Lusting For Luke_A Billionaires of Palm Beach Story Read online

  “I happen to like my life in Florida.”

  Dad set his mouth into a hard line. “I have plans for this company. Plans for you.”

  “I know. And I think—”

  “You haven’t wanted to be a Rothschild for years, have you son? You’d walk away from this if you could, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong.” I swallowed, willing some saliva to return to my mouth, which suddenly felt very dry. “I want to rejoin the company, and take my place at your side, but I want to do it on my terms. How it makes sense for me. I won’t do it according to your plan.” Our gazes locked. “That’s what you’ve never understood, Dad. You don’t control me. I’m not one of your assets.”

  “Whatever you say, son.” He pulled his hand off my shoulder, a signal that this conversation had ended. “Come on. The car is waiting, and Lenora is already downstairs. You know how Lenora is.”

  I gave up fighting and followed his lead. He was a man focused on one singular thing that night: making an impression. Anniversaries like this didn’t come around often, and he’d wanted to make a statement about Rothschild International Acquisitions. A big statement.

  We could have celebrated in the ballroom at Rothschild Plaza, but he’d nixed the idea in favor of the best ballroom at New York Athletic, a private club full of old-money, New York somebodies. He wanted to remind everyone in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that we, the Rothschilds, had access and power that most people in New York could only dream about. To help in this mission, he’d hired the best caterer in town, given Lenora a $45,000 budget for flowers, and contracted Jean Guillermo, an event designer, whose credentials included New York Fashion Week, to design tablescapes and room décor destined for their own Town and Country spreads. The three of us made an entrance just after eight as a band from Los Angeles played 80s favorites, a throwback to the founding year of his company.

  “Your father has really done it,” Lenora whispered to me as she took a glass of champagne off a tray carried by a passing waiter. “We’ve done it. Top of Page Six tomorrow. Easily.”

  I raised my glass to hers. “You should be proud. The flowers are exquisite.”

  Lenora blushed. “You really think so?”

  “Yes,” I said, knowing a singular truth about my father—he didn’t hand out many compliments. Lenora needed to hear that she’d accomplished her main task. She had good taste, and it showed. “Dad should be pleased. Anyone would be.”

  A long time ago, I’d resigned myself to a few facts about Dad and the women in his life. He loved women, and the younger the better. Somehow, he thought this made him appear more youthful, even though no one would have mistaken him for a young man. The divorce between him and my mother during my sophomore year at Harvard had been hell. A deep freeze set in between us, something that grew worse when Mom died of breast cancer five years later. I’d blamed him for the unhappiness that settled around her once their ugly separation became public. His second wife hadn’t been someone I’d bothered getting to know. Veronica stayed away from me, but remained married to him just long enough to bear my half-brother, Marcus. We’d never gotten along.

  But Lenora was different. Time had passed—a lot of it. And I didn’t have the energy to take my frustrations out on my father’s wives any more. Besides, she probably wouldn’t be around long enough to make it worth my time.

  “Stop it, Luke.” Lenora laughed in between champagne sips. “I know you don’t know the difference between tulips and peonies.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But it does look wonderful. Everyone in the city will be talking about this tomorrow.” I drank some champagne. “You should be happy. More than happy.”

  “But you aren’t, are you?” She glanced at the other partygoers, many of which seemed focused on filling up the large dance floor in the center of the room. “Of course, I don’t want to bring up something like this in the middle of party—”

  “No one’s paying attention.”

  “Probably not.” Leona stepped closer to me. “You know, in the last few weeks, maybe even months now, your father has become transfixed on the succession of the company. It’s all he talks about. All he thinks about.”

  “I’m not surprised.” I took a salmon-and-caviar-covered crostino from another passing tray. It tasted like smoked salt and I put it down on the cocktail table beside us after one bite. “When Dad focuses in on something, he doesn’t let it go.”

  “Of course, he’s told me about how he wants you to figure into all of this.”

  I nodded.

  “And for the life of me, I just can’t figure you out, Luke.” Lenora tilted her head. “He’s not asking much, just for you to settle down, to find someone.”

  “The right someone. Just like he did three times.”

  Lenora blanched, and I immediately regretted my words.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, you did.” She put her half-empty champagne flute next to my half-eaten appetizer. “You meant every word, and I get it. I know what’s said about me behind my back. I’m your father’s third wife. Respect from you isn’t something that I expect.” She crossed her arms, and it made her cleavage line deepen against the clingy fabric of her lace-covered evening gown. “You can take my advice or leave it. But that’s a lot of money on the table, and he’s been waiting for years to give it to you. He just wants one thing.”

  “Assurance that he’ll see the Rothschild family live on, so that he can step down from it with confidence.”

  “That takes a family.” Lenora put her hand on my arm. “And you’re almost forty.”

  “I’m not yet thirty-five.”

  She shrugged. “You know how your father is.”

  I laughed. I did know how he was. He had never hidden that.

  “It’s a little ironic to be lectured on this by someone who’s three years younger than me.”

  “Hey, I’m just sick of hearing about it.” Lenora raised both hands. “I’d do anything for a little piece and quiet.”

  “Natalie, are you still in the practice room?” Helen called from the studio lobby. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” I said as I rolled up my yoga mat. The last student in my Saturday flow class had just left, and soon, we’d close the studio for the evening. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Helen had a large grin on her face when she walked through the doorway. “Just wondering what you’re doing tonight.”

  I shrugged. “Not a lot.”

  Truth told, I hadn’t been doing much of anything for the last few days besides going to work, running a few miles every night in the neighborhood that surrounded the apartment complex, and binge-watching trash TV.

  And thinking about Luke.

  “I don’t have a lot of plans.”

  “Which means you’re going to spend the whole night on the couch watching on-demand movies and eating popcorn.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me, and one that doesn’t cost very much.” I tucked my mat underneath my arm and breezed past Helen, headed to the large closet where we stored instruction equipment, yoga blocks, straps, and extra merchandise. My mat went on the second shelf. “What do you have in mind?”

  I probably could have answered that question myself.

  “Well…it’s two-for-one margaritas tonight at Sturkey’s, and Josh said Keith is coming.” She adjusted her ponytail of thinning brown hair. “It’s the perfect night to meet him. He’s a great guy.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “It’s not like you’re dating anyone else.”

  True.

  “I just don’t think—”

  “Come on, Natalie.” She put a hand on her hip. “What’s it going to hurt? It’s better than scouring SnapDate looking for someone.”

  I winced. SnapDate. The app’s IPO had been a huge success, and I’d seen all kinds of articles about the millions the company made when it launched on Wall Street. It was also the night after the anniversary party. Luke
would be in New York, finishing his visit. For the hundredth time that day, I wondered if he was enjoying himself.

  Probably.

  “One night of your life,” Helen pointed out. “What’s holding you back?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Helen let out a tiny squeal. “Great. I’m so excited—this is so perfect. You’re finally going to meet Keith! And just think, if you two hit it off—”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I held up a hand. “It’s drinks. That’s all.”

  “It’s going to be more than that. You’ll see.” Helen winked at me, took her phone from the pocket of her zip-up sweatshirt, and sent Josh a text. “All set up,” she said after her phone pinged a reply. “Eight thirty. Sturkey’s Bar. Be there, and look hot.”

  Keith had frosted tips in his hair and a tattoo that wrapped around his forearm. He sauntered into Sturkey’s a few moments after Josh finished his shift, and they clasped hands in a way that told me they’d practiced this special handshake at least a dozen times.

  I knew about ninety seconds after meeting him that I wouldn’t like him—at least, I wouldn’t like him like that. No way. No how. Nope. We wouldn’t be anything more than friends, and that was a stretch, too. As the four of us sat at a wooden table in the corner of the bar, a sinking feeling filled the pit of my stomach. Look up the word “meathead” in the dictionary, and the definition would have a photo of Keith.

  “So, you’re the one I’ve been hearing so much about,” Keith said as we looked over the cocktail menu. “The flexible one.”

  “Keith—come on. Way to make an impression.” Helen gave him a chiding half-smile. “She’s a yoga queen, though. Better than me.”

  “That so?” Keith grunted. “I’ve never tried it. I prefer lifting.”

  “Damn right.” Josh signaled the waiter and ordered us a round of craft beers. I hated beer, but I didn’t argue with him. Josh wouldn’t have listened, anyway. Since he worked at Sturkey’s, he considered himself a connoisseur of liquor, and he always insisted his bar had the best brews on tap in the city. When the drinks arrived, he raised his mug. “To new beginnings.”

  “New beginnings,” echoed the three of us, and we all raised our beers to toast with him.

  “I want to dance,” Helen said after she downed a large gulp. I put my own drink on the table without taking a sip. “Come on, honey.” She stood, and Josh followed her; he let her lead him to the small dance floor at the other end of the room. Seconds later, he wrapped his arms around her, and they swayed to the country song played by The Broken Misfits, a cover band from Delray Beach.

  “He’d do anything for her,” Keith said.

  “She feels the same way about him.”

  “Strange to see that—he’s whupped.” Keith over enunciated the word “whupped,” dragging it out syllable by syllable.

  “How long have you known Josh?”

  “Couple years.” He ticked off the time on his thick fingers. “Almost four, actually. Long time.”

  Then he burped. A loud, wet, guttural sound that made one of the women seated at the table behind us turn her head.

  Yikes.

  “Excuse me.” Keith beat his chest a few times with his fist. “Carbonation. Always messes with my acid reflux.”

  And then he burped again. Louder this time.

  “Are you okay?”

  I asked this to be polite, and not because I cared. I was already working out a thousand excuses in my head for never seeing this guy again. Helen would be disappointed that her matchmaking efforts had failed, but she’d get over it. Once this night ended, it would be better for everyone.

  “I’m fine.” Keith grunted for the second time that night. “Fine. No big deal.”

  “Good,” I lied. This night had just begun, and it was already going south.

  “Let’s order something, sweet cheeks.”

  I bristled, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Instead, Keith slid a menu from between the napkin stand and the ketchup bottle. “What do you like?”

  Healthy food. Smoothies. Fruit. Anything that isn’t processed. And anything that doesn’t involve sitting here with you.

  “What would you like to order?”

  Keith scanned the menu. “How about buffalo wings?”

  “Wings?”

  “They have great ones here.” Keith closed the menu and replaced it between the ketchup and the napkin holder. “Their sauces are fantastic.”

  “As fantastic as their beer?”

  “Of course. Speaking of which”—he gestured at my glass— “you haven’t had any of your beer.”

  “No, I haven’t. I didn’t really care for it.”

  He frowned. “What are you? An alien? Everyone likes it. Beer and wings—that’s America.”

  “Not me. I guess that makes me un-American.” I glanced at the dance floor. Helen and Josh had disappeared further into the crowd, and seemed oblivious to anything happening in the bar. I stood from the table. “Excuse me, Keith. I’ve got to take care of something. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He protested, but I ignored him, pivoted on my heel, and pushed my way through the growing crowd of twentysomethings and college students. It wasn’t lost on me that it was the second time in a week that I’d abruptly left a restaurant. I wouldn’t have called that normal, but I didn’t care. I just had to get out of there, had to escape the mediocrity that my life had become. I was twenty-five. In debt. Running a yoga studio in a town full of them. And all the men my age seemed like clueless Neanderthals.

  Once outside on the sidewalk, I found my phone in the bottom of my purse. I tapped out an “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t feeling good” text message to Helen and dropped it back in the bottom of the bag.

  Air. I needed air. And a reset on my life.

  I walked down the sidewalk, headed in the general direction of the Intercostal Waterway. Sturkey’s sat on a side street just off Clematis, one of the main entertainment districts of West Palm Beach. I stumbled through the crowds spilling out of local bars and milling around the sidewalks outside the open-air patios of the restaurants. All around me, the city bustled and burst with the excitement of another balmy Saturday night in the middle of winter.

  I barely saw any of it.

  When I got to Flagler Park, I finally exhaled, and my shoulders relaxed as I drew closer to the waterfront walkway that lined downtown West Palm Beach. I slowed my pace and took in the peaceful view of the yachts and private boats moored along the waterfront for the winter. Surprisingly, the area closest to the water was almost deserted, and I welcomed that as I sat down on a vacant bench. I just needed to think. I needed space. And most of all, I needed to stop going on horrible dates with men who gave halfhearted apologies for burping in my face.

  My phone buzzed a few times, and I felt it vibrate against my stomach, through the cloth of my purse. I didn’t have to see it to know who wanted to reach me.

  “No,” I said to my purse. “I’m not answering you, Helen.”

  The phone buzzed again.

  “I’m not answering you!”

  I shifted on the bench and made eye contact with a scruffy man a few benches away. He must have taken this as an invitation, because he got up and made his way over to me.

  “Miss, I hate to trouble you, but I’m wondering if you had a little bit extra to spare.”

  “I…I don’t have any money.”

  “I just need a dollar or some change to help me get a bus fare to Miami.” He stopped a few feet in front of me. His eyes sagged, streaks of dirt covered his face, and he smelled like rancid sweat. “It’s only a few bucks.” The man’s voice broke. “I really don’t want to trouble you but…”

  “It’s okay. You’re not bothering me.” I took another long look at him, wondering when this person had last eaten a decent meal. It had probably been a while. “I don’t have much.” I opened my purse and fished out my wallet. When I opened it, my heart sank at the sight of five ones
and a ten, fifteen bucks that would more than pay for a car ride home. Without them, I’d have to put yet another charge on my credit card.

  Still, he needs the money more than me…

  “Here, I’ve got fifteen dollars.” I produced the cash and handed it over to him. “That should help.”

  His jaw went slack, and I knew that he hadn’t expected me to give him anything at all. “Oh, wow, miss, that is so kind of you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I shook my head. “Just have a good night, okay? Take care of yourself.”

  “I will.” He put the money in the front pocket of his pants. “Thank you.”

  We said goodnight, and he shuffled away, moving along the waterfront. I watched him shuffle away feeling some more of the tension release from my shoulders. It had been a weird night—the weirdest one in a while.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted a hot bath. And I wanted a glass of cheap wine.

  I was thinking about all of that when the man I’d just given the money to cried out near the edge of the water. His knee gave way and he landed on the concrete, inches away from falling into the Intracoastal Waterway.

  “Are you okay?” I yelled as I jumped from the park bench and rushed toward him. “Sir? Are you okay? What happened? Sir—”

  When I reached his side, I pulled him away from the concrete lip and onto the pavestones that made up part of the long pathway in the park. He made a few grunting noises and shook a few times as his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Can you hear me? Sir, are you okay? If you can hear me, try to reply…”

  He answered me with a few more meaningless, inaudible grunts; nothing he did satisfied me in any way. Whatever had happened to him, I knew it was bad.

  Very bad.

  I glanced up, my heart racing, and scanned the park. Shit. We might as well have been all alone on a deserted island. The closest people were hundreds of feet away and seemed engrossed in their own evening by the water. I looked down at the stranger again, and what I saw put the fear of hell in me. His chest rose and fell in ragged, irregular breaths. At times, he would go long stretches without pulling any air in, and then he would struggle through a staccato of agonizing respirations.