One

      The party celebrating the ten-year anniversary of the Dixie Bass-Crosby Foundation was in full swing as Harrison Crosby strolled beneath the Baccarat crystal-and-brass chandelier hanging from the restored antebellum mansion’s fifteen-foot foyer ceiling. Snagging a glass of champagne from a circling waitress, Harrison passed from the broad foyer with its white marble floor and grand columns toward the ballroom, where a string quartet played in the corner.

      Thirty years ago Harrison’s uncle Jack Crosby had purchased the historic Groves Plantation, located thirty-five miles outside the city of Charleston, intending to headquarter Crosby Motorsports on the hundred-acre property. At the time, the 1850s mansion had been in terrible shape and they’d been on the verge of knocking it down when both Virginia Lamb-Crosby and Dixie Bass-Crosby—Harrison’s mother and aunt respectively—had raised a ruckus. Instead the Crosby family had dumped a ton of money into the historic renovation to bring it up to code and make it livable. The result was a work of art.

      Although Harrison had attended dozens of charity events supporting his family’s foundations over the years, the social whirl bored him. He’d much rather just donate the money and skip all the pomp and circumstance. Despite the Crosby wealth and the old family connections his aunt and mother could claim, Harrison had nothing in common with the Charleston elite and preferred his horsepower beneath the hood of his Ford rather than on the polo field.

      Which was why he intended to greet his family, make as little small talk as he could and get the hell out. With only three races left in the season, Harrison needed to stay focused on preparations. And he needed as much mental and physical stamina as possible.

      Spying his mother, Harrison made his way toward her. She was in conversation with a younger woman he didn’t recognize. As he drew near, Harrison recognized his mistake. His mother’s beautiful blonde companion wore no ring on her left hand. Whenever his mother encountered someone suitable, she always schemed to fix him up. She didn’t understand that his racing career took up all his time and energy. Or she did get it and hoped that a wife and family might persuade him to give it all up and settle down.

      Harrison was on the verge of angling away when Virginia “Ginny” Lamb-Crosby noticed his approach and smiled triumphantly.

      “Here’s my son,” she proclaimed, reaching with her left hand to draw Harrison in. “Sawyer, this is Harrison. Harrison, I’d like you to meet Sawyer Thurston.”

      “Nice to meet you,” Harrison said, frowning as he tried to place her name. “Thurston...”

      “Linc Thurston is my brother,” Sawyer clarified, obviously accustomed to explaining about her connection to the professional baseball player.

      Harrison nodded. “Sure.”

      Before he could say anything more, his mother reinserted herself into the conversation. “Sawyer is a member of Charleston’s Preservation Society and we were just talking about the historic home holiday tour. She wants to know if I’d be willing to open the Jonathan Booth House this year. What do you think?”

      This was the exact sort of nonsense that he hated getting involved in. No matter what his or anyone else’s opinion, Ginny Lamb-Crosby would do exactly as she liked.

      He leaned down to kiss her cheek and murmured, “I think you should ask Father since it’s his house, too.”

      After a few more polite exchanges Harrison pretended to see someone he needed to talk to and excused himself. As he strolled around the ballroom, smiling and greeting those he knew, his gaze snagged on a beautiful woman in a gown of liquid sky. Her long honeyed hair hung in rolling waves over her shoulders with one side pulled back to show off her sparkly dangle earring. In a roomful of beautiful women, she stood out to him because rather than smiling and enjoying herself, the blonde with big eyes and pale pink lips wore a frown. She seemed to barely be listening to her chatty companion, a shorter, plump brunette of classic beauty and pouty lips.

      She seemed preoccupied by... Harrison followed her gaze and realized she was staring at his brother, Tristan. This should have warned Harrison off. The last thing he wanted to do was to get tangled up with one of his brother’s castoffs. But the woman inspired more than just his curiosity. He had an immediate and intense urge to get her alone to see if her lips were as sweet as they looked, and that hadn’t happened in far too long.

      Turning his back on the beauty, he headed to where his aunt was holding court on one side of the room near a large television playing a promotional video about the Dixie Bass-Crosby Foundation. In addition to helping families with sick children, the foundation supported K–12 education programs focused on literacy. Over the last ten years, his aunt had given away nearly ten million dollars and her family was very proud of her.

      Yet even as Harrison exchanged a few words with his aunt, uncle and their group, his attention returned to the lovely blonde in the blue dress. The more he observed her, the more she appeared different from the ladies who normally appealed to him. Just as beautiful, but not a bubbly party girl. More reserved. Someone his mother would approve of.

      The more he watched her, the more he labeled her as uptight. Not in a sexual way, like she wouldn’t know an orgasm if it reached out and slapped her, but in a manner that said her whole life was a straitjacket. If not for her preoccupation with Tristan, he might’ve turned away.

      He simply had to find out who she was, so he went in search of his uncle. Bennett Lamb knew where all the bodies were buried and traded in gossip like other men bought and sold stock, real estate or collectibles.

      Harrison found the Charleston icon holding court near the bar. In black pants and a cream honeycomb dinner jacket with a gold bow tie and pocket square, Bennett outshone many of the female guests in the fashion department.

      “Do you have a second?” Harrison asked, glancing around to make sure his quarry hadn’t escaped.

      One of Bennett’s well-groomed eyebrows went up. “Certainly.”

      The two men moved off a couple of feet and Harrison indicated the woman who’d interested him. “Do you know who that is?”

      Amusement dancing in his eyes, his uncle gazed in the direction Harrison indicated. “Maribelle Gates? She recently became engaged to Beau Shelton. Good family. Managed to hold on to their wealth despite some shockingly bad advice from Roland Barnes.”

      Harrison silently cursed at the word engaged. Why was she so interested in Tristan if she was unavailable? Maybe she was cheating on her fiancé. Wary of letting his uncle think he’d shown an interest in someone who was engaged, he asked, “And the brunette?”

      “Maribelle Gates is the brunette.” Bennett saw where his nephew was going and shook his head. “Oh, you were interested in the blonde. That’s London McCaffrey.”

      “London.” He experimented with the taste of her name and liked it. “Why does her name ring a bell?”

      “She was engaged to