I hadn’t been inside this house for more than half my life, the few times I’d seen my father following my parents’ divorce had been on my mom’s terms and far away from L.A., but I still found the master bedroom without having to search. The path was automatic for my feet. My boot heels drumming a staccato beat on the bleached wood floor of the bedroom, I kept my brown eyes straight ahead, but I still couldn’t help glancing at the empty nightstand.
I tried not to compare Margaret to my mother, who’d kept pictures all over the place.
Before I stepped into my father’s old office, I paused. Part of me wanted to believe Margaret would have left it the same. That she would have left some part of this house untouched. I twisted the knob and gradually opened the door. The air left my lungs, making me feel like an iron fist had just slammed into my chest. His office, like everything else in this damn house, had changed.
New furnishings, white and silver Chateau Versailles wallpaper, and a sculpture that reminded me of the one in her office at work— the room reeked of her. Gritting my teeth to hold back the angry sound threatening to burst from my lips, I dropped on my knees beside the desk, yanking open a drawer chock-full of hanging file folders. I would not let this bother me.
I. Would. Not.
Resting my back against the side of the desk, I studied the contents of the folders one at a time, taking care to put everything back in the exact place I found it. Every several pages, I’d pull out my phone and use the scanning app Pen had installed, taking photos of the pages I thought I should keep and sending the PDF files to the secure email she’d set up for me. It was mostly a bunch of old financial records—bank statements and personal investment reports—but I copied everything that had the name Gregory Emerson listed on it.
When I reached the second drawer, I expected much of the same. But the moment I opened the first thick manila folder, I was stunned to see myself staring back. Well, a very young version of myself. The picture I was looking at—of my father, mother, and myself at some company party—was at least eighteen years old, and the corners were frayed. They stood on either side of me, with his hand affectionately touching the top of my white-blond hair and her slim arm wrapped around my shoulder. Both my parents were smiling, but now I could see the distance in their stance, in their eyes. Maybe a week ago, I wouldn’t have noticed that, but I did now, and I almost missed the ignorance.
I dropped my head back, hot moisture blurring the corners of my eyes as I stared up at the chandelier hanging over the desk. Pressing my fist to my mouth, I breathed. So deeply my chest burned.
When I was calm enough to continue, it required everything in my power not to take that original picture and slip it into my bag, but I took the safe road and scanned it. After this was all over, when I went home to Vegas, I’d have it enlarged and hung in my apartment.
Reluctantly, I flipped the picture over to find a few more. Toward the back of the folder, there was a neat stack of papers a quarter of an inch thick. They were court documents dated from ten years ago. Settling back in the seat, I skimmed over them, a dull ache throbbing in my heart every time I saw Olena Andreiko-Emerson’s name mentioned.
She was my mother.
My mother who, up until today, I never realized had tried to contest my dad’s will. From what I could see on the papers in front of me, she’d been much too late—years, in fact. I positioned my phone over the first page of the court documents and started scanning, my fingers almost too numb to press the buttons.
Why hadn’t she mentioned any of this to me?
And, more importantly, why had she waited so long to ask questions? My father had been dead for five years at that point, and she went out of her way not to talk about him with me. What had changed?
My phone vibrated in my hand, startling me. Dragging my gloved hand over my face, I took in a deep breath and checked the caller ID. Since I didn’t recognize the number—and it could easily be Margaret checking in on me—I decided not to ignore it.
“This is Lizzie,” I answered, speaking softly so my caller wouldn’t hear the tremor in my voice.
“It’s Oliver.” At his low growl, that tremor extended to the rest of my body, changing to a shiver that made my toes curl. No matter what I was doing, that man’s voice seemed to have an effect on me. “Did you miss me while I was away?”
“I’ve been working.” Forcing my concentration from the papers in front of me, I stood, placed the folder on the desk, and paced over to the tall, round top window. I stared down at the tennis court. “Besides, since you were able to get my number this easily, you knew I was only a call away.”
Denying nothing, he said, “Talking to you makes it impossible to not want to see you right then and there, so I’ve refrained.” I heard his hand covering the mouthpiece as he spoke to someone else before returning. “As far as you working, I was just at your office and even checked with Ms. Marchand. You were nowhere to be found.”
“You tracked down my coworker?” When he murmured a confirmation, I sardonically added, “I’m touched, Oliver.”
But it was flattering. Breathtaking and ridiculously flattering.
“You’re upset.”
I flinched. “Excuse me?”
“Your voice just trembled. Lie all you want, but I can tell you’re angry about something.”
Turning from the window, my eyes swept over the open folder on Margaret’s desk. The sight of it made me nauseous—it was full of more problems that I wasn’t quite ready for—and I wrapped my arm protectively over my stomach. “Your mother has me all over the place for this event, and—”
“Say the word and I’ll have someone take care of everything.”
“Oliver—” I groaned.
“I want to take you for lunch,” he said, his voice reaching a sexy low. “I need to see you.”
God, why did that have to sound so tempting? “It’s a little early for lunch, and besides I can’t just pass off my job on someone else. For starters, Margaret would kill me, and secondly—”
“It’s fifteen minutes after one,” he corrected, an edge of worry affecting his deep voice. “Which just goes to show you’re working too goddamn hard. Even you, beautiful, can take the time to eat.”
Jerking my phone from my ear, I held it out in front of me, and my eyes nearly bugged when I saw he was telling me the truth about the time. I’d been in this house for over three hours. How the hell had I let myself lose track of time so easily?
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“If that’s how you’d prefer to spend the meal,” he agreed suggestively. “But once you’re naked, I won’t be able to let you get back to work.”
My stomach fluttered, and I tried not to focus on it as I scrambled over to the desk. “You know that’s not what I meant,” I said, sounding winded nonetheless. “Look, I have to meet someone at your mother’s house, and we both know she will dance on my corpse if I’m late. Sorry, Oliver, I’ll have to call you back later.” Then, I hung up before he had the chance to respond.
Staring down at the folder on the desk, I slowly came to terms with the fact that I’d run out of time to finish what I started. I began to return everything to the drawer.
But I couldn’t do it.
Like the call that had started all this, knowing missing pieces of the puzzle were so close to being within my reach would drive me crazy.
“Fuck you, Margaret.”
I plucked out the last half of the paperwork—the part I didn’t have the chance to copy—and slipped them carefully in my purse. Quickly, I arranged Margaret’s office like I found it. Then I returned to the main floor, pulling off my gloves and shoving them in my bag along with my phone.
*
Less than half an hour later, the sound of the doorbell—the chime was custom, Beethoven’s “Für Elise”—snagged my attention from the only photo in the family room, a giant portrait of Margaret and my dad that hung over the mantle. Adjusting the hem of my lacy off-white dress over my black tights, I plastered a smile on my face and went to the door.