Congratulations, Campbell. You showed a modicum of restraint. Do you want a gold star?

Monica grabbed her bags and strode into the building. Hopping on the elevator, she pulled out her phone and glanced at her revised schedule. A meeting with a sponsor, cost projections to go over with the accountant, a staff meeting later in the afternoon.

When she’d started as an intern at the foundation, Monica had done everything, from stuffing envelopes to brainstorming new ideas for fund-raisers. What she loved most was interacting with people—everyone from recipients to donors. After she’d earned her master’s in public administration two years ago, Allie had put her in charge of running the show. Well, in theory anyway. In reality, Allie kept a very tight rein on both Monica and the foundation. Now Monica spent her days not only pacifying her big sister, but six other board members as well.

Walking down the hall and into the suite, she found Stella Greene waiting for her. “Good, you’re here.” The office manager twisted the pink scarf knotted at her neck. “Things have been crazy this morning.”

“What happened?” Monica glanced around the open space at her ten employees. They all appeared busy, not harried.

Now in her fifties, Stella had spent the last thirty years working for some of the toughest people in Vegas—tourists. As a hotel concierge, her job had been to remain unflustered and make the guests happy, so seeing her have a mini-freakout gave Monica pause.

“The printers screwed up the date on the gala tickets, two donors called and asked to speak to you specifically, and Mr. Stanford is here. He’s been waiting in your office for over an hour.”

Ah, so that’s what caused the panic. Marcus Stanford was a pain in Monica’s ass, and her most difficult board member. He asked for ballsy favors, tried to co-opt the foundation’s staff for his own business purposes, and had a remarkable knack for showing up on hectic days. “What does he want?”

“No idea,” Stella said. “I’m sorry I let him into your office. He tends to steamroll right over me.”

“Don’t take it personally, he does that with everyone.” She moved past Stella and waved at Carmen Jimenez. The thirty-year-old mother of two was talking on the phone, but when she spied Monica, she placed her hand over the receiver. “The liquor company wants their name on the signage. Too tacky for a cancer event?”

Monica lifted one brow.

“Fine,” she said, “but they’re going to bitch about it.”

Jason West strolled up to her with a half-eaten doughnut in his hand. “We need a new server, because ours is shit. Should I call Allie? And I hid a doughnut for you in the sweetener box, but it’s blueberry. Stanford got the last chocolate.”

A tide of frustration rose inside Monica—not about the doughnut, although blueberry was her least favorite. As the foundation’s coordinator, Monica held the title, yet none of the power. Every decision needed to be filtered through Allie. Monica’s crappy morning had drained her of patience, and she was feeling a little rebellious. “Just get what you need, and I’ll authorize it.” She could defend herself at the next board meeting. And if Allie didn’t like it, too bad.

Jason toasted her with his Bavarian cream. “Excellent.”

“What about the misprinted tickets?” Stella asked.

“Tell the printer to do it again. And he’s paying for it. If he gives you grief, I’ll talk to him myself.”

“I’m on it.” Stella gave her scarf one last tug and hustled to her desk.

Immediate fires now doused, Monica made her way down the hall and slapped a smile on her face before opening her office door. But when she saw Marcus Stanford sitting in her chair with his dirty work boots propped up on her desk, it threatened to slip.

With graying hair and skin the color of red brick, he wasn’t unattractive, but he was arrogant and overbearing. His construction company was worth millions, and he had ties all over Vegas. He’d given a hefty donation in return for a board seat, but he hadn’t done a bit of work since. He also liked to throw his weight around, and today, he was throwing it in Monica’s direction.

“Mr. Stanford, how are you, sir? Can I get you some coffee? You take it black, right?”

“No thanks. Good memory, though.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Extra gift bags for the wife, donors’ private phone numbers? He’d asked for that and more. Her answer was always the same: No, it’s against foundation rules.

“Of course there is, why else would I be sitting here? We’re getting ready to vote on next year’s budget, and I want you to open up the grants. Cast a wider net, so to speak.”

That was a surprisingly thoughtful request and coincided with her own goals—providing funds for impoverished countries. “I’ll consider it. The board would have to go along with any changes.”

Stanford lowered his feet to the floor and stood. “Count me in. My wife’s charity, Parents for a Healthy Tomorrow or Today or some such bullshit…anyway, they’ll fill out an application. Make sure they get a cut.”

She should have seen it coming. Monica really was off her game this morning. And she blamed Cal Hughes. His tight ass and uneven smile made her lose perspective.

Monica stared at Stanford, amazed at the size of his brass cojones, then simply shook her head. “You know I can’t do that—it’s a conflict of interest.” Besides, grant approval was an exacting process. Monica spent months scouring through hundreds, sometimes thousands of applications, carefully examining each possible charity. “Is your wife interested in cancer prevention? We’d love to have her help—”

“Nah, my wife’s just trying to get kids off the junk food.” He strutted to the door. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I have to go to to sneak a burger.”

She swiveled her head to follow his movements. “Mr. Stanford, I’m sorry. I’m not going to award funds to your wife’s project.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Look, you seem like a good kid, but let’s face it, you got this job because you’re related to Trevor Blake’s wife. It keeps you occupied, and that’s great. But this is a tax write-off, and nothing more. Just give my wife a few million. I’ll consider it a personal favor.” He winked and left the office, shutting the door behind him.

Monica let out a shaky breath. True, she had gotten the job because she was Allie’s sister, but Monica had worked her ass off for the past two years to prove she could handle the responsibility, and yet everyone looked at her like she was Allie’s lapdog. And that didn’t sit well at all.

“What a fuckwad,” she said to the empty room.

Ultimately, the nepotism didn’t matter. Not if she continued to work hard and successfully tackled the demands of the job. Monica had made so many mistakes in the past, she needed this, needed to show Allie that she’d changed.

Monica swiped her palm across the desk blotter where Stanford’s big feet had left behind a clump of dirt. After booting up her laptop, she put her self-doubts and Calum Hughes from her mind. She had work to do.

Chapter 4

Monica plowed steadily through her day. Stella brought her a salad at noon, and Monica took bites in between phone calls. She met briefly with the staff to make sure everyone was on task, and she touched base with the local media outlets about the upcoming event. Finally, Monica wanted to shore up her international grant proposal, so Allie couldn’t shoot her down for not having all the facts at her fingertips.

She was so engrossed that when Stella knocked on the door and stepped into the room, Monica blinked in surprise. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m leaving for the night.”

“Oh God, it’s six already?” Stretching her back, Monica tried to ease her stiff muscles. “I guess I should order some dinner.”