Our family doctor used to blame my hypersensitivity on my upbringing, raised in a quiet house in the suburbs. But years of city exposure didn’t seem to help. I’d walk onto a busy street and every sight, sound, and smell assaulted me, my brain whirring as if trying to make sense of it all. I’d learned to adjust—it was part of my life. Usually it passed in a moment, as it did now. I took a deep breath and headed to the gym.
The photographer stepped back into the shadowy doorway as the young woman approached. Once she was abreast of him, he lifted his camera and held down the shutter button, silently snapping photos.
Amazing how much she looked like her mother.
Chapter Two
“You’re lucky I love you,” I whispered as I leaned over. “Or I would be so out of here.”
He smiled, a blazing grin that had every woman at the table swooning. CEO of Chicago’s fastest growing tech firm, and son of a former senator, James Morgan isn’t gorgeous, but that grin had landed him a spot on the city’s most eligible bachelors list for three years running. Sadly, he wouldn’t be eligible next year. Well, sadly for everyone else.
“Another hour,” he whispered. “Then Penny has instructions to phone me with an urgent message.”
Good. As charity dinners went, this one ranked about average, which meant somewhere between uncomfortable and excruciating. The cause was excellent—New Orleans reconstruction. The food was just as good—Creole by someone who obviously knew how to cook it, which meant it was heavy on the spices and not nearly as appreciated by the older crowd. Most of it got left on the plates, which had me looking around the sea of tables, mentally calculating how far that wasted food would go in some Chicago neighborhoods. But they’d paid handsomely for it, eaten or not, and that was the point.
James’s father had been asked to give a speech tonight. James was doing it in his stead. That happened a lot lately, as his father aged, to the point where the organizers would be surprised—and probably disappointed—if James Senior showed up instead.
So James was a guest of honor, which meant everyone at this table wanted to make his acquaintance, and he couldn’t spend the meal chatting to his fiancée. While he conversed with everyone in turn, I entertained the others. Every few minutes, his hand would brush my leg, sometimes a flirtatious tickle but usually just a pat or squeeze, a reminder that he appreciated me being there.
Finally dessert was served: Doberge cake, a New Orleans specialty, a half-dozen layers of chocolate cake with lemon and chocolate pudding between them. The meal was coming to an end, and conversation was hitting the stage of desperation.
“So how did you two meet?” asked the woman on my left.
“Their families know each other.” A man across the table answered before we could. “Mills & Jones department stores. James Mills Morgan and Olivia Taylor-Jones.” He sat back, looking smug, as if he’d just uncovered a secret—and somewhat shady—connection.
“Our grandfathers founded the company,” James said. “Mine sold our shares to Liv’s dad before I was born, but our families still get together a few times a year. Liv was always there. Usually getting into trouble.”
A round of obliging laughter.
The woman on my left patted my arm. “I bet you had a secret crush on him.”
“Er, no,” James said. “She was seventeen before she remembered my name.”
“Only because you look like your cousin,” I said.
“Who’s a half foot shorter than me and fifty pounds heavier.” James turned to the others. “Let’s just say Liv’s complete lack of interest kept my ego in check.”
“You were older,” I said. Then hurried to add, “Out of my league.”
“Nice save, darling. Truth is, by the time she was old enough to notice me, I’d gone from a gawky teenager to a boring businessman. Liv prefers fighter pilots.”
I sputtered a laugh. “He was a computer tech in the air force.”
“Close enough. The point is, she was not easily wooed. I’ve launched hostile takeovers that were easier.”
James spoke after dinner, making an impassioned plea for donations. I would say it was a lovely speech, but that would be arrogant, considering I wrote it. I could point out that a master’s degree in Victorian literature hardly qualifies me to write speeches about contemporary disasters, but I never did. If James was going to be my husband, I was going to be more than a bauble on his arm.
I hadn’t planned to marry so young. I’m not sure if I planned to marry at all. My parents had a great relationship but, well, it lacked what is to me an essential component of a partnership. Namely the partnership. Dad ran the business, Mum did her charity work. Never the twain shall meet. James has let me into the business side of his life from the start, and I appreciate that. So if he asks me to write him a speech, I do.
I will say, then, only that the speech was successful. Checkbooks opened. As they did, James made his way through the crowd, with me at his side. Then, so deftly that even I hardly noticed, we ended up in the back hall.
“I think the party is that way,” I said.
“Which is why we’re going this way. You looked like you needed a break.” He swung me into an alcove. “And I wanted to thank you for the speech. Perfect, as always.”
He pressed me back against the wall, lips coming to mine in the kind of deep, hungry kiss that had, a year ago, made me decide James Morgan was a lot more interesting than he looked.
When I finally needed oxygen, I pulled back and whispered in his ear, “If you want to thank me properly, I noticed the east wing was cordoned off.”
He chuckled. “Dare I ask how you noticed that when we came in the west doors?”
“I wander.”
The chuckle deepened, and he lowered his hands to my rear, pulling me against him as he kissed my neck.
“But it should probably wait,” I said. “You are a guest of honor, and it would be most improper—”
“I like improper.”
He let me down and we zipped along the hall toward the east wing.
I leaned against the wall, skirt hiked up my hips, legs still wrapped around him.
“I definitely need to write you more speeches,” I said.
A rough laugh. “I definitely need to find more occasions for you to write me speeches.”
We rested there. It was peaceful—the white walls, the distant voices blending into a monotone murmur, the stomach-churning mix of perfume and cologne reduced to the spicy scent of his aftershave. I buried my face against his neck, inhaled, and relaxed.
He kissed my hair. “Speaking of speeches…”
I lifted my head. He adjusted his stance, lowering me to the ground.
“I need to ask you something.” He cleared his throat. “This isn’t quite how I planned it. I was going to take you to a fancy dinner and pop the question…”
“Uh-huh. While I’m flattered that the sex was so good it caused temporary amnesia, we’re already engaged.”
He smiled. “Yes, I know. This is a proposal of another sort. Equally terrifying in its own way. Neil Leacock came to see me today. My dad’s former campaign manager. He—they—the team and its supporters—would like me to consider running.”
A moment passed before I could find my voice. “For junior senator?”
“Yes, but not right away. They want to wait until I’m thirty-five. For now, they’d just like me to start heading in that direction. Grooming me.” He took my face in his hands. “I don’t want to hit you with this after the wedding, Liv. I know you might not want a life of endless speeches and endless dinners.”
A senator’s wife? I swore I could hear the trap snap shut on my leg. I leaned against James, hiding my reaction.
Just relax. Don’t say anything. You need time to think this through. Play along for now.
It took a moment, but I found a smile that would fool James. I’d minored in drama in my undergrad years. My instructors always said I was a natural. No big surprise there. Sometimes I felt as
if I’d spent my life faking it.
I smiled up at him. “In other words, no more sex in the back hall?”
“Er, no … Actually, I was hoping that if I promised more sex in the back halls it might make the rest more tolerable.”
I put my arms around his neck. “If you’re willing to make such difficult concessions, then I can probably make some, too.”
“Because it is difficult.”
“I know, and I appreciate it.”
He laughed and kissed me.
Chapter Three
We’d just made it back to the party when my cell phone beeped. My mother hates to text, but if the alternative is having me do something as crass as talk on my phone at a charity event, she’ll make an exception.
I need to speak to you, Olivia. Will you be coming home after the dinner? Mum never lowers herself to text speak.
“What’s up?” James asked.
“Mum needs to talk to me about something.”
“Meaning you’re not staying at my place.”
“Sorry. You know how she gets.”
When my dad died, I’d been home from college and planning to move into my own apartment. But then my mother needed me at home. I’d expected that. I hadn’t expected the nonstop frantic calls to resolve every curve ball life threw at her. Last week, she’d called me home from James’s place at 2 a.m. because she’d “heard something.” It turned out to be a raccoon on the back deck. I would have been a lot more sympathetic if the housekeeper hadn’t been right downstairs, as she was every night I stayed with James.
We’d already arranged for the housekeeper to move in permanently after I got married. We’d also decided to hire a full-time chauffeur to double as a security guard. I still wasn’t sure it would be enough.
“Go on,” James said. “I’ll call a car to the back. I hear something’s going on around front.”
“A protest?”
He shook his head. “Just a couple of paparazzi. There must be a media personality here.”
He lifted his cell phone then stopped. “Are you okay with going out the back? It’s not the door you came in.”
I shot him a glare.
He grinned. “Sorry. I’m just checking, because I know it’s bad luck—”
“Once,” I said, lifting my finger. “It was one time, and you’re never going to let me forget it, despite the fact we just celebrated our engagement with a bottle of Cristal, and I could barely find the door.”
“And the time in Cozumel, when you insisted on turning our pillows around so we wouldn’t have nightmares?”
“Tequila.”
“Alcohol isn’t the cause. It just reveals your adorably superstitious self.”
I don’t know where my superstitions come from. A nanny, I suppose. It really does take alcohol—in copious quantities—for me to mention one. James thinks it’s adorable. The only thing I can do is to change the subject fast, which I did.
Twenty minutes later, I slipped into the car’s leather backseat, feeling faintly ill. James wanted to run for senator. I should have seen that coming. Soon after we’d started dating, I’d asked whether he had any plans to follow his dad into politics. He’d laughed it off but never really answered, and I hadn’t pursued it. I hadn’t dared. I’d been falling for James Morgan, and I didn’t want to hear anything that might interfere with that.
I could fake a lot of things. A politician’s wife, though? I might be able to pull it off for a month or two. Years? Maybe even a lifetime? Never. I’d grown up in these circles. I knew what came with the position. What would be expected of me. I could not do that. It was like masquerading as a paramedic and then suddenly being promoted to chief of surgery.
As the town car headed into the suburbs, I called James.
“I’m going back to school,” I said when he answered.
A long pause. “You’re going…?”
“Back to school. For my doctorate. In the fall if I can.”
“Okay.”
That’s all he said. Okay. My heart rate slowed.
“Where did this come from?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I was going to tell you after I looked into it some more, but now with your news…” I took a deep breath. “I wanted to be upfront about my plans, too. I’d really like to go back to school. Get my PhD in English.”
“Okay.”
I leaned back against the seat, eyes closing in relief.
“There’s no reason you can’t, Liv. Like I said, it’ll be a few years before the campaign starts. I won’t need you full time until then.”
My eyes opened. “But I’m going back to school for a job. I want a career.”
“With an English doctorate?”
“Yes, with an English doctorate,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” he said. “Of course you could do something. Maybe you could write.”
“Write?”
“Mysteries. I know you love mysteries. You could be the next Arnold Conan Doyle.”
I resisted the urge to correct him. Arthur Conan Doyle had been the subject of my master’s thesis. James hadn’t read a novel since college, but when he’d discovered my area of study, he’d read two volumes of the Sherlock Holmes stories, just for me.
“Fiction writing isn’t really my thing,” I said.
“Don’t be modest, Liv. You’re a great writer.”
I’d meant that I had no interest in it as a career. I wanted to get out and do things, not tell stories about other people doing them. But at least he understood I needed a job. It was a start.
After we hung up, I relaxed into the seat again. I’d been overreacting. Even if he did run for senator, there was nothing to say he’d win. He wouldn’t even run for five years anyway. Lots of time for me to persuade him this wasn’t the path for us.
I was lost in my thoughts when the driver said, “Is this it, miss?”
I looked out the side window at the familiar gates. Manicured flowering shrubs softened the “keep out” message of the fence. My mother’s touch. Dad always said if you’re uncomfortable with the message a massive fence sends, then you damned well shouldn’t put one up.
“Yes, this is it.”
“Nice place.”
Our house was actually modest for the neighborhood. The driver was impressed, though, which meant I had to give him a generous tip in addition to the standard gratuity on James’s bill or he’d whine about the “cheap Mills & Jones brat.”
As the driver did his paperwork, I walked to the front door. The rich scent of lilacs floated past, and I took a moment to enjoy it, the smell prompting memories of evening garden parties and late-night swims.
I glanced up at the sky. A perfect May evening, warm and clear. Still time for a swim if I could resolve Mum’s problem fast enough. I might even get her into the pool if I promised to wear my suit.
I was still digging out my keys when our family lawyer flung open the door and practically dragged me inside, not an easy feat for a man who looks like Ichabod Crane, so pale and gaunt he breaks into a sweat climbing stairs.
“Howard?” I said as I escaped his grip. I sighed. “Let me guess. The board of directors wants Mum’s feedback on something, and she’s in a tizzy. How many times have we told them not to bother her?”
“It’s not that. This is … a personal matter, Olivia.”
My mother appeared in the study doorway.
“Olivia,” she said in her soft British accent. “I hope my message didn’t bring you home early.”
“No,” I lied. “James needed to leave, and I wouldn’t stay without him.”
Normally she’d have gently praised me for making the socially correct choice, which wasn’t always my default. But she only nodded absently. She looked exhausted. I walked over to give her a hug, but she headed for the front door, double-checking the lock.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Come into the sitting room.”
As I was following her down the h
all, the doorbell rang. I glanced down the hall to see a tall, capped figure silhouetted by the porch light.
“The driver’s back,” I murmured. “What did I leave in the car this time?”
My mother sighed. “You really need to be more careful.”
“I know, I know.”
As I reached for the handle, Howard hurried over.
“Olivia, allow me—”
“Got it.”
I swung open the door to see, not the driver, but a middle-aged man in a fedora. Behind him was a woman with a camera.
“Eden,” the man said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Chapter Four
I lifted my hands to shield my face as the camera flashed.
“There’s no Eden here,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong house.”
“No, I don’t.” He lifted a recorder. “Tell me, Miss Larsen, how does it feel to be the long-lost daughter of America’s most notorious—”
Howard slammed the door and shot the bolt.
“What just…?” I began. “Did they say what I thought they said?”
Howard tugged the sidelight curtains shut. Before I could ask my mother if we had a neighbor named Eden, she said, “I need to talk to you, Olivia.”
“Okay,” I said as I let her lead me into the sitting room. “We’ll ignore the crazy folks at the door. What’s up?”
Howard stayed in the doorway. I sat on the love seat and patted the spot beside me, but she was already heading for “her” chair—a very pretty antique so hard it felt like sitting on a rock. She hated the love seat, which didn’t match anything in the room. But it was comfortable. Some of my earliest memories were of being curled up on it with Dad as he read to me.
“What’s up?” I repeated.
“There’s something I need to tell you. Something we probably should have told you years ago.”
“Okay…”
She paused a moment, then blurted, “You’re adopted.”
“I’m…?”
She nodded. Didn’t say the word again. Just nodded.
I stared at her. That wasn’t possible. I looked just like my parents. Everyone said so. I had my mother’s ash-blond hair and green eyes, and my dad’s height, wide mouth and strong jaw.
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