Knight In Blue Jeans. Evelyn Vaughn
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before them, and their fathers’ fathers, blah blah blah.
“Nope.” Smith didn’t flinch. “I pledged myself to your uncle. He made a much better leader than you have. You? Kind of suck.”
The moment stretched, pregnant with oh-no-you-didn’t. By challenging the succession, Smith had just finished himself with the society. That imagined rumbling noise was probably his fathers’ fathers spinning in their graves.
Was heresy really a killing offense in the Comitatus? Smith tensed, just in case. But he ran a booming business judging threats, and sure enough—
“Get out,” commanded Phil Stuart through his teeth.
“Gladly.” Smith turned and walked, trusting his friends to watch his back.
“Don’t take your knife,” warned their overlord as Smith approached the rack where all Comitatus members left their traditional weapons—showy, long-bladed knives—upon entering any ritual meeting place. The two men guarding it squared their shoulders in preparation for a fight. It might be fun, but…
“We used to use swords, you know,” Smith called over his shoulder as he passed, just to be contrary. “Back when our honor meant something!”
Assuming it ever really had.
The last thing he heard before the heavy doors shut behind him was a deep growl—and Phil Stuart asking his partners, “And where do you stand?”
Hell. No matter what Mitch, Trace and Quinn chose, this had the makings of an awkward ride home. Smith jogged angrily up worn stone steps once trod by George Washington, freemasons and other Comitatus. High-tech security—a system Smith had updated himself—presented a stark contrast to the ancient setting, like the society itself. The modern Comitatus had infiltrated all levels of business and politics. It was a powerful and long-lived organization. Legend held that it had once been great.
Smith had believed in that greatness. But now…
He had barely reached the hidden garden exit behind the ornate tomb before Mitch caught up to him. Trace followed like an oversized shadow. Neither friend carried a ceremonial knife. They’d abdicated their positions, too.
Smith hated like hell to apologize, but…“I’m sorry.”
“About our fortunes?” demanded Trace as they walked, putting distance between themselves and any guards. They’d all just made some deadly enemies, after all, which explained Trace’s sneer. “Or just our lives and sacred honors?”
Smith looked from one friend to the other—and realized Quinn wouldn’t be following them. Hell. “Your honor’s alive and kicking. You didn’t have to fall on your swords to prove it.”
“You mean, fall on our knives.” Mitch’s grin was even brighter than his hair. “Oh, well. Belonging to a secret cabal of ultimate power just isn’t what it used to be. I mean, even Trace would have drawn the line at hunting down women.”
Trace nodded in big, sullen agreement. Then he frowned. “Hey!”
And there they stood, waiting for Smith, suddenly their leader, to say what happened next. As if he had any idea, beyond…bad. Bad, bad things. They’d been born into this society. They’d taken oaths at the age of fifteen. And now…
“What say we get drunk?” he suggested, to their certain approval.
Drunk was the only way he would manage what he had to do next.
It was the only way to say goodbye to Arden Leigh.
Chapter 1
“Beauty is power; a smile is its sword.” —John Ray, English naturalist
Arden was so busy with her hostess duties that she didn’t notice the small exodus until her guest of honor pointed it out.
“I can always tell I’m back in the South,” drawled gubernatorial candidate Molly Johannes, “when certain menfolk head off to talk on their own.”
Then Arden saw it and silently cursed herself. True, she’d had to monitor the needs of her guests, the caterers and the string quartet. That was why she hadn’t bothered with an escort tonight. Her late stepmother had done such an excellent job with such functions, Arden didn’t want to disappoint her memory. And true, men often drifted away to private conversation in their social circle—a common holdover from the days of brandy and cigars. But Arden expected better than “common,” especially from her father.
Her first thought was, Well, sugar. Sugar meaning something nastier.
But she simply smiled her Miss Dallas smile, complete with dimples, and covered for the men. “As long as they’re talking about how to make you governor, Comptroller Johannes, I wouldn’t hold their little rituals against them.”
“Call me Molly, please! State Comptroller is a mouthful even for the state comptroller.” The stocky, middle-aged woman shook her head with amusement. “I’m still not sure why an old boys’ club like your daddy’s is willing to support me, though I suspect you had something to do with it. But as long as they believe in my message, I’m willing to grant them as much time in their clubhouse as they want.”
Arden laughed with her. But as soon as she got Molly talking to another guest, she took a moment to slip out back, into the shadowy August heat of her father’s gardens. The clink of wineglasses and murmur of conversation faded like the brightly lit rooms as she let the French door swing shut behind her—and glimpsed, just for a moment, a twinkling of light across the darkness.
She blinked. It had been years since Dallas County had seen many fireflies outside the botanical gardens. Highland Park—a small, exclusive city surrounded by the larger sprawl of Dallas—had plenty of landscaping and parks, and yet…
The air-conditioned chill of indoors faded off her bare arms as Arden scanned the stone paths, the swimming pool, the magnolia and live-oak trees, all the way back to the estate’s old well. The light didn’t repeat.
She noted the steady glow from what had once been a guest-house but now was her father’s detached study. Shadows moved behind the shades—the usual deserters from her soiree, no doubt. So she headed toward the detached den to sweetly bully her father and his friends back into their public responsibilities.
Which is when a dark-haired, dark-suited young man emerged from behind the trunk of the nearest oak. That alone startled her, even before she registered the huge hunting knife in his hands.
Really. A hunting knife paired with a Ralph Lauren suit.
Only the unreality of it explained how easily she folded her bare arms, cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “So much for Daddy’s top-notch security,” she drawled in accusation. “Whatever do you think you’re doing?”
The extra long serrated blade made her stomach go all knotty and sick. But breeding, and her former experience in pageants, gave her skill at hiding her feelings, especially around a man younger than her twenty-five years.
Also? Fear had nothing on her annoyance.
“You need to go back inside the house now,” ordered the young man. He wore a small goatee and a had Yankee accent. Massachusetts, she recognized with an even greater flare of surprise. Unless she was mistaken, and roving bands of Bostonians had migrated down to the Lone Star State for a surprisingly well-dressed crime spree, this was one of her guests! But how had she not caught his name?
Now she did speak her mind. “You come to my party, drink my champagne, eat my hors d’oeuvres and now you threaten me? Why, that’s just…tacky.”
“You think I’m joking?”
“My father and half of Texas society are just a scream away.”
Menace twisted his mouth. “Like they’d hear you through closed doors.”
“Oh…” Arden smiled, deliberately showing dimples as she bared