Moore legacy? Hell, his mother had to fight just to get the name on his birth certificate. He still had his doubts about the old man’s innocence, but he’d promised his brothers, Trey and Max, he would get involved. Pushing down the old anger, he snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Glancing around the luxurious twelfth-floor penthouse suite in the downtown Los Angeles Fine Arts Building, which housed the LA chapter of Prescott George, aka the Millionaire Moguls, he had to admit the organization had gone all out. This rent-a-bachelor function had been the idea of his older brother, Trey. With the chapter’s six-month suspension after their father had been convicted of sabotaging the San Diego chapter, Prescott George needed some quick cash flow for their holiday outreach programs. If the sheer number of women crowding the room—young and old—was any indication, the event would be a huge success. He just hoped he didn’t end up having to spend time with someone older than his mother. Derek turned and froze. Or her. He closed his eyes briefly, unnerved that the mere sight of his high school sweetheart stirred something inside of him long forgotten. He promptly dismissed the feeling. He hadn’t spoken to Alexis Armstrong in over a decade, though he’d seen the popular supermodel in every media outlet. One thing hadn’t changed. She was as beautiful now as she had been at Malibu High, even more so. And still slender, though the strapless navy dress clung enticingly to the curves now filling her tall frame.