Page 20 of The Dauntless (Spy Girl 5)
“Yes. Anything that relates to food. He also started the World Seed Vault, which is a really cool thing.”
“I’ve heard about that. Do you know much else about him? Like, is he a nice guy?”
“Harry? Yeah. A bit of a narcissist, but maybe, if you have more money than God, that’s a byproduct. You probably met his daughter, Eliza, and her husband, Collin Pettyfer, at the Royal Ascot. She was the one with the huge black-and-white polka-dot hat.”
“Oh, I do remember them. Her husband knew Lorenzo. They played in some charity polo match together. I didn’t know that was his daughter.”
“It is. She’s conceited, and I don’t care much for her, but whatever. Okay, who’s next?” he says, showing me a photo. “Well, this is sad. It has a photo of former president John F. Hillford, but it says below that his spot will be filled in November by a former politician.”
I raise my hand.
“What?”
“It hasn’t been announced yet, but his spot will be filled by Royston Bessemer.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me last night at the party,” I reply, “when we left you and his granddaughter alone to catch up. Speaking of that, should she really be marrying that Ty guy? You know he’s not going to be faithful.”
“Funny, those were the exact words that came out of my mouth the second you left,” he says with a sigh.
“Do you still like her?”
Peter scratches his cheek. “She’s a nice girl. Of course I like her.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“You saw me last night,” he scoffs. “I’m the life of the party.”
“And it’s getting old. For someone who doesn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, you totally already are. We’re like him, Ares, Viktor, Gio, and Jack when they were young—just trying to make our way in the world.”
“I suppose you’re right. Seeing the way Lorenzo looks at you sort of hit me. And how Viktor is still mourning. I’ve realized there is only one girl who I’ve ever felt that way about.”
“And her name is Blair Bessemer,” I add. “You started dating her just to prove you could, but you fell for her. I could see it in your eyes. What happened? How did things end?”
“The way things always do for me. The women I date never think I’m serious enough.”
“Well, you do have a history,” I tease.
“So does Lorenzo. Did that stop you?”
“No, not that it does me much good now. He’s getting married.”
“And so is she.”
Neither one of us says anything for a moment.
Eventually, Peter moves his finger to the next photo and goes back to our original conversation. “Here are a couple of people you already know,” he says, pointing out photos of his dad, Malcolm Prescott, and Viktor’s, Aleksandr Nikolaevich. “It’s really cool that they all started out as friends and went on to be great successes in their industries. Do you think people will say that about us someday?”
I turn to him and smile. “I hope so.”
“Next is Rutherford Elingston. He was at my parents’ house for dinner. Did you meet him?”
“Briefly, yes. Lorenzo told me that his family owns most of the world’s banks and is worth about two trillion dollars. His company wanted to buy the Royal Montrovian Bank, but King Gio wouldn’t allow it. Said the man is already too powerful.”
“I can understand that,” Peter says. “There might actually be such a thing as too much money.” He laughs. “I can’t believe I just said that. Next up is Maximilian Olivier. He’s a fund manager who is rumored to be able to break a country’s economy by short-selling the billions he trades. I really like Max. He’s a hell of a skeet shooter, and after a few whiskeys, he is an entertaining storyteller.”
“I actually met him and his wife, Leah, at the Queen’s Garden Party in Montrovia. Her hat was created by Anna Remaldi, the royal milliner. Just like mine was.”
“I’m still mad they made me check my gold clippers.” Peter pouts. “I’m friends with Lorenzo. Do they frisk you every time you go to the palace?”
“You need to get over that,” I tease. “Max did entertain me and Lorenzo with a story about his recent African safari, how he planned to bring home big game trophies, but in the end, he couldn’t kill such majestic animals. I liked that about him.”
“He must have had a flask with him because they weren’t serving whiskey at the party,” Peter says matter-of-factly. “I know. I tried to get one. Then, we have Sergey Olander.”
“Oh, I remember him,” I say with a frown. “He was at the Cartier Queen’s Cup in the Royal Box. He made his money in the tech industry and now owns an English football club. Invited us to come up for a game. He’s also very affectionate toward women he’s never met before.”
“Ahh, yes. Sergey has never been allowed at one of our parties because of it. My mother is not a fan. She says he’s very disrespectful, and I should never treat a woman that way. He also owns the second most expensive yacht in the world, built by … who?”
“Aleksandr Nikolaevich, I assume.”
“Exactly. Did you know his company also built Lorenzo’s yacht? Nice birthday present, huh?” Peter says. “All I got for my last birthday was a new car.”
“Oh, you poor—and I mean, poor—thing.”
Peter laughs out loud. “You’re funny. This board is like the Six Degrees of Yachting. Do you know who owns the world’s biggest yacht, also built by A&N Shipyards?”
“Lorenzo told me that distinction belongs to the yacht we were on at the Montrovian Grand Prix. Until that moment, I didn’t understand what the word lavish meant. The guy owns one of the race teams, but I’m drawing a blank at his name.”
“His name is Zayn Kipling. His family money goes back to the British East India Company. Really, you have already met all of the board members, except for McClellan. Maybe you should reach out to him.” He scrolls further down the page, and there is a photo of Ares Von Allister, the caption mentioning the untimely passing of their founder and that a board replacement would be announced soon.
“What do you think I should do about the vote?”
“Maybe ask the people on the board who you trust.”
“I think I will. Thanks for taking care of me last night, Peter, and for ordering breakfast. I’m feeling much better.”
“That’s good,” he says, glancing at his watch, “because we need to get to the White House and meet up with Daniel and Viktor. We don’t want to miss the parade.”
Daniel and I are standing on the second-floor balcony of the Executive Residence of the White House, known as the Truman Balcony, which overlooks the South Lawn and has views of the National Mall. There are others here as well, but since it’s Daniel’s birthday, they gave us the prime viewing spot in the center, next to the railing.
A military band is playing patriotic music. Fireworks explode and then fall from the sky in a brilliant display of red, white, and blue. While the day was warm, a soft breeze has made the evening air cool.
“Peter was right,” I say. “Once you experience a White House Fourth of July, everything will pale in comparison. From the patriotic barbecue for military families, featuring a concert with star-studded performances, to the presidential speech in honor of the USO to your poolside birthday party and now the big finale fireworks show, the whole day has been amazing. Thank you for letting me share it with you. Happy birthday, Daniel. You probably should make a wish on the fireworks.”
“I already made a wish.” Daniel turns to face me, takes my hands in his, and gives me a cocky grin. “That means I’m about to do something crazy, so remember, yes is always the right answer.”
“What are you going to—” I start to say, but then he drops to one knee, obviously having orchestrated our key position on the balcony, so it could be viewed by reporters.
“I know this isn’t what you want,” he says softly, the cocky expression gone.
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I put my hand to my mouth, and tears stream down my face as I remember the bliss I felt when seeing Lorenzo down on one knee, proposing, just nine days ago—the words of love he spoke permanently etched into the space in my brain that holds the happiest moments of my entire life, just like they are etched on the necklace I wear.
