Authors: Emily Snow
“Is it sad I’m ecstatic about admitting
my fuck-ups to a federal agent?” Peeling the label off my empty bottle, I twirled
it around my fingers. When I continued, I changed the subject because Finley
was on my mind. “You’re not going to ask me to get a piece of her hair, are
you?”
Choking on her wine, Pen shook her head
hurriedly. “Unfortunately, my reach doesn’t extend into the DNA world. By time
we got the results back it might be too late.”
Sighing, I covered my face with my hands.
I was probably smearing my makeup all over the place, but tonight I didn’t
care. “Since we’ve found so much in Margaret’s home office—do you think there
might be anything else in there that might confirm whether or not she’s my …
sister
?”
“Maybe. Do you think you can get back in
there or is Oliver going to be an issue?”
So far, he’d kept his word. He hadn’t
gone to Margaret or the authorities. But he also hadn’t spoken to me. Everything
that had happened was a disaster of my own making, and I’d already started
paying for my mistakes.
Setting my new beer in front of me, the
pierced bartender winked encouragingly before shuffling over to another set of
customers. Uninterested in his attention, I traced the letters on the cold
bottle with my fingertip, coping with the harsh reality of Oliver’s departure
and the idea that Finley Scott’s mother might have had an affair with my dad.
The idea that Finley
might
be my
sister.
The hits kept coming, but to my relief
this wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the others. I still had Margaret to deal
with. And I had a week left before her son exposed me to the world.
Discovering I might have a bitchy sister
who used to date the man I couldn’t get out my head seemed tame in comparison.
“Gem,” Pen began softly beside me,
snapping my attention back to the present, “do you think he’ll give you any
trouble?” she repeated.
Closing my eyes, I moved my head from
side to side. “Not yet. I’ll get back into that office. I don’t know when, but
I’ll get in.”
*
Finley
had spared no expense on the thirtieth birthday bash Oliver wanted no part of.
With the open bar and another celebrity DJ she claimed she was a close friend
of, the large courtyard at my father’s Bel Air home was transformed into a
winter wonderland. Plush black and white benches surrounded the center of the
square, and every twenty minutes, a cleverly hidden machine tossed out a new
whisper of snow.
After having spent some of my childhood
years in wintry locales following my parents’ divorce, I had to admit it was
breathtaking—even if it was simulated. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at Oliver’s soiree
for the booze, dancing or fake snow. I was here to greet his guests with a warm
smile and to direct them toward the party.
And once that was done, my goal was to
get inside Margaret’s office while she and Finley were busy downstairs.
Sidling up to where I was studying the
guest list on the iPad I’d been provided, Finley sighed dramatically. “You’re
the most overdressed doorwoman I’ve ever met.”
Out the corner of my eye, I observed her
outfit. Dressed in a gown that easily cost Margaret a small fortune, the slim
brunette was admittedly stunning in a black, one-shoulder sheath dress.
Turning to the woman who might be the
closest relative I had alive, I lifted my shoulders and pressed my lips into a
line. “I liked the way it looked on me.”
“It’s the wrong color,” she pointed out
in a saccharine voice, gesturing to my strapless bandage dress.
The party was a black and white
affair—which wasn’t a surprise considering the seventh floor at Emerson &
Taylor was a tribute to both colors. Taking the rebellious route, I’d selected
the sexy watercolor Ombré number for its vividness. It reminded me of the
Westley and Buttercup painting that hung in my Las Vegas apartment.
Always a romantic,
I admonished myself, staring quietly
ahead at the stars sprinkling the night sky. “Don’t you have a party to
supervise?”
“I’m looking for our guest of honor,” she
responded through clenched teeth. Smoothing her bobbed hair, she readjusted
the strap of her dress. “When he gets here, let me know. I’ve got to track down
my little brother before he gets into the champagne.”
Fifteen minutes ago, I’d briefly spoken
to Mason Scott when he walked out the front entrance with his earbuds and iPod
in hand, but I wasn’t about to tell Finley that. The kid seemed like he wanted
a break, and with nobody at the party paying attention to him, he deserved it.
Especially since Pen and I would be
turning over all the documents we’d uncovered soon, implicating his father and
sister right alongside my stepmother.
“Don’t forget to find me when he gets
here,” Finley told me once more.
“Good luck with that search,” I said
softly through my teeth as she stalked inside the house. The sound of footsteps
drew my attention from the back of her dress to the task at hand—the exclusive
guest list.
Plastering on a bright smile, I confirmed
the newest partygoers—one of Oliver’s former teammates who’d gone pro and his
wife and explained how to find the courtyard. “Once you go in, take a left as
soon as you pass the staircase. The courtyard is at the end of that hall. Just
look for the garden full of snow.”
If I gave those particular instructions
one more time, I just might scream.
While it was uncharacteristically warm
for a December night, the chill lingering in the air was enough to cover my
bare shoulders and legs with goose bumps as I continued checking in his friends
and associates. A few minutes after one of the last names on the guest list
arrived, I had cause to shiver for an entirely new reason when the gleaming
black Viper sped into Margaret’s crowded driveway.
I hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks,
and my body automatically angled toward his when he strode toward the front of
the house. With his black suit and carelessly messy golden brown hair, he was every
inch Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit, and I felt my breath catch.
He was checking his watch as he jogged up
the stairs, so when his gaze finally pierced mine, he froze on the top step. For
a long time, it was like were seeing each other for the first time. His blue
eyes seeing my brown eyes.
His truth seeing my lies.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered.
“
Lizzie
,” he drawled, the name
whispered sarcastically. He ascended the final step and didn’t stop moving
until I backed against the stained-glass door. I could smell his cologne, and I
held the tablet closely to my chest. “I hope you’re well.”
I hope you’re well.
It sounded so formal, but I found myself
inclining my head. “I am.” I flicked my attention behind him. Part of me
expected another woman to step out of his car at any moment, but the passenger
door never opened.
“You’re late to your own party,” I mused.
He ran his thumb over his unshaven chin
and smiled stiffly. “As I told you before, there are a million places I’d
rather be tonight.” The words he left unspoken made my pulse jump.
I’d rather be with you.
Opening the front door for him, I moved
aside on trembling legs. “Have a wonderful time.”
He walked inside, his eyes never breaking
from mine. As he passed me by he grabbed the inside of my arm and lowered his
lips to my ear. “Tomorrow is two weeks.”
“I know that,” I breathed.
“Then you know what I want for my
birthday.”
Pressing my free hand to the front of my
blue dress to quiet my racing heart, I bobbed my head and my loose blond curls
drifted around my face. “Answers.”
He tilted away from me and trailed his
fingers from my arm to my shoulder, stopping when the side of my face was
cradled in his hand. I leaned into him, and the disappointment was crushing
when he pulled away a few seconds later.
“Come into the party whenever you’re
ready,
Lizzie
.”
The birthday party was in full swing when
I wandered to the courtyard just over a half hour later. Folding my thin arms
over my chest to warm my skin, I looked up at the light dusting of fake snow
that fell over the outdoor area, recalling memories of throwing snowballs in
Central Park with my mom.
What would she think of the
lengths I’d gone to find out more about my stepmother?
Would she be disappointed?
Telling myself I wouldn’t ask
those questions tonight, I lowered my eyes to Oliver’s guests. They crowded the
area, a glitzy display of black-and-white, and I felt out of place among them.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been to parties like this before—I had, and it was
usually on the arm of some high roller, but this was different.
This time, I was in Margaret’s
territory.
Gazing out at the bodies
dancing in the center of the courtyard and mingling along the sides, there was
only a handful I was interested in.
There was Margaret—she was
brushing elbows with a model I’d immediately recognized when I let her in the
house earlier. Finley was at the DJ booth, and her father—the man who’d helped
Margaret deceive me—was engaged in a deep conversation with another man.
And then, I found Oliver.
With his drink in hand, he was speaking to Dora and her husband, the corners of
his blue eyes crinkling with laughter. He was beautiful, and I felt my chest
tighten. I should have simply gone upstairs and used this opportunity to search
Margaret’s office, but when he’d asked me to come—I couldn’t walk away.
Maybe that made me weak, but
as his eyes met mine from across the yard, I no longer regretted coming out
here.
Not yet anyway
, I thought, watching as he crossed the divide to be
with me.
"Your guests will talk,”
I said when I felt the side of his ripped body brush mine. He was warm. So warm
I couldn’t resist wiggling a little closer to him. “Your mother will talk.”
He polished off his scotch,
placing the empty glass on a tray when a server walked by. “You don’t give a
shit what Margaret thinks, so don’t give me that excuse.”
“You don’t know anything
about me.”
“No, I know
everything
about you,” he retorted. “I know your name, where you live, what you do for a
living—”
Spinning toward him, strands
of my blond hair flew into his face. “And you’re judging me for the way I put
food on my table?”
“I could never judge you for
that.” His words sent a burst of hope to my chest, which immediately dissipated
seconds later when he added, “I’m judging you for lying.”
“I’m sorry I did that, but I
couldn’t tell you.”
“I believe you.” But the frustration
radiating from him was palpable, and I felt it too. I felt it because I’d hurt
him. Because in hurting him, I’d only damaged myself. "I'm surprised you
came at all tonight,” he said.
"And I'm shocked you
came alone," I admitted, which made him turn until he was completely
facing me.
“There was no other woman I
wanted to be here with other than you.”
“Gemma or Lizzie?” I heard
myself whisper, and he smiled sardonically.
“Both,” he told me, and every
thing inside me melted. “Whoever you are tonight, I’m glad you’re here.”
Damn Oliver for making my
heart twist, my thoughts turn, and my body curve whenever he stepped into the
room. Wrapping the delicate silver chain of my necklace around my finger, I
flicked my tongue over my teeth. "Your mother required I show up to serve
as a doorman."
"Shame."
I lifted my palms up
questioningly, closing my hands when I realized how badly my fingers shook.
"Would you have preferred I told her no?”
"I would've preferred
you came because you wanted to be here." Oliver caught my fingers in his,
and my eyebrows creased together. He walked backwards, toward the rest of the
bodies moving on the makeshift dance floor, drawing me along with him. “I would
have rather you came on your own with answers.”
“You gave me until tomorrow.”
A smile touched his lips,
reaching into my chest and giving my heart a rough squeeze. "That doesn’t
mean I can’t hold you—can’t talk to you—
tonight
. I’m dancing with you,
with whoever you are this evening, whether you like it or not.”
For the first time since he
strode across the snowy courtyard to speak to me, I listened to the music,
registering the song that was currently playing—Incubus' "Here In My
Room."
Splaying his hand on the base
of my spine, he pulled my body flush against his. “Are you going to tell me no
on my birthday?”
Avoiding his question, I
cleared my throat. “What are you planning to do if I don’t give you what you’re
asking for tomorrow?”
He quickly countered with an
inquiry of his own. “Do you want me? Or were you using me against Margaret?”
"Yes, I want you.” We
moved together, our bodies possessing each other, our eyes locked. “And I’ve
never used you to get to her.”
"I want you, too,"
he admitted, bending until our foreheads nearly touched. "It’s a struggle
to keep my lips off your body. Do you know how fucking insane that makes me?”
Pain shot through my cheeks
when I offered him a tight smile. "Your insanity will make everyone at
this party talk.” Even now, I could feel eyes branding that awful word—
IMPOSTOR
—into
my back.
He lifted a broad shoulder.
"Nobody's paying attention to us. They're all more interested in the free
booze."
"That almost sounds
convincing if it weren’t for the fact every single woman out here wants to
throw her panties at you.”
"Gemma," he
murmured seriously, his voice low enough where only I could hear him. The
intensity behind my name—my real name—startled me. “I haven’t been able to get
you out of my head since I left your place.”
Didn’t he realize that it had
been the same for me? That nearly every time I closed my eyes, I saw the
heartbreak that wrecked his features the night he confronted me about who I
was.
“Yeah, well … I know how that
feels,” I said at last.
“Tell me something.” His hand
clenched on my back. There was something about his touch tonight—something that
summed up every bit of longing going through me—and fists rammed against my
ribcage.
“Yes?”
“How long were you planning
to keep up this charade?”
When I didn’t reply, his hand
moved from my back, finding my face. His knuckles stroked my high cheekbone.
"Not going to answer me?” I shook my head, and he said, “All I can think
about is ripping this dress right down the middle."
Even though I knew he was
probably telling me that to get a rise out of me, a visible shiver coursed my
body, spreading like wildfire.
Dear God, I needed an
intervention because all he had to do was murmur a few words and I was ready to
tear the dress off for him. Pleased to have elicited the response from me he
wanted, Oliver said, "But since that’s not possible and since you’re being
evasive, right now I’ll just hold you.”
“And tomorrow?”
His fingers moved from my
chin, to the column of my throat, and finally to my collarbone. His touch was
fire and ice on my skin—a bittersweet echo that pulsed through my body—and I
fluttered my lashes together.
“If you’re not going to
answer me, why would I tell you?”
“Asshole,” I whispered.
Although my eyes were still
closed, I felt his heavy sigh. It rumbled against my chest, through my body,
and I wanted to melt into this man. Wanted to wrap myself around him, and feel
him everywhere—beneath my fingertips, on my tongue, inside my body.
But most importantly, I
wanted the man himself.
And because of that, because
I knew what he was expecting from me the next day, when the song ended thirty
seconds later, I left the courtyard.
*
“Margaret’s looking for you,” Oliver
informed me ten minutes later, and the manila folder I was gripping fell from
my hands. Closing the office door behind him, he locked it. “Don’t worry, she
won’t come up here because she assumes you’re gone, but I figured this might be
where I’d find you.”
Trembling, I grabbed the folder
from the floor and snapped it shut. Not only had found nothing that might help
me solve the last few pieces of the puzzle, the man I’d let down so horribly
had discovered me in yet another compromising position. His eyes studied me
carefully as I returned the folder to its rightful spot, and I slammed the
drawer shut.
Standing upright, I came
around to the side of the desk. “I can’t imagine the awful things you must be
thinking about me,” I said, my movements jerky as I threw my phone inside the
blue satin clutch that matched my dress. He glanced at my gloved hands and then
to my face. “But I’m
not
a bad person.”
Your mother is.
He paced the office, trailing
his fingertips along the various white furnishings. “You said you never took a
penny from Margaret.”
“I didn’t. After my mom died
when I was sixteen, I came to Los Angeles to ask Margaret for help. I came here
stupidly thinking she’d take me in, and we’d be this big happy family.”
“And what happened when you
arrived?”
“She sent Michael Scott to
meet with me. She sent him to tell me that my father’s will was solid and that
I didn’t have the power to contest it. He offered me a settlement—I don’t know
how much it was for—but I didn’t take it.”
Gripping the edges of the
desk, I let out a rough noise. “Pride can be a vicious, vicious thing.”
“Yes it can.” Focusing on the
wall of bookshelves at the left of the room, one corner of his mouth moved in a
grim smile. “But what I want to know is what changed for you? What made you
decide to come here pretending to be someone else to get close to my mother if
you’re not after money.”
Supporting my weight against
the desk, I glared at the floor and shook my head. “I can’t do this,” I
whispered, and I heard him move closer to me. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” I could
nearly taste the scotch when he moved his face inches from mine. As he got rid
of what little space was left between our bodies, he held my face between his
hands. “I want to hear what changed for you.”
I dragged a breath through my
nose and replayed the call that had started this mess in my mind. I rehashed
every truth—every disappointment—I’d faced since that call. And I broke.
“Six months ago I received a
call from a man who told me I didn’t know everything about my father—that there
was more to his death than I thought I knew. He didn’t block his number, so I
called him back. The call came from Emerson & Taylor headquarters.”
“Someone at the company
called and told you that shit?” Oliver demanded, and I moved my head slowly.
“Do you know who it was?”
“No. I wish to God I did, but
I have no clue. All I know is I couldn’t sleep after that call. I couldn’t
think clearly, or do my job, and I had to know if what he said was true.” At
his blank expression, I let out a strangled cry. “I know it probably doesn’t
make sense to you, but it was important to me!”
“I never said it didn’t make
sense to me,” he growled against my mouth. “So after that call, you came up
with this elaborate hoax?”
“Yes.” Ashamed, I squeezed my
eyes closed. Saline stung the back of my eyelids, and I prayed the deluge
wouldn’t spill over. “A friend helped me come up with Lizzie and the rest...”
“And did you find anything?”
When I didn’t immediately respond, he tilted my face back, and I felt tears
trickle from the corners of my eyes. He brushed his thumbs over the dampness.
“You came all this way looking for answers. Did you find them?”
“Yes.” My shoulders drooped,
and I sagged my body forward, letting him hold me. “We figured out that
Margaret and Michael Scott forged my father’s will. My father left everything
to me, and they took it all.”
A harsh noise leapt from the
back of his throat, and I opened my eyes just as he dropped his hands from my
face and staggered back. He dragged his palm over his mouth. “Do you have proof
of that?”
“I have the original will and
the forgery. I have proof your mother has been doing every shady thing under
the sun at that company.” And then, I found myself telling him everything from
the beginning, leaving out nothing but Pen’s involvement and our suspicions
about his ex-girlfriend.
When I finished, the muscles
in his neck were tight as he brought me to him again. “And you haven’t gone to
the police? Gemma, this is dangerous stuff.” His heartbeat thudded through his
suit jacket, pounding my chest.
“I wanted to make sure I had
everything,” I whispered brokenly. “Are you happy now?”
He shook his head, his light
brown hair falling into my face. “Hell no. You just told me my mother fucked
over a child. How could that ever make me happy?”