Call Me Cat (Call Me Cat Trilogy #1)(15)

Ash approached and handed me a plate of food. "You should eat."

I knew I should, but resented him telling me to as if I was a child. Still, my stomach didn't let me protest. "Thank you."

He nodded curtly. "I see you've met my little brother."

"Yes, he was kind enough to apologize for your irritating manner." I couldn't help it, these things just dripped from my lips like venom. I shoved a stuffed mushroom into my mouth to keep it from causing any more trouble.

Ash's dark eyes narrowed at his brother. "I guess I should thank him for making sure our family name is well represented."

He didn't look that thankful, and the champagne was going to my head. I giggled, nearly choking on mushroom. "If you'll excuse me, boys, I'm going to track down Bridgette. Try not to piss on anything valuable."

They both stared at me dumbfounded, though Ash had a twinkle in his eyes that made me think he admired my raw wit. I found Brig once again surrounded by men, but when she saw me she pulled herself away. "Where have you been?"

I glanced at the Davenport boys, who both still stared.

"Oh girl, you sure know how to pick 'em. Do you even know who they are?"

I shook my head. I kept meaning to google Ash, but so much had been going on.

She grabbed my elbow and pulled me to the corner as I sampled the plate of food Ash brought me.

"The Davenports are the most powerful family in Massachusetts. Their father owns Davenport International—D.I.—which represents every major investor in the country. They're worth a fortune. Jon is set to follow in his father's footsteps. Harvard Law for now, then corner office at D.I. Ash went his own way. Got in trouble with the law several times in high school before his dad kicked him out. We all thought he'd end up an afterschool special kind of warning, but he proved everyone wrong by becoming a ridiculously wealthy hedge fund manager. He's worth billions, even more than his father, which didn't sit well with daddy dearest as you can imagine. Those two," she pointed to the brothers who were in a heated conversation judging by their faces and body language, "have been at each other's throats for years, and now you're stuck right in the middle."





Chapter Twelve


Prayers and Mayhem


THE MUSIC FROM the party—a live orchestra the Beaumonts commissioned just for this event—bled through the door of the guest room the maid had readied for me next to Bridgette's room. My misery and exhaustion felt inappropriate surrounded by sunflower yellow walls, a wood-burning fire place encased in stone and a four-poster canopy bed with a white comforter embroidered with yellow daisies.

I slipped out of the dress, hung it in the closet, and pulled on silk pajama bottoms and a matching button down top Bridgette had loaned me. With my next paycheck, I would have to replace my whole wardrobe.

The room came complete with a bookshelf packed with classics. I pulled a few familiar titles out until I settled on John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany.

An overstuffed white chair sat in the corner near the fireplace, with a complimentary ottoman. I sunk into it, ready to get lost in the pages of fiction, when someone knocked on my door.

Irritated by the interruption of reality, I rose and yanked open the door only to discover Ash holding a plate filled with various desserts including a chocolate covered strawberry, a slice of key lime pie and a berry torte.

He winked at me, his dimple deepening with his smile. "I come in peace. May I come in? I've brought bribes." He raised the plate, and I opened the door wider and went back to my chair. He sat on the small stool in front of the vanity after placing the desserts on the table next to me. "You left the party."

"You have alarmingly keen observational skills, Mr. Davenport," I said dryly.

"I like your pajamas." He didn't sound at all daunted by my attitude. On the contrary, he seemed inspired by my surliness, which didn't bode well.

"They're not mine. What can I do for you? I've had a long day and I'm tired." And I kind of wanted to dig into that dessert, but not in front of him.

He glanced at the book in my hand. "You're a fan of Irving? I find his work repetitive for the most part. He uses the same archetypal characters, places and scenarios over and over until it fails to incite true emotion. You'll almost always find a Sarah Lawrence dropout and a retired wrestling coach with issues, for example."

"That doesn't make his work repetitive. He has themes he addresses, universal themes one can't walk away from because they exist at a fundamental level in everything. And as for archetypes, those are found in all manner of books and genres. And I think this book," I held up Owen Meany, "is one of his most original, and certainly his best literary work."

"Even better than The World According to Garp?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I guess we'll have to agree to disagree." He held his hands loosely on his lap, his long fingers tapping each other.

"We seem to do a lot of that for people who hardly know each other." I gave in and took a bite of the pie, nearly moaning in delight as the tart sweetness melted on my tongue.

Ash noticed. "I've never been jealous of a dessert before, but if it can make you look that satisfied, I've got some competition."

I put the fork down. "You and your brother seem to be suffering from the delusion that I'm a prize to be won in your pissing contest, when this is most assuredly not the case. I'm not playing your game, and I can't be had by the winner of this fictional competition you two have constructed."