by Leigh, Tara
Copyright © 2018 Tara Leigh
First Edition
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the publisher. Please protect this art form by not pirating.
Tara Leigh
www.taraleighbooks.com
Cover Design: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design
Editing: Becca Hensley Mysoor, Evident Ink
Karen McVino, Expressive Editing
Formatting: Mesquite Business Services
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Print ISBN: 78-1-7328010-1-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7328010-0-4
Dedication
To Becca, there would have been no “prequel” at all without you. Thank you for making Tripp & Jolie’s story that much stronger.
Author Note
The International Debutante Ball is indeed a real event. However, there was no Ball in 2007 as it is only held on “even” years. On this detail, and many others, I’ve taken artistic license.
I hope you enjoy Tripp and Jolie’s epic love story.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to, Jessica Alvarez of BookEnds Literary Agency. Your critiques and career guidance are invaluable!
Becca of Evident Ink & Karen of Expressive Editing, you whipped this manuscript into shape & made Throne of Lies and Legacy of Lies so much stronger! Thank you!
My Beta Beauties: Amy, Becca, Cindy, Kelly, Lexi, Melissa, Sarah, Serena, Siobhan, & Tijuana—thank you for your insight and encouragement! Each of you helped breathe life into Tripp and Jolie, and they are so much better for it.
Regina Wamba of Mae I Design, thank you for this GORGEOUS cover!
Melissa of Booksmacked & Devyn Jensen of Mesquite Business Services, I would be an unorganized mess without you two. Thank you for the million things you do for me. I am lucky to have you both in my life and on my team.
Amy Halter of Obsessive Book Whore Blog, thank you for the fabulous trailer!
Sarah Sentz of Musings of a Modern Belle - your “teasers and notes” are every bit as fabulous as you.
Tijuana Turner of Book Twins Blog - you are way beyond “extra”.
Cindy and Christy - thank you so much for taking the time to be a fresh set of eyes!!
My readers—you are EVERYTHING!!! I love reading your reviews and value your honest feedback! And all those messages/posts/tweets/e-mails you send as you’re reading—they make my day! **hugs** In so many cases you have become friends. Thank you for letting me into your lives!!
Thank you to all the amazing bloggers and author assistants who have become a virtual cheering section for me, and I hope that I do the same for you. You are the unsung heroes in this wonderful place called Romancelandia and I am so grateful for your support.
There are so many authors who have been beyond generous with their time and expertise—if I named them all, I might fill as many pages as this book! However, Alessandra Torre, your invaluable website www.alessandratorreink.com is a must for every new author, and you have built a virtual cheering section via Facebook. AL Jackson, thank you for setting the bar when it comes to rock star romance. Sierra Simone, thank you for taking sexy to a whole other level. My In The Loop Group authors—love you ladies! To RWA and everyone I’ve met through this incredible organization.
Lauren Layne and Anthony LeDonne of Last Word Designs, thank you for my gorgeous logo and website, www.taraleighbooks.com!
Jessica Estep of Inkslinger PR—you rock! Thank you for your insight and hard work.
Moments by Andrea, thank you for the fabulous head shot.
To my family & friends—I adore you all . . . and I’m sorry for ignoring your calls when I’m writing!
My neighbor Cindy, you are a wonderful friend to me and an absolute blessing to my kids. Moving next door to you was one of the smartest decisions Stephen and I ever made!
Grandma, you left me nearly twenty years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss you. For any smokers reading this—put the cigarette down. Think of the people in your life who will one day watch you struggle to breathe and, when you lose that battle, will miss you desperately.
Thank you to my mom for never ripping all those “bodice-rippers” out of my hands as a teen/tween, and to my dad for showing me what it means to work hard. (Who needs weekends or vacations, anyway?)
Stephen, thank you for being a wonderful husband and supporting my dreams. I love you. Logan, Chloe, and Pierce, thank you for being such great kids & genuinely considerate of my writing time. I am blessed to be your mother.
Our lives are enriched by our sweet rescue puppy, Pixie. The wonderful organization that brought Pixie into our lives is Goofy Foot Dog Rescue, and if you would like to welcome a dog into your family or donate to their organization, please visit their website: www.goofyfootrescue.org.
And if you would like to see more pictures of Pixie and get updates on new releases, sales, and behind the scenes snippets, please sign up for my newsletter at http://bit.ly/TaraLeighNwsltr .
Contents
Throne of Lies
1. November 2007
2. November 2007
3. December 2007
4. December 2007
5. December 2007
6. December 2007
7. December 2007
8. December 2007
9. December 2007
10. December 2007
11. December 2007
12. December 2007
13. December 2007
14. December 2007
15. December 2007
16. January 2008
Let’s Keep in Touch!
Also by Tara Leigh
About the Author
THRONE of LIES
A PREQUEL TO LEGACY of LIES
1
November 2007
Jolie
“I can't believe you and Daddy are making me do this.”
“Jolie, I don't understand your attitude. This is a privilege, not a punishment.” There was a flush on Nina's cheeks that I'd only seen after I came home from school, usually while she was sipping a glass of Rosé. But it wasn't even noon yet, and the patches on her cheeks were from annoyance rather than alcohol. “Do you even know what an honor it is to be chosen? This tradition dates back years.”
I stifled a yawn as Nina launched into yet another history lesson on the origins of the International Debutante Ball. By now I could repeat it, verbatim, in my sleep. Normally, I liked my stepmother, I really did. My own mother died before I was in kindergarten, and Nina was a vast improvement over the revolving door of paid employees that had raised me until a few years ago, when Nina moved in and never left. She was only fifteen years older than me and felt more like an older sister than a stepmother. While that may have bothered others, I enjoyed having someone young and fun to hang around with.
Finally, I interrupted. “You could have at least let me choose my own date. I haven't seen Remington Montgomery in years—I barely even remember him.” I knew I was blaming Nina unfairly, but this entire affair had rubbed me the wrong way. First of all, it was absolutely galling that debutantes didn't have dates, they had ‘escorts’—like we needed someone with a penis to shepherd us through this overhyped snob-fest. And then for my father to insist my escort be the son of his business partner . . . it made me want to scream.
Not that I had anything against Remington. How could I? We'd only met a handful of times, despite living just a few blocks from each other on Manhattan's Upper East Side our entire lives. But he was a couple of years older than me, maybe three, and we’d always gone to different schools.
“He seems like a lovely boy,” Nina said, her tone measured and clearly intending to soothe, but maddening all the same.
“Well, I hope you recognize him, because I don't know that I will.”
Nina plucked a nonexistent piece of lint from her dress, lips twitching from holding back a bemused smile. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine. Today is only a brunch, Jolie. Maybe I'll sneak you a Mimosa to get you to relax.”
I sent my eyes skyward, a gesture that seemed the most appropriate response to just about anything Nina or my father said these days. “Is that a promise?”
When Nina didn't answer, I sighed and looked out the window. The actual Debutante Ball was still a month away, but today was one of the pre-ball activities. It wasn't called a season for nothing. Besides the Bachelor Brunch, there was the Mother-Daughter Luncheon, Father-Daughter Luncheon, Pre-Ball Cocktail Party, and Post-Ball Reception.
Yes, it really was called the Bachelor Brunch. And no, we weren't contestants in a reality show. Although by this point, it wouldn't have surprised me to come out of this experience with a dowry and a betrothal—or at least a red rose.
Remington Montgomery. The last time I saw him was at some award ceremony a few years ago, honoring our fathers. He'd been tall, that I remembered, mostly because I had a habit of scouring every room for people my height or taller. At seventeen, most boys my age were finally catching up with me, although I said a prayer every night that I would stop growing. I was five-eight and a half, and wanted to keep it that way . . . except my favorite pair of jeans hinted that I'd recently climbed closer to five-nine.
Anyway, that was all I could remember about Remington. He was tall. Or at least, he'd appeared tall back then. Brown hair or blond, surfer-boy cute or gamer-geeky—I hadn't a clue.
“Will you recognize him?” I prodded Nina, my voice climbing higher from nerves.
“Hmmm?” Nina had been staring out the window, too. It probably would have been quicker to walk from our apartment than to take a car, but even I wouldn't want to walk twenty-blocks in the shoes I'd squeezed into. I could have sworn they fit a month ago when Nina dragged me to Bergdorfs.
“Remington. Will you recognize him?”
“Of course. At least, I think so. But don't worry. Your father will be there, and I'm sure Remington’s—”
“Why didn't Daddy come with us from home?”
“Honey, you know your father has to work.”
“But it's Saturday. And he wanted me to do the whole debutante thing as badly as you did. The least he could do is suffer along with me,” I grumbled, despite being well aware that my father worked all the time, and weekends were no exception.
As the car finally glided to a stop at the curb, Nina reached out to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. “For now, you've got me. Think you can make do?”
I relented. Even if my father had been sitting beside me, his face would probably be buried in the Wall Street Journal or an industry research report. I should be grateful Nina was by my side. “Sorry, I really don't mean to be such a brat. Thanks for being here.”
My stepmother's pretty face brightened as her lips pulled into a smile. “You're not a brat, Jolie. You're a debutante.”
The ridiculousness of the statement sent a matching grin onto my face. “Not sure if that's a promotion, but I'll take it.” I followed her out of the car, keeping my knees together to avoid flashing the waiting society page photographers—I wasn't wearing a floor length white gown just yet.
This year's Bachelor Brunch was being held at an elegant French restaurant. Nina and I walked beneath a white canopy and through the double doors held open by men wearing dark suits and earpieces. Security was to be expected. The last name of every debutante could be found somewhere on the Forbes 400. Inside, the lights were soft, every available surface sporting floral arrangements with this year’s colors—pink and gold.
It smelled like a greenhouse, and felt just as humid.
Just beyond the lobby entrance, people weren't mingling so much as clumping together by age and gender. Groups of teenaged girls looked around like frightened rabbits, eyes jumping between their parents and their escorts-to-be. Young men sporting fraternity ties shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking like they wished they were holding lacrosse sticks instead of sodas. Wealthy magnates, clutching crystal tumblers filled with liquor, crowed about their latest hostile takeover or international negotiation while their middle-aged society wives showed off their latest Guilt Gift, designed to distract them from their husband’s most recent affair.
“I think I see Lily Montgomery, but I'm not sure which of those boys is her son,” Nina said, sticking close to me. Reluctance to shoulder her way in with what appeared to be a primarily First-Wives Club came off her in waves.
Spotting a small group of women who resembled Nina at the back of the room—early thirties, blonde, fit, and wearing trendy clothes designed to show off their figures rather than hide their flaws—I tipped my chin in their direction.
“Ah, my tribe.” Her grateful grin faded as she turned back to me. “I don't see your father yet and to be honest, all these boys look the same to me. Will you be okay?”
I squared my shoulders, feeling better now that I knew we were both in the same leaky boat. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
She rested a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder. “Your father will be here soon, I'm sure of it.”
I nodded, even knowing it was an empty promise. With my dad, work always came first. But at least Nina and I had each other, and I could surely survive the next few hours without drowning myself in a punchbowl. “I know. Now stop hovering. I'll be fine.”
Nina stepped back, and I watched her weave through the round tables marked by elegant numbered placards and adorned with extravagant pink and gold centerpieces. Hoping to avoid introducing myself to a bunch of strangers all at once, I turned back toward the entrance on the chance of linking up with a straggler instead.
The front door opened, a lone figure propelled forward on a burst of blinding sunlight. Once it receded, my gaze landed on a pair of calm gray eyes, half-hidden by a tuft of hair the color of the roan pony I'd ridden as a child, the ends curling over the collar of his navy blazer.
A frisson of recognition shot through me at the exact instant an unfamiliar ache warmed me to my bones. Remington Montgomery. He looked nothing like the boy I only vaguely remembered, but I knew it was him all the same.
One look cast an invisible tether between us, a lure that hooked over my collarbone with an almost audible clank and entirely eliminated my reluctance to be here. Needing to ease the sudden, sharp pain inside my chest, I instinctively took a few steps forward.
The door opened again. Another beam of sunlight streaked inside, this time revealing my father and his business partner, Remington's father. Stepping into the lobby, they flanked him, both clapping opposite shoulders. Remington didn't wince, his eyes widening just enough to convey his restraint at not shrugging them both off. “I see you've already found each other,” my dad said, looking between us as he commented on the obvious.
I nodded, not trusting my voice quite yet.
Remington answered with a curt but respectful, “Yes, sir.” Once our fathers had strolled off in search of a drink or a potential client, probably both, he finally addressed me. “I almost didn't recognize you. You've gotten—”
“Taller,” I interrupted, ducking my head.
He closed the remaining distance between us with a rolling stride, waiting until I'd raised my head again before correcting me. “Actually, I was going to say prettier.”
At six-three, or maybe six-four, Remington towered over me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Long
lashes cast shadows atop high cheekbones that slid sharply to his lips. Full and almost pretty, they were the perfect accent to soften his hard, patrician features.
A flush broke over my skin, a sudden warmth throbbing between my thighs. The first tender stirrings of lust swirling inside my otherwise empty stomach.
“Thanks, Remington,” I forced out through paralyzed vocal chords.
“My name's kind of a mouthful. Just call me Tripp, everyone else does.”
Tripp. I hadn't realized he went by a nickname, but it suited him. “I take it you're a ‘third’?”
“Unfortunately for me, yes.” He pushed that same errant tuft of hair back again and glanced over my shoulder, his face showing a trace of resignation as he took in the crowd I'd retreated from just a few minutes before, forcing a sideways smile onto his lips. “Can I be honest with you?”
