One
"I 'm going to marry him."
The wrong man.
No, the right man, Eva corrected herself, irritated for even momentarily adopting her father's negative perspective.
True, there was no gut feeling of rightness, of destiny, but then she told herself to stop being illogical.
How many times during her party planning career had things seemed off before proceeding without a hitch? She'd also seen what should have been perfect events erupt into flaming disasters.
No, there was no predicting the future, she decided, even as she met her father's annoyed and disbelieving gaze.
Marcus Tremont stood and slapped a hand on the massive oak desk before him. "Damn it, Eva! Are you out of your mind? Carter Newell is a fortune-hunting snake. You won't get a penny from me!"
Her lips tightened, but she refused to show how her father's words hurt. She'd come from work today—Mondays were her slow days—to meet her father in his wood-paneled library at the family estate in exclusive Mill Valley. She'd girded herself for this battle.
"Fortunately," she responded, "we don't need a penny from you. Occasions by Design is doing very well."
Her reputation in the Bay Area as a party planner had grown in the past several years. She was regularly called on by many of San Francisco's high-profile society hostesses, as well as by well-known philanthropic organizations.
Her father raked his hand through his shock of gray hair. "What you see in Carter Newell, I'll never understand."
They'd been over this ground before, each time with the same result. Somehow, though, now that her engagement was a reality, she'd hoped today would be different.
Unlike her father and his kind, work wasn't Carter's mistress. Instead he made her a priority.
"Carter loves me," she said simply.
Her father's brows snapped together. "Or your bank account."
She ground her teeth. Her father had always been wary, suspicious even, when meeting her boyfriends. She supposed it was because she was an heiress and an only child. But with Carter, the initial wariness had never eased. Of course, she'd never gotten close to the altar with any of her prior boyfriends….
"Does Carter even have a job?" her father continued. "Refresh my memory, Evangeline. What's his line of work again?"
Her father knew very well what Carter did for a living, but Eva decided to play along with his game. "Carter is an independent financial consultant."
She'd thought, the first time she'd mentioned it months ago, that Carter's profession at least would meet with her father's approval. Marcus Tremont respected getting a return on his dollar.
Instead her father's response had been lukewarm. And when she'd started hinting she was considering marrying Carter, her father's reaction had taken a sudden nosedive.
"Baloney," her father pronounced, echoing his skepticism on previous occasions. "A trumped-up title to provide window dressing for his real occupation as an heiress hunter."
"Carter comes from money!" Despite her best intentions, they were revisiting previous arguments that had gone nowhere. She felt a headache coming on.
"He came from money," her father countered. "He makes a show of managing other people's money since he doesn't have any of his own."
That did it. "You're impossible! Just because the Newells aren't as wealthy as they once were, you think Carter is a fortune hunter!"
Even as she spoke, she regretted that she so frequently fell back into sounding like an adolescent when dealing with her father.
"Trust me on this, Eva. There's nothing more tenacious than a person who's trying to hold on to his economic perch in life and avoid a nasty fall."
They'd both raised their voices, and Eva gave up on trying to make the announcement of her impending marriage into a joyous occasion.
"Where's the ring?" her father asked abruptly, looking at her hand. "I don't see one."
"I don't have one yet."
Her father's expression said it all: See? What other proof do you need?
"Oh, no, you don't," she said, heading him off before he could give voice to his thoughts. "We're picking one out together."
"With what?" her father asked pointedly. "A loan from the bank?"
She supposed her engagement wouldn't really be official until she had a ring, but she refused to have the argument with her father focus on mere symbolism.
A knock sounded, calling a halt to their argument and making them both turn toward the closed library door.
"Come in," her father barked.
The door opened, and Griffin Slater strode in.
Eva's eyes narrowed.
Griffin Slater. Her father's right-hand man.
If anyone had the perfect credentials for a husband in her father's eyes, it was Griffin.
She disliked Griffin Slater intensely. She had since she'd met him a decade before, soon after he'd started working at Tremont Real Estate Holdings.
At first, she'd barely been aware of his existence, since he'd been just another newly minted Stanford MBA learning the ropes of the real estate business and climbing the corporate ladder.
Now thirty-five, he was more boss than employee, especially since her father's advancing age necessitated that he loosen his grip on the family real estate empire.
Griffin was also a constant reminder of her own shortcomings as her father's sole heir. She'd shown no interest in the family firm, and had instead embarked on her own business ventures right out of college at UC Berkeley.
She was well aware that her field was regarded by many as frivolous—just glorified debutante busywork. And she had no doubt Griffin Slater shared that opinion.
But at least she'd had the guts to build her own business rather than usurp someone else's.
Now, looking at Griffin Slater's face, she noted his expression gave nothing away. He was a master of the poker face—that is, when he wasn't baiting her.
Over six feet, he had rough chiseled features more suited to a boxer than a male model. Still, his effect on women was potent. She'd witnessed that herself at numerous social occasions over the years.
She supposed it had something to do with his piercing dark eyes. Or maybe the sable hair that insisted on curling despite being kept regimentally short. And certainly a body that was all leashed male power didn't hurt. She'd even given it a lingering look on more than one occasion—before she'd trapped her runaway mind.
"You're just in time for the show, Griffin," she said.
Griffin raised his eyebrows in mild interest as he shut the door behind him.
She hated the fact that her father looked relieved to see Griffin—or as she secretly liked to call him, Mr. Fix-It.