My cell rings and I dig through my handbag to find it. I smile when I see Mother’s name flash across the screen. “Hello, Mother.”

“Gah,” she sighs into the phone. “How many times have I asked you to call me Lily? You know I don’t like people thinking that I’m old enough to be your mother.”

I laugh. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I think the tabloids exposed that secret when you were pregnant with me twenty-five years ago. I’m sure it was the story of the year . ‘Most Beautiful Woman on the Planet Gives Birth.’”

“Stop your teasing,” she scolds. “Stretch marks are nothing to joke about.”

I roll my eyes at my crazy, beautiful mother. To the world, she is Lily Doyle, who some might say at one time was the most beautiful woman in the world seeing as how she was Miss America and then later crowned Miss Universe. People loved the story of how she came from the wrong side of the tracks, so-to-speak, and worked hard to earn a philanthropy degree because she wanted to help the less fortunate. She became America’s Sweetheart.

“Good news, Jean Paul is in Paris this week filming some new ridiculous bit for his television show, which means I’m free all week. Let’s go shopping! I’m in need of some new shoes.” The excitement in my mother’s voice is infectious. Jean Paul is husband number five, and from what I can tell, a very nice man, but he’s always working. That seems to be okay with my mother, of course. She doesn’t mind spending his money while he’s away, and as much as I would love to drown in the world of Manolo, Jimmy Choo and, my personal weakness, Christian Louboutin, with her, there will be no time this weekend for that.

I sigh. “Rain check, Mother. I’m getting ready to board a flight to Vegas with Alexander King for work.”

“Honey, I love you, but I absolutely don’t understand you. Why on Earth do you waste that beautiful face and body that you’ve been blessed with on the completely dull world of business? You could’ve been the next big thing if you’d gotten into modeling. Out of all the things you could take from your father . . . the need to be mixed in all those suit-wearing meetings is the worst thing ever. It totally interferes with our girl time.”

“I know, but I promise when I get back, we’ll do something.”

“Promise?” she asks. “It’s been far too long, and I miss my baby girl like crazy. Your father has all your time occupied lately with this silly nonsense of invading the King Corporation.”

“It’s not silly, Mother. Alexander King has my future legacy in the palm of his hand. I have to find a way to stop him from taking away what will be mine someday. Staying close to him is my only option until I can figure out a way to get Buchanan Industries a deal that can save it. But I promise that as soon as I get back, we’ll shop until you drop.”

“Okay.” She sounds satisfied with that answer. “Try to at least have a little fun while you’re in Vegas. Please, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud and stay in your room the entire time.”

“I won’t—”

“Margo, I know you. Promise me that you’ll loosen up.”

“Fine, but I’m sorry to say there won’t be any wild stories to report when I get back.”

“You are completely no fun, Margo. You have to loosen up. At least try to pretend you’re twenty-five and not fifty-one like me because we both know that even I act younger than you.”

I laugh. “I will try to not be a complete fun buster.”

“That’s my girl. Drink one for me.

“Okay. Goodbye, Mother.” I laugh and hang up the phone just as the car pulls up next to King’s private jet.

The driver opens my door and I take a deep breath, willing myself to put on my best bitch face and give Alexander a taste of what it’s like when a woman is in charge and knows exactly what she wants.

Inside the cabin of the plane, the lone flight attendant on board greets me. Her blond hair is pulled back into a French twist on the back of her head while her bright red lipstick is a stark contrast to her porcelain skin. She has a very Gwen Stefani kind of style.

The attendant smiles at me, and I instantly relax because she appears friendly. “Good morning, Ms. Buchanan. I’m Abigail, and I’ll be with you through the duration of this flight. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. Mr. King has requested that we stock the cabin with your favorite things so there’s a good chance that we’ll have anything that you might need.”

“Um, okay. Thanks.” I stumble through my answer completely dumbfounded.

This surprises me. How would Alexander King know the first thing about what I like? He doesn’t really know me in the slightest and yet, somehow, he thinks he knows what my favorite things are.

I bet there’s not one thing on this plane that’s actually special for me. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but I will not allow him to butter me up.

Alexander’s gaze lands on me as I stride down the aisle and take the seat directly facing him instead of taking a different seat somewhere else on the private jet. He smirks at my boldness to meet him head-on and I raise my eyebrow as we stare each other down.

It’s funny how we’ve grown accustomed to trying to one-up one another in the last week since I’ve begun working for him. As much as I hate to admit it, we are a lot alike. Both of us are headstrong, determined, and have this innate need to always win.