Meanwhile, Gigi and Liza both huffed.
“I don’t get it,” Gigi said. “Who would pass up Krug Clos d’Ambonnay? For any reason?”
“And what exactly is à la Fallon style?” Liza snickered. “Do you drop a cherry in the bottom of the flute?”
Fallon had to stifle a laugh over the irony of the conversation. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Well that’s just trite,” Gigi said in her high-pitched tone. “Any average bartender can do that. I was expecting something more extraordinary to impress Morgan. But, no. He’s just as common as Devon.”
“Such a shock and a waste that Devon is a McMillan,” Liza mused in a distasteful tone. Then she gasped and clutched Gigi’s wrist. “Oh, my God! That’s Rory St. James over there in the far corner. Celebrity chef. And his business partner, Christian Davila. They own Bristol’s in River Cross. My favorite wine bistro outside of the city.”
“Quaint, but hardly compares to their restaurants in Paris and London. And I hear they’re opening a steakhouse in Manhattan. Let’s go chat with them.” Gigi took Liza by the hand and they strutted off in their Prada sheaths and Louis Vuitton shoes.
Fallon knew them that well.
Unfortunately.
She sighed and shook her head. She was about to move to another group to hopefully cleanse her palate of the McMillan daughters-in-law when Sylvia Carter appeared before her. “Come sit with me and Lily.”
“Lily?”
“Hart.” Sylvia’s sculpted brow raised. “Haven’t met her yet?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Sylvia linked her arm with Fallon’s and all but dragged her off to a table on the patio. Over lit votives and wine a server delivered, Sylvia made the introductions. “Fallon Carteris, this is Lily Hart.” Sylvia gave a sly smile and added, “She’s with Jackson Sterling and Lexington Alexander. If you get my meaning . . .”
“The musicians?” Fallon’s eyes popped. Not just any musicians, mind you. Internationally acclaimed classical musicians.
Lily grinned. “With magical hands, I assure you.”
“Oh, um . . .” Fallon settled more comfortably into her chair and sipped her merlot. “So you and Sylvia have something in common.”
“We do,” Lily said with a hint of exhilaration in her tone. “With you as well, I suspect. I’ll just very discreetly mention that neither Devon McMillan nor Morgan Presley have been able to keep their eyes off you this evening.”
“I’ll second that,” Sylvia contended. “I also have some other news to share with you.”
“What?” Fallon asked, wondering if Sylvia had already heard of the potential sale of the yacht club. If word had leaked, Noah would likely be in the know as a new developer in town and would pass on the information to Seth and Sylvia.
Fallon’s friend told her, “I’m not going to be able to lease my building to you.”
The bottom of Fallon’s stomach literally fell out. That was the absolute last thing she’d anticipated Sylvia saying to her.
Fallon’s hand shook so violently, she sloshed merlot over the rim. Setting the glass on the table, she reached for a cocktail napkin and wiped her fingers while pinning Sylvia with a dire look. “I’m sorry . . . Did you just say—”
“Yes.”
“But, Sylvia. I’m in desperate need of—”
“I know,” Sylvia said as her hand covered Fallon’s. “But someone made me an offer on the property that I literally could not refuse. And it wasn’t just for monetary purposes that I said yes.”
Fallon’s heart was somewhere down around her ankles. In less than five minutes, Sylvia Carter had just shattered one of Fallon’s biggest dreams. And on the heels of Saturday night’s debacle . . . ?
Fallon barely managed to ask, “What someone?”
“Actually . . . those someones.” Sylvia pointed to the tall windows of the lounge.
Fallon’s gaze followed, to Devon and Morgan chatting it up with two extremely good-looking men Fallon hadn’t met yet . . . but recognized from the Internet as—“Jackson Sterling and Lexington Alexander bought your building?”
“No,” Sylvia playfully chided. “You’re so silly sometimes. Devon and Morgan bought my building.”
“Son of a bitch!” Fallon erupted. “Why the hell would they do that when they know—know—I need it for my operations!”
“I don’t know, Fallon,” Sylvia said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Don’t look as though I’ve just won the lottery with those two,” Fallon insisted. “Believe me . . . I have not.”
“Why don’t you go ask them what’s up?” Sylvia calmly suggested. Her serene tone, however, did nothing to soothe Fallon’s suddenly frayed nerves.
“You bet your ass I will,” she said. Because this didn’t make an ounce of sense with the way the chips were falling in this wayward threesome.
But then it hit her.
Consolation prize.
Her eyes watered, but she fought the full-on tears. Said to the other women, “I’ll talk to you later, Sylvia. Lily, it was so nice to meet you.”
Fallon stalked off toward the lounge while thinking this just might be the straw to break the camel’s back after Morgan’s disappearing act the past weekend and his and Devon’s desire to sell the yacht club and leave her behind for good.
This was their clean break.
She was having none of it.