Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,82

“Have you said hello to your sister?”

“Of course I have.”

Her gaze returns to me. “Enjoy yourself, Ivy. I’d particularly recommend trying the oysters on ice, over by the bar.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Her free hand lands on Rhys’s arm, giving her tall son a pat. “Glad you came, son.”

Rhys takes a sip of his drink and watches as she drifts toward another group of people. They welcome her into their circle with wide smiles.

“Just what you’d expect,” Rhys comments.

“Did she not approve of me being here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “She knows what I’m doing.”

“That I’m a buffer?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Do you bring dates to these parties often?”

There’s not a trace of his usual arrogance or smirk. “No. It’s happened once or twice, that’s true. More often than not I’m not here, not when it’s something for my dad or his company. Haven’t been for years.”

I swallow. “Oh.”

“But,” he murmurs, bending to press his lips to my cheek, “I’m finding it’s very nice to have you by my side here.”

I shiver at the light touch of his lips, my gaze returning to his. And I can’t imagine ever looking away, the fierce aching in my chest returning. My lips curve into a smile. “I’m glad to be here,” I tell him. “And if—”

“Rhys!” a man calls. “Give us a hand!”

I turn to see two men walking from a nearby beach cottage, carrying a crate between them.

“My brothers,” Rhys murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

He jogs toward them with ease and helps carry the heavy thing. Reinforcement. They carry it to the back of the lawn, disappearing behind guests. Setting up a lawn game.

I take a sip of my champagne and turn my face up to the evening sunlight. The smell of salt and sea hangs heavy in the air. We’d lived miles and miles from the ocean growing up, and the closest place to swim had been a muddy lake. What would it have been like to grow up here?

I blink my eyes open to voices near me, as a man and a woman walk down the back porch steps. She’s dark-haired and stunning, the silk of her dress flowing gracefully around a rounded stomach. The gray-haired man by her side is carrying a whiskey bottle. “A shame you can’t drink it,” he tells her.

“Just you wait until I can,” she responds. “I know where the cellar is now.”

“Am I going to have to put a lock on it?”

“Oh, I’d get a fingerprint scanner if I were you.” She smiles, putting a hand on his arm. “I’ll tell one of the waiters to bring out the whiskey glasses.”

He makes a noncommittal sound in response as she heads off, inspecting the bottle in his hands. There’s no doubt in my mind who he is. The resemblance, despite the difference in age, is too great.

Michael Marchand looks over, noting my gaze. He lifts an eyebrow in an achingly familiar way, this man who commands a real estate empire. “Yes? Can I help you?”

It’s the same thing Rhys had once asked me, at that fateful party in the Hamptons.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“No, we haven’t. I would have remembered.”

“Ivy Hart,” I say, extending my hand. He shakes it with the firmness of a man used to the grip. “I’m here with Rhys.”

An amused glint in his deep green eyes. “Ah. Of course. I’m Michael, his father.”

“I suspected as much. The family resemblance is obvious.”

His mouth quirks. “Right.”

“We recently worked on a campaign together, actually. Got back just yesterday.” No idea if that’s the right thing to say or not. I’m acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t had a direct conversation with his son in a decade, but here I am, my words spilling forth.

“A campaign,” he repeats. “Yes, well, I’d rather he focused on growing that publishing company of his. Nothing personal against you, of course.”

My throat goes dry. “Yes. Well, his photography is impressive.”

“Hmph.” Michael looks past me to the guests beyond, but his silence is heavy with expectation. He wants more.

So I give it to him. “We’ve just completed a campaign shot in eight different countries, and he captured each of the locations perfectly. Understanding the camera equipment, the light, the locations… it’s an art and a science, and he’s talented at it.”

Michael gives a curt nod. “And I suppose you were the star?”

“I was just there to make the scenery relatable,” I say. “The locations were the true stars.”

“And he flew to all of these places?”

I wet