The Singles (29 page)

I didn’t argue. As soon as the beer was gone, I plunked the bottle on the countertop and signaled the bartender. “Linc will be here next week, right?”

She rolled her eyes and ruffled her brown hair. “Thank
God
. I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him, but my mom said he’ll be out of training soon.” When Pen had come home to find me sobbing uncontrollably last week, the first thing she suggested was that we get in touch with her brother and hand over everything we had on Margaret and the Scotts.

Linc, however, was nowhere to be found—we’d later discovered he was doing a training exercise—and I was still cursing myself for not talking to him earlier.

“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.”

*

F
inley 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
.”

––––––––

T
he 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.”