by Tasha Fawkes
“You’re right, Megan. I made a mistake, and I have to take responsibility for it.”
She nodded, turning the glass of soda in circles on the tabletop, now seeping moisture on the outside. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, glancing upward. “You can’t get out of it?”
I shrugged. How could I tell Megan, a woman who was living paycheck to paycheck, that I was only agreeing to marry Kristin because I was afraid of losing my inheritance—my multimillion dollar inheritance? How shallow, how callous, how materialistic did that sound? I shook my head. “I had one drink too many,” I said, lifting my hands. “I can’t deny what I did.”
“Forgive me for saying this, Scott, but sometimes, you’re just too much of a nice guy. It’s obvious to me that Kristin is more than happy with the situation. I just wish that you didn’t look so… trapped.”
I glanced up sharply at her choice of words. She knew me well, or at least seemed to. Her gaze was steadfast, open, and I couldn’t deny it. I felt something for her, even after all these years. I should have made my move on her a decade ago, but no, I’d been playing around. Now that I… it didn’t matter. Finally, I took another sip of my now lukewarm coffee and offered another shrug. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. I sought to change of subject.
“So, tell me something, Megan. Why did you drop out of school so suddenly? One day you were there, the next you weren’t. I know that your dad died suddenly, but—”
“No need to beat around the bush, Scott. He didn’t just die. He killed himself.”
I sighed. “I thought I’d read something in the paper about it being a suspected suicide, but there was never any follow-up. And then you were gone, just like that. No explanations, no good-byes, no forwarding address.” She swallowed, her face losing color as she reached for her glass, changed her mind, and then stopped, tucking her hands under the table. “I’m sorry. It must be terribly painful for you to remember. I didn’t mean to dredge up unpleasant memories.” She looked up at me then, her eyes haunted, glistening with a sheen of tears. My heart skipped a beat.
“I’m the one who found him,” she explained tremulously. “He shot himself. In the garage, and—”
I reached across the table, palm up, gesturing for her hand. She pulled it from beneath the table and placed it in mine. God, this was worse than I thought.
“Oddly enough, I feel as if you’re the one person I can talk to about it,” she continued, her voice soft. “I’ve kept it to myself for many years. I can’t talk about it to Mom… at any rate, I got home from school, went into the garage to get something. I can’t remember what it was. And there he was, slumped against the driver’s side door of the car, half of his head… there was blood everywhere.” She shook her head. “At first I thought… I thought it was just a joke. A horrible joke.”
She looked at me, shaking her head, brows furrowed.
“I don’t know if you remember much about my dad, but he could be quite a prankster.”
I nodded, remembering.
“Anyway, it wasn’t a joke. Long story short, my dad’s insurance company refused to pay out because it was a suicide. That’s why I left private school. That’s why my mom sold the house, because the mortgage on it was so great that we barely had enough to sell it and pay for a mover. We got a one-bedroom apartment not far from here, and that’s where we’ve been ever since.” She shrugged. “End of story.”
“I’m so sorry, Megan. So very sorry.” Now I understood. At least part of it. “Do you know why? Why he did it?”
She hesitated. “I didn’t know for a long time. After the shock wore off, I just got angry. There were no warning signs, at least not to me, not at my age… not that I was looking for anything.”
“But you know now? You know why he committed suicide?”
She finally offered a small nod. “My mom said that it was a bad business deal.”
She glanced up at me, frowned, then dipped her eyes to her soda glass, watching the carbonated bubbles slowly rise to the surface as she finally drew circles on the moisture-laden exterior of the glass. I waited patiently for her to continue.
“Apparently, he was double-crossed on a huge property deal.”
Again, she glanced at me. I frowned. She couldn’t be implying— “Megan, I know that our dads sometimes did some business deals together…”
She released a weary, tremulous sigh. “Yeah, apparently, your dad and my dad were involved in a huge property deal. They’d been working on it for months. I’m not exactly sure of the details, but apparently, according to my mom, your dad did something, made some arrangements, that pretty much pushed my dad out of the deal.”
I froze, holding my breath.
“Anyway, and again, this is coming from what my mom told me, Dad felt humiliated. He lost his entire investment, and we had to file… my parents had to file for bankruptcy. He couldn’t take it. The shame, the loss of everything… He committed suicide, effectively and maybe inadvertently negating the insurance policy, leaving Mom and me with nothing.”
I sat, barely breathing, stunned into silence. Could it be true? But the roiling in my stomach, and more than aware how my dad conducted some of this business deals, rang true. I felt sick. Besides, Megan would never lie about something like this.
“On my God,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe this… I mean, as much as I hate to admit it, I can, but I can’t believe—”
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
My head spinning, the blood pounding in my veins, the instant headache, the tight knot in the pit of my stomach, all of it together left me feeling completely flabbergasted. An old-fashioned word to be sure, but apropos to how I felt. At that moment, I was willing to do anything. I nodded.
“I want to meet your dad.”
I stared at her, again shocked, then frowned. It didn’t sound like a very good idea, and I told her so. “Why?”
“Because I need to see him for myself. Maybe ask him about his side of the story. After all, I only have my mom’s side.” She paused. “It’s the only way I can finally… that I can put the pieces together. I’ve spent most of my adult life so angry at him, so filled with bitterness and sometimes even hatred toward my father for doing what he did.” Her eyes again filled with tears. “We could’ve lived in a shack for all I cared, but just having my dad with us, to be the kind of family that we used to be…” She paused. “Will you arrange it?”
Despite my inner doubts, and against my instincts, I nodded.
Chapter Eleven
Megan
Tonight, Mike Holbrook’s estate would host Scott and Kristin’s engagement party. Scott had agreed to formally introduce me to his father. I’d already had doubts about going altogether. The more I saw of Scott’s world, the less I liked it. The opulence. The snobbery. The boasting. The looks down hoity-toity noses I’d received over the past few weeks from Kristin, her friends, and her parents, not to mention the stores or caterers I’d been dealing with.
Was the money worth all this? Added to that was my ever-growing guilt over my undeniable attraction to Scott. He was going to marry Kristin. Not me. Even so, I found it increasingly difficult to pretend I felt nothing when around him. I was honestly wondering how much longer I could fake this non-interested persona. The truth was, Scott was forbidden fruit, but it wasn’t that, that pulled me toward him. It was the memories, the sense of comfort and ease I had always felt around him. His money hadn’t changed that about him. He was still the ‘same old Scott’. And I loved him.
There. I admitted it. I’d always loved him, but it took seeing him, working near him, breathing the scent of his cologne and seeing his smile that brought all those feelings up within me again, even after the passage of time.
On top of that, I felt nervous to see the man my mother accused of driving my father to the brink. I had never met Scott’s father, Mike Holbrook. Sure, I had gone over to Scott’s house a few times while we were in school, but his father had never
been around. Coming face to face with him was intimidating. My heart pounded.
Over the past week, I had worked extremely hard to finalize the details of the engagement party. Like any other aspects of Kristin’s personality, nailing her down to one decision over another was a gargantuan task. As far as I was concerned, I was earning every penny that Scott was paying me.
He was paying me in increments, money I deposited into a savings account I shared with my mom. She still disapproved of my working for the Holbrooks, even tangentially, so I didn’t share too much of what occurred on a daily basis with her.
Kristin had told me to purchase an appropriate gown for the engagement party. I had never spent that much money on an entire wardrobe, let alone a single dress. I felt guilty. Sure, I could afford it now, but after living hand-to-mouth for so long, pinching pennies and sticking to only the essentials, spending over four hundred dollars on my imported beaded lace dress, regardless of how beautiful, slimming, and elegant it made me feel was criminal.
The champagne dress with a sweetheart neckline, capped sleeves, and figure-flattering silhouette fit me like a glove. My mother’s eyes had widened when I emerged from my bedroom wearing it, but then she took one look at my guilty expression and laughed. She tried to soothe my conscience by telling me that once in a while, we had to spoil ourselves.
“You look absolutely gorgeous, Megan, and I’m glad you splurged.”
She had already helped fashion my hair into a loosely coiled up-do, an inside-out French braid. I felt tears welling in my eyes and hugged her. Even though we sometimes had our disagreements, and working for the Holbrook family was one of them, I knew that I could always count on my mom. She’d always been the strong one, for both of us.
“You keep your chin up and hold your own,” she advised. “We may not be rich or live in mansions, but we have something even more valuable. We have our love, our compassion, and our support for one another.”
Again, I’d wrapped my mother in a warm hug. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, honey.” She gestured out the door. “I think I just saw a black limo pull up into the parking lot,” she said. “Now you go show them what these two Bryans are made of.”
Now, just moments away from meeting other guests at the party, and possibly Mike Holbrook, my stomach felt twisted into knots. In my mind, Mike Holbrook was a monster. The fact that there didn’t seem to be much love lost between father and son also increased my trepidation, but I needed to see him for myself. Not that I planned on confronting him or anything like that. No, this was Scott’s engagement party. I wouldn’t do anything so crass. Still, I wasn’t sure how I would react seeing Mike Holbrook for the first time since my father had died, nor what even compelled me to want to. Facing the man that had literally destroyed my father and driven him to suicide felt important; maybe someone else to focus my resentment, anger, and even blame instead of my father.
I tried to push unpleasant thoughts, worries, and emotions from my mind as the limo transported me from my simple, one-bedroom apartment to one of the most impressive mansions in an area of Orange County to which I rarely traveled. The houses just got bigger and fancier.
After being inside Scott’s mansion, I didn’t think I would see anything finer. Then his yacht. But his father’s mansion was even more ostentatious, like one of those estates nestled in the middle of acres and acres of green rolling lawns that you see of the British countryside, fit for royalty.
As the limo pulled up in front of a circular driveway and up to the portico—literally, a Greek-inspired and pillared portico—of Mike Holbrook’s mansion, I swallowed. It wasn’t on the ocean like Scott’s home, but it was beautiful. Constructed in an appealing combination of Spanish and Tudor style, the home literally glowed from inside. As the limo pulled up the driveway, we passed a magnificent pond, complete with a marble statue of a woman holding a vase. Beyond, I saw the lights of a tennis court. Hills dotted with scrub oak rose around the property, surrounded by a discrete fence line, fitted with lights specifically arranged to point at various aspects of the property’s exterior. I had no doubt they were fitted with motion-sensor cameras. The place must’ve cost multiple millions. Again, I felt way out of my league. I also shook my head in dismay at the extravagance, the opulence, and the “in-your-face”—almost vulgarity—of such a display of wealth.
The limo pulled up to the steps leading to the front door, which stood open, displaying a foyer filled with people, many of them holding flutes of champagne. I swallowed, stilled my beating heart, and told myself that I would be just fine. At that moment, I saw a familiar figure emerge from inside.
Scott came down the steps, a smile on his face as he lifted a hand to the limo driver and then reached for my door himself. As I exited the vehicle, I felt a flush of heat through my body. My breasts tingled with pleasure as he uttered a low whistle, placed the palm of his hand on the small of my back, and guided me up the stone steps.
“You’re absolutely gorgeous, Megan,” he commented.
“Thank you,” I said, my pulse racing. I felt sure that the sudden flare in his gaze wasn’t merely a trick of the light. The expression thrilled me beyond measure, but I quickly tamped down the feelings. This was his engagement party. I had no right to even contemplate such blissful thoughts that immediately surged through my mind as I too, quickly swept my gaze over Scott’s tuxedo-clad body. The tuxedo was exquisitely tailored, accenting his broad shoulders, narrow waistline, and long legs.
I didn’t even have a chance to feel nervous, standing there next to Scott as he politely introduced me to many of his friends and business associates. I responded to introductions graciously, hoping that I didn’t have to remember any of their names, because there were so many. We wound our way through the throng hovering around the foyer, spilling into a huge sitting room before venturing deeper into the house; a massive living area that branched off into even more rooms. Suddenly, I found myself standing in front of an older gentleman with thick gray hair combed back from a wide forehead, thick neck, broad shoulders, and deep brown eyes that appeared, to me at least, to narrow perceptively as Scott approached with me.
“Dad, I’d like to introduce you to Megan Bryan.”
He glanced down at me, his gaze sober. “Megan, this is my father, Mike Holbrook.”
I glanced at the man standing in front of me, my first thought that he was built much like a boxer, with a slightly crooked nose, rough skin, and several inches shorter than his son. I stared, my insides going cold even though I struggled to maintain my calm expression. He didn’t have horns or a tail, no lizard skin or warts, like I imagined he would. He looked like… to be honest, he looked somewhat like an older, rougher version of Spencer Tracy. Much to my surprise, he glanced at his son, then at me, and then offered a smile, extending his hand.
“Megan Bryan?”
Again, he glanced at his son and then back at me.
“Are you Marty and Anne’s daughter?” he asked, eyebrows lifted in surprise, his smile broadening.
I swallowed, my emotions now a swirl with confusion. No, he wasn’t supposed to be nice to me. He was supposed to… I wanted to hate the man, but the man standing in front of me wasn-t at all what I had expected. “I am,” I murmured as his large, calloused hand wrapped around mine. He stared at me, then glanced at his son, eyebrow slightly raised.
“She’s Kristin’s personal assistant,” he explained. “How’s that for a coincidence? I didn’t even recognize her when she first appeared for the interview.”
Mike Holbrook chuckled. “I can’t imagine why,” he said. “You’ve grown into a fine young woman,” he said. “Last time I saw you, you had braids, braces, and freckles!”
I couldn’t remember ever having met him, but had I? Or, more than likely, he had possibly seen photographs of me. Photographs shown to him by my father, who might have carried school photos in his wallet, like most fathers did, who had killed himself because of this man? I did my best not to let my
thoughts go there. My dad had pulled the trigger all by himself. Though hard as it was to know now that the man standing in front of me was a contributing factor to my father’s despair, he didn’t make my father pull the trigger.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here and you’ve been helping Kristin—”
“Scott! Megan!”
All of us turned toward the voice, and I inwardly cringed when I saw Craig advancing. Even so, and despite the fact that I knew I would more than likely be spending much of the evening avoiding Craig’s clammy and not so subtle advances, I was glad for the distraction.
Holbrook excused himself and melted back into the crowd, clapping his big beefy hand on shoulders, murmuring toward the ladies. I watched him until he disappeared, uncertain. I had been expecting to feel a surge of fury, of righteous indignation upon meeting Mike Holbrook, but I hadn’t. That confused me more than anything. What kind of daughter didn’t feel outraged at the man who had pushed her father to take his own life?
I suddenly found myself floating through the crowd, Scott on one side, Craig on the other. Craig softly talked nonstop about some of the people we passed, offering a nod to two in wordless greetings, although I barely paid attention. A champagne flute was pressed into my hand and I held onto it, though I didn’t drink. I looked for Kristin among the partygoers, but didn’t see her. Just as well.
Eventually, Scott disappeared, leaving me in the company of Craig, who took it upon himself to continue introducing me to partygoers here and there before managing to guide me toward a less populated corner of the living room.
“A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
I glanced up at him, noticing his sober expression as he eyed the crowd, a slight frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. I nodded. Maybe he wasn’t such an insufferable jerk after all. Of course, no sooner had that thought entered my mind had he tried to wrap his arm around my waist. Already emotional, confused, and wanting to go home, I turned to look up at him. “Craig, can I tell you something?”
