Page 3 of Ungodly Rich

“Lenore,” Julia said, correcting him. And then, because the old Julia must not have been as buried as she thought, she heard herself recite, “ ‘Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.’ ”

Harry drew in a breath. “Edgar Allan Poe.”

“You recognize it?” she asked, surprised. “Lenore” was hardly Poe’s most famous poem.

“I knew Poe.”

For a moment, Julia thought Harry was saying he’d known Poe personally, before she realized how absurd that sounded. Harry must have thought the same thing, because he ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, I memorized some of Poe’s poems in high school. It was the only thing I got right on the lit AP. Which I’m sure was not the case for you.”

“Oh, no. I absolutely crushed the lit AP,” Julia agreed cheerfully.

Harry nudged closer. “That’s one of the things I love most about you.”

“How well-read I am?”

“How unapologetically competitive you can be. I think I loved you from the moment you kicked my ass at darts.” Harry smiled broadly. “I’m so glad you moved to New Zealand and took a chance on us.”

That first night, as they’d finished their drinks at Lenore, Harry had turned to her and asked,Do you want to get out of here?Julia had assumed he wanted to head back to his place.

Uncharacteristically, she was ready to. There was something addictive about this man, something intangible and utterly thrilling. But instead of leading her to an apartment, Harry had broken into a boat rental shop and taken her on a rowboat, paddling into the still waters of Lake Wakatipu. They’d stayed out there for hours, watching the stars fade as dawn’s rosy fingers began to streak the sky.

Julia wasn’t the type to relocate for a guy, certainly not for one she’d just met. But the very next day, she gave two weeks’ notice to the cruise line director and began searching Craigslist for Queenstown apartments. Really, it wasn’t as if she was giving anything up. Her job at the cruise line, waving that stupid blue flag around while tourists whined about not having Wi-Fi, was hardly something to mourn.

So Julia had moved to Queenstown, where she sublet a room from a pair of South African women who led trail rides at a local ranch. She got another job immediately, at a company that led helicopter tours of the Milford Sound. And she kept seeing Harry.

Several months later, when the South African women needed their room back, Harry suggested they move in together. It made sense, he argued: neither of them made much money, but together they could manage a small one-bedroom. They could even afford to travel on the weekends—to Fiji, to Auckland, to Hawkes Bay.

“You’re right about our anniversary. We should celebrate,” Julia said now, smiling up at him.

Harry nodded. “Perfect, because I have something special planned.”

She reached for his hand, grateful that chance, or fate, had drawn them together. That the two of them had found each other, out of all the billions of people in this unpredictable world.

Chapter Two

Hera

“Mrs. Ellene! We weren’t expecting you today!” The security guard nearly tripped in his hurry to open the turnstile. Tara gave him a cool nod as she passed, her Valentinos clicking vindictively on the lobby floor.

The cluster of people waiting for the elevators—employees tapping at their phones, interns clutching iced coffees—automatically parted before her. When the doors to one of the elevators opened, no one dared to join her inside.

She stepped out into the fiftieth-floor executive suite, breezing through the generic reception area: couches with simple lines, armchairs that looked like they’d never been used.

“Mrs. Ellene!” A woman with a sharp gray bob sat behind the main reception desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ellene is still at a lunch. May I bring you something while you wait for him? A Perrier? A cappuccino?”

“No, thank you.”

The receptionist must have heard the note of dismissal in her voice, because she quickly stepped back.

The perimeter of the executive floor was lined in offices, most of which were marked with Ellene family names—Alina, Hector, Paul, Diana. They were all empty, everyone attending the same corporate lunch that had detained her husband. She had planned it this way.

Outside the largest corner office, a young woman sat in a cubicle.

“Olivia,” she said coldly.

Her husband’s assistant flicked her blond hair dismissively over one shoulder. She wore one of those Veronica Beard blazers that really shouldn’t qualify as office wear, its tapered sleeves barely reaching elbow length. Especially inappropriate given that Olivia had paired it with a short skirt.

Tara resisted the urge to tug self-consciously at her own dress, a white Oscar with cap sleeves and gold buttons down the front. It had seemed appropriate when she put it on this morning—it conveyed righteous anger and old Hollywood glam at once—but next to Olivia and her long, tanned legs, the dress felt suddenly frumpy.