“That’s my business, not yours,” Gage reminded his father, knowing he’d need to hang on to his patience with both hands if he wanted the evening with Elena to unfold the way he’d hoped. He’d invested too much time in his plans to have his father spoil them now. “And tonight’s party is a private affair, but I’d be happy to meet with you tomorrow morning once you’ve both had a chance to recover from your trip.”

New Zealand was nineteen hours ahead of mountain time in the United States. They had to be exhausted. He gestured to his housekeeper to prepare a guest room for them.

“We spent last night in Los Angeles,” his mother assured him, sliding a coaxing hand around Gage’s arm as she lowered her head to speak softly to him. “We’ve had plenty of time to acclimate. We’re only in town for a couple of days, Gage. Attending the party will give us an opportunity to catch up.”

Had his father urged her to guilt Gage into letting them attend? Suspicion mounted along with his irritation. He didn’t have time for a big confrontation right now when the driver was due to deliver him and Elena to Miles’s house in—he checked his watch—fifteen minutes.

What if Elena was ready early? She could make an appearance in the foyer at any moment. He needed to get his parents out of there.

“Nevertheless—” Gage freed himself from his mother’s coercive hold “—we’ll have to speak tomorrow. My housekeeper, Mrs. Merchant, will show you to your rooms.”

Gage was unconcerned about how his father interpreted his limited hospitality, but his conscience niggled at leaving his mom standing in the hallway with her bags for the staff to oversee. In the end, he had no choice. He headed down the hall toward the back of the house, where he still had just enough time to change.

He’d almost reached the door to his suite when his father’s cold voice echoed along the corridor, raking along Gage’s last nerve.

“Elena Rollins. What in bloody hell are you doing here?”

The moment seemed surreal enough that Elena briefly hoped she was just having a nightmare.

When she’d arrived in the foyer to ask Gage’s housekeeper to snap a few photos for her blog before the party, Elena came face-to-face with the harsh, disapproving man who still occasionally haunted her dreams. Nigel Striker, the man who’d attempted to buy her off and then failed to tell his son for years that she hadn’t taken the bribe, was now blocking her path to the living room. He loomed almost as large as Gage, although his shoulders were more stooped now and his gray hair had thinned.

Nigel glared at Elena, while his wife—almost a decade younger than him, but looking equally world-weary at the moment—hurried closer to them.