LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To the five talented, amazing women I was lucky enough to work with on this continuity. Thanks to you all for making the work so much fun!

      One

      Vance Waverly stood outside the auction house that bore his name and stared up at the impressive facade. The old building had had a face-lift or two over the past 150 years, but the heart of it remained. A structure dedicated to showcasing the beautiful, the historical, the unique.

      He smiled to himself, letting his gaze slide across the “lucky” seven stories. At street level, twin cypress trees, trained into spirals, stood silent sentinel at the doorway. Windowpanes glittered in the early-summer light. Black, wrought-iron railings framed a second-story balcony. Gray stone gave the building its aura of dignity and the wide, arched window above the double front doors was etched with a single word—Waverly.

      A glimmer of pride rose up inside Vance as he stared at the world his great-great uncle, Windham Waverly, had created. The long-dead man had ensured his own version of immortality by leaving behind the auction house that carried an illustrious reputation around the world.

      And Vance was one of the last remaining Waverlys. So he had a proprietary interest in seeing that the auction house remained at the top of its game. As a senior board member, he made certain that he was involved in everything from the layout of the catalog to hunting down pieces worthy of being auctioned at Waverly’s. This place was more his home than his luxury condo overlooking the Hudson River. The condo was where he slept.

      Waverly’s was where he lived.

      “Yo, buddy!” a voice shouted from behind him. “You gonna be there all day or what?”

      Vance turned to see a FedEx driver, packages stacked on the dolly he was balancing, waiting impatiently behind him. Vance stepped out of the way and let the man pass.

      Before slipping into Waverly’s, the driver muttered, “People think they own the damn sidewalks.”

      “Gotta love New York,” Vance muttered.

      “Morning.”

      Vance glanced to his right and watched as his half brother walked up to meet him. Rarely in New York, Roark had flown in for a meeting with some of his contacts. He was as tall as Vance, over six feet, with brown hair and green eyes. Not much of a family resemblance, but then, the brothers only shared a father. And until five years ago, when their father, Edward Waverly, died, Vance hadn’t even known Roark existed.

      In those five years, they had built up a solid friendship, and Vance was grateful—even though Roark insisted on keeping their family ties a secret. Roark still wasn’t convinced that Edward Waverly had actually been his father. But the connection was enough to keep him at Waverly’s. There was no proof beyond the letter Edward had left with his will. It was enough for Vance, but he could respect his brother’s wishes.

      “Thanks for meeting me,” Vance said with a nod.

      “Better be important,” Roark said, falling into step beside Vance as they walked past Waverly’s toward a small café on the corner. “Late night and I’m not officially awake yet.”

      He was wearing dark glasses against the sunlight, a worn brown leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans and boots. For a second, Vance envied his brother. He’d rather be in jeans himself, but his suit and tie were what was expected at Waverly’s. And Vance always did the right thing.

      “Yeah,” he said as they claimed an outside table beneath a cheerfully striped umbrella. “It’s important. Or it could be.”

      “Intriguing.” Roark turned his coffee cup over at the same time Vance did and they both waited for the waitress to fill the cups and take their orders before speaking again. “So tell me.”

      Vance cupped the heavy porcelain mug between his palms and studied the black surface of his coffee for a long minute while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn’t a man who usually paid attention to gossip or rumor. He had no patience for those who did, either. But when it concerned Waverly’s, he couldn’t take a chance.

      “Have you heard any talk about Ann?”

      “Ann Richardson?” Roark asked. “Our CEO?”

      “Yes, that Ann,” Vance muttered. Seriously, how many Anns did they know?

      Roark pulled his sunglasses off and set them onto the table. He took a quick look around, at the people passing on the tree-lined sidewalk, at the other customers sitting at tables. “What kind of talk?”

      “Specifically? About her and Dalton Rothschild. You know, the head of Rothschild auction house? Our main competitor?”

      Roark just stared at him for a beat or two, then shook his head. “No way.”

      “I don’t want to believe it, either,” Vance admitted.

      The CEO of Waverly’s, Ann Richardson was brilliant at her job. Smart, capable, she had worked her way up to the top position in the firm, becoming the youngest person ever—male or female—to head an auction house of its size and scope.

      Roark sat back in his chair and shook his head firmly. “What have you heard?”

      “Tracy called me last night to give me a heads-up about a column that’s appearing in today’s Post.”

      “Tracy.”

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