"I am not going to a tea party with those vultures," Imogen said, adjusting Leo's collar.
"It's a networking brunch," Linda insisted, blocking the door. "You are representing the family."
"I'm representing myself," Imogen said. She grabbed the twins' hands and ducked under Linda's arm. "We're going for pancakes."
Thirty minutes later, Imogen and the twins were standing in the crowded foyer of Sarabeth's, the smell of maple syrup and bacon making them drool.
"I'm sorry, miss," the hostess said, looking at her clipboard. "Without a reservation, it's a two-hour wait."
Leo's face fell. His lower lip wobbled. "But... the pancakes..."
Imogen crouched down. "I know, buddy. We'll find somewhere else."
"Take my table."
The voice came from behind her. Deep. Familiar.
Imogen froze. She stood up slowly and turned around.
Branson Reeves was standing there, looking impeccable in a navy polo and slacks. Quentin was beside him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"I don't need your charity," Imogen said instantly.
Branson stepped closer. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Consider it reparations for the hit piece on my company. Or for the... headache you've caused my PR department."
Imogen's eyes widened slightly. He knew. Or he suspected.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied smoothly.
"I'm hungry!" Leo tugged on Imogen's hand. He looked up at Branson. "Do they have strawberries?"
Branson looked down. For a second, the cold mask slipped. He looked at the boy-the messy hair, the bright eyes. "Yes," Branson said. "They have the best strawberries."
He gestured to the hostess. "They're with me."
Imogen wanted to run, but the twins were already marching toward the VIP booth. She had no choice but to follow.
They slid into the booth. It was intimate. Too intimate. Imogen sat with Leo and Mia on either side of her. Branson sat opposite them.
"So," Branson said, unfolding his napkin. "What do I call you? Besides 'The Ghost Bidder'?"
"Imogen," she said shortly.
"Imogen," Branson tested the name. "And these are?"
"Leo and Mia," the twins answered for themselves. They were staring at Branson. "Are you a boss? You look like a boss," Leo said.
Branson chuckled. "Something like that."
The waiter arrived with two stacks of pancakes for the twins. They dug in with enthusiasm, getting whipped cream on their noses immediately.
Branson reached out with a napkin, an instinctive gesture to wipe Leo's face.
Imogen's hand shot out. She slapped Branson's hand away. Hard.
"I got it," she snapped. She wiped their faces herself, her movements protective, territorial.
Branson pulled his hand back, stinging. The air at the table grew heavy.
"Where is the father?" Branson asked. The question was rude, intrusive. He didn't know why he asked it.
Imogen stopped. She looked at him, her eyes dark. "Dead."
It wasn't a lie. Her father was dead. But she knew how Branson would interpret it.
Branson felt a strange pang in his chest. Relief? Why would he feel relief?
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly.
Suddenly, the TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant switched to the news. The anchor was talking about the suspicious article and the subsequent dip in the Reeves Group's stock. A picture of Branson was on the screen next to the blog's headline.
Mia pointed her fork at the TV. "That's you!"
Imogen choked on her coffee. She coughed, trying to hide her face behind her mug.
Branson leaned back, crossing his arms. He watched her carefully. He saw the flush on her neck. He saw the way her eyes darted away from the screen.
"You seem entertained, Imogen," Branson said softly.
"It's just... juvenile," Imogen managed to say.
"Effective, though," Branson murmured. "Whoever did it has talent. Wasted talent."
He locked eyes with her. "If I find them, I'm not sure if I should arrest them or hire them."
Imogen put her mug down. "Maybe you should just pay them what they're worth."
