The Dirty Secret (17 page)

They shook hands. Seth blinked, like someone had thrown a pie in his face. “I feel like we’ve met already,” he told her, touching the front of his head where a hat bill would have been.

Vessa glanced in Killian’s direction, and then at the back door window. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Can you check on Star?” he asked Seth. “I think she might be having a meltdown.”

“Me?” Seth held his hands up and took a step backward. “Oh, no. Hell, no. Get Bengt to handle her.”

Killian sighed. “I’ll be right back.” He stepped outside, one hand on the knob behind him, to delay any intrusions. “Starla?” he called into the dusk.

“I’m fine,” she said. She drew a deep breath and let it out hard. “Sorry. I’m just. Ugh. They’re already out of canapés at two houses. And Bengt’s interior stylist had a fit about the added trashcans. And if Bergman introduces me as ‘Max Jamison’s little girl’ one more time, I’m going to shove his hairy old balls down his wrinkly throat.”

“Wow. Thanks for that image.”

She sniffed her tears back. “And oh my god, Killian. Your girlfriend is so beautiful. I wish I could look like that, all wild and not giving two shits what anyone thinks and still managing to look like she belongs in a
Vogue
spread.”

“What makes you think she’s my girlfriend?” Was she? Did she want to be? Fuck, he hoped so.

“You look at her like she’s something only little kids believe in...” Her voice trailed off and in the tiniest voice, she said, “My mother is here.”

“Is that bad?”

“I feel like I’m back in elementary school, and the mayor’s wife has shown up for my dance recital, and now everything I do will be scrutinized and put in the papers, and the wine is awful.” Her eyes pooled with tears again. “I’m so sorry, Killian. It’s really good at the other houses.”

“Star, look at this place. It’s crawling with people. I got interviewed by two newspapers, and
Architect Moderne
magazine. You made this happen. Not any of the partners, not even your own boss. The swag bags with the different chocolates and crap at every house? Realtors are fighting over the candle flavors.”

“She said I looked cheap,” Star wailed.

“Er...” He pulled out his phone and thumbed through the contacts for Bengt’s mom’s phone number.

“This is where you’re supposed to tell me I look fine, and she only objects to my dress because it’s the other political party’s color.” She wiped the tears from under her eyes. “‘We don’t wear that shade, Starla,’” she said, in a high-pitched nasal voice. “‘It would reflect poorly on your father.’”

“Star, you look great. You always do.”

Someone tugged on the doorknob. Killian opened it a crack. “They’re asking for you out here, man,” Seth said.

“Trade places with me, until I can find Mara Bjorn.” He didn’t give the builder a chance to argue, pulling Seth through the door by the front of his shirt. Killian stepped back inside the house and eased the door closed.

Bengt was in the kitchen, chuckling at something, telling several people a story about getting seasick on a ferry from Finland to Estonia, smiling his blond demon smile at Vessa, and oh,
hell
no. Killian grabbed Bengt’s shoulder, forcing him three steps backward, away from the group.

“What the hell, dude?” Bengt twisted away. “Are you going to pull my hair again, too? We’re girls now?”

“Got your attention, didn’t it? Have you seen Tony?” A little homegrown would calm Starla down. Killian’s high had long worn off, but it had eased some of his earlier nerves.

“No, I haven’t. Who is she?”

“Who is who?” he asked, knowing full well which
who
Bengt meant.

He opened the fridge and looked behind the catered food, single-serve things sculpted from cheese and shrimp. In the back was the half-finished bottle of spiced rum from their pizza dinner, behind the two-liter of Coke, long flat.

“Your decorator. Is she single?”

“Hands off, man,” Killian said. “She’s a professional colleague, not a piece of meat for you to drool on. Don’t screw this up for me.” He opened the back door a crack and passed the rum bottle through. It was taken from his fingers with a muffled thanks.

“You’re fucking her, aren’t you?” Bengt asked.

His palms itched to make a fist, his brain surging red—red like his roommate’s nose would be if he didn’t shut the fuck up. “Why are you even here? Why aren’t you in your own house? In your man cave basement?”

“Because it’s full of men,” Bengt said, disgusted. “All the women are here.”

A flash of pink, the rose in her hair, and beyond her, Bergman chortling, red in the face. Killian wasn’t even surprised that she’d worked her elf magic on the old bastard. His boss introduced her to a man in a suit, someone familiar who looked a bit too closely at the necklace above her cleavage.

The door behind them opened, and Seth and Starla stepped through. The carpenter set the bottle of rum on the cookbook shelf by the green chair.

“Better?” he asked Star. She nodded with an embarrassed laugh. “Why don’t you introduce Bengt to your mother,” he whispered in her ear, pointing to him. The persistent fucker—who couldn’t take a damned
hint
—was ambling oh-so-casually toward Vessa, an extra glass of wine in his hand. “Shouldn’t the owner’s son give our future First Lady a personal tour?”

Star batted her lashes. “He is wearing the proper color tie, isn’t he?” She moved forward and linked her arm in Bengt’s, took the glass from his hand and rerouted him toward a different crowd. “Thank you for rescuing me, guys,” she told Killian and Seth. “Now go rescue
her
.” She gestured with the glass to Vessa, who was standing in the dining room with a stiff smile on her mouth, body so tense she looked ready to bolt.

Killian took the wine, and with Seth on his heels, joined the trio by the table laid with finger food and napkins. He handed the girl the wine, a statement of togetherness that Bergman didn’t miss, raising a hairy eyebrow at his youngest associate. Vessa took the glass with a grateful glance—though she didn’t drink it—and the old man introduced Killian to the development’s investor, calling Killian his protégé, which both warmed his guts and pissed him off.

“I’ve had three requests for your plans, young man,” the developer said. “And I enjoyed what your young lady did in the utility room.”

They exchanged handshakes, and Bergman shook Seth’s. Killian looked down at Vessa. “You did something in the laundry room?”

Vessa looked like the necklace he’d given her was strangling her throat. “Just some storage shelves.” She glanced at the front door, and then back. Both were blocked by crowds.

“Show me?” he asked in a low voice. “I need to get out of this mob a moment.” He didn’t really—he was having the time of his life, the proverbial lightbulb in his hands with the whole house turning around him, everyone asking him where he got his inspiration, his education, his tie. He’d been asked if he was single twice, and if he was straight, once.

He guided her through the crowd, his hand on the small of her back, and they sneaked into the utility room, like teenagers going to make out in a supply closet. Inside, on the wall above the door, was the leaf he had made the first night he’d kissed her. She’d painted it the same white as the walls, and underneath, carved into the Sheetrock with beveled letters, was the address of the house. Below it was the name of the development, and under that,
KILLIAN FITZROY... Architect.
The firm was listed, and the investment group, and in smaller letters, more names were cut: Seth, Deb, the master electrician, the stone mason, the glazier, and many others. At the bottom of the list was
VESSA RATHAM... Interior Decor.

“This was a really nice thing to do.” He reached above the doorframe to touch the indents carving her name, but the wall was smooth. Killian craned his neck to look from another angle, then chuckled. The letters weren’t carved, they were painted, clever shading to make them look three-dimensional. “It’s trompe l’oeil.”

Killian took the wineglass from her hand and set it on the washing machine before pulling her close, squeezing her shoulders. “Thank you. For everything.” He eased away before he noticed the heat from her body and the way she smelled and how much taller she was in the heels, and how interesting that was up close, too. He barely had to lower his head to kiss her temple. “Can I call you tonight, when this is over?”

“Or you could come home with me.”

The air rushed out of his lungs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tugged on his tie and kissed him. He was king of the whole fucking world in that moment.

Vessa cracked the door and peeked out. Someone yelled Killian’s name and she jerked her hand from the knob. “People are going to think we’ve been playing two minutes in the closet.”

“Want me to go out and distract them?” he asked, leaning in for one last kiss. “Make a toast? Pull a fire alarm?” He opened the door. “The coast is clear,” he lied. The crowd had grown even bigger. He blocked someone’s path with his arm, motioning for Vessa to walk ahead, easing her toward the smaller exit.

“Is she okay?” She leaned toward him, avoiding an elbow. “Starla?

“Yeah, she’s just freaked out because her mother is here, and she wants everything to be perfect.”

Vessa grabbed his arm. “Celeste Jamison is here? In this house?” She looked around the room with wide eyes, her face pale. “I have to go.”

“Vessa Ratham?” The shriek carried through the ceiling louder than any creaking floor. “
Vanessa
Ratham decorated this house?”

Vessa stood frozen, staring up at Killian.

Heavy heeled shoes stampeded down the stairs, followed by Star’s jingling bracelets and her protest. “Mom, what is going on with you right now?”

The crowd parted for the Second Lady. She stopped at the base of the steps, glaring at Vessa. “You don’t belong here.” The woman’s words were a hiss.

“This is my home,” Vessa said, her quiet voice carrying through the hushed room. She raised her chin. “This is where I was born. And my family is here.”

The lieutenant governor’s wife grabbed her daughter’s arm. She was a handsome woman, in the way that said money—or she would have been, if her face wasn’t blotchy with fury. “We’re leaving, Starla. Now.”

“Mom. I’m working. And you’re causing a scene.” She shook off her mother’s hand and turned to Vessa, embarrassment twisting her face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know who you are, or what is going on.”

Starla and Vess stood opposite each other, faces mirrored, smooth brows and delicate mouths, Star’s pinched in surprise, Vessa’s with the slightest of smiles.

“She’s nobody,” the lieutenant governor’s wife snapped.

Vessa stood tall in her shoes, her back very straight as she looked down her nose at the woman before turning to Star. Killian stared at them both—the girl who invaded his thoughts whenever he looked at the other, the paler shadow. Their profiles made an optical illusion, perfect symmetry in the negative space between them.

“You’re sisters,” he breathed into the silence. Starla’s jaw dropped.

Vessa glanced once at the Second Lady. “Only half.” She looked back at Killian, and walked out the front door.

The house spun around him as the whispers broke the silence, Starla pleading with her mother, Bergman clearing his throat. Bengt slapped him on the back, and Seth said, “So that’s why she looked so familiar,” but all he heard was the click of the latch on the door as she left.

Another wave of people filled the house. Killian shook more hands, and someone asked him about the solar panels on the roof. Bengt answered the question for Killian, shoving him toward the door. He stepped outside, around the corner leaning up against the brick wall, and pulled his phone from his pocket, but her Mini Cooper was still in front of the house. He walked around to the back. Deb sat on the patio, smoking. She pointed up the street with her cigarette to the house across from Bengt’s.

He found her by the little fountain, her hands wrapped around her knees, her shoes a tangle of ribbons by her side.

“Hi,” he said. He sat down next to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, flicking a crumb from her dress into the basin of the fountain. Three fluffy-finned goldfish swarmed to the surface, then flitted away. Twinkling lights winked from two patio trees. The garden was serene, the opposite of his internal chaos and this surreal night. Down the street he was king of his castle, and here he was a stranger in her paradise.

“You couldn’t have told me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “That wouldn’t have been fair to her,” she said. “It’s a horrible feeling, when everyone else around you knows more about you than you do. It would have been the worst slap in the face for her, to have you know, after we’d met only two months ago, and she hasn’t known for twenty-three years.” Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t spill over.

“That’s an awful lot to carry on your own, Vessa.” He was torn apart, wanting to comfort her, but her posture and her body language were defensive.

“I wanted to tell you. But you work with her. It would have been devastating for her to hear it from you.”

Starla
had
heard it from him.
He opened his mouth and closed it, like the fish in the fountain pond. Guilt gnawed at his stomach.

“You didn’t mean to, Killian. It’s my fault for even thinking I could be here and not have someone notice how much we look alike.”

“You know, if you had told me in the first place, I wouldn’t have blundered into it the way I did tonight. You could have trusted me.”

She watched the fish, her eyes dull and wet. “The way your friend trusts you not to tell anyone about his reading issues? The way your boss surely expects that you’ll keep his technological shortcomings to yourself? Or how you throw around what my sister’s private kink is? You told me their secrets before I ever met them, or had a chance to make my own first impression.”

Fuck
.

A sharp spike of ice settled in his stomach.

“Wow,” he said. “Okay. I guess not.”

Laughter leaked from the back door of the model home, and then was shut off again. A couple wandered up to the fountain and then moved on.