Hush Hush #2

by Anneliese Vandell

  Liam is staring at us both when we break apart. His eyebrows flick upward. “And you are?”

  “Carol. Carol Guyette,” Miranda says easily. “Sophia and I were good friends in college, though I haven’t seen her in years. And I had no idea she was in town! I was just finishing up dinner with some girlfriends of mine, and I was about to leave when I happened to look back and see you.”

  She turns and waggles her fingers at two random women heading toward the exit. Their backs are turned to us, so they’re unable to give any indication that they don’t, in fact, actually have a clue who Miranda is.

  “Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister…?” Miranda says, thrusting out her hand.

  “William Hawthorne,” Liam says, shaking her hand politely. “But most people call me Liam.”

  “Liam. I like it,” says Miranda.

  I do a double take. Am I imagining things, or is Miranda batting her eyelashes at him?

  The waiter appears behind us. He glances at Miranda.

  “Will you be joining for dinner? Shall I set a place for you, ma’am?” he says.

  “Oh, I won’t be eating,” Miranda says, “but I’d love a glass of wine. And you know what—may as well bring my friends some fresh glasses. It looks like they’re running low.”

  The waiter nods and leaves. I glance down at my glass, and then Liam’s. They’re both half-full—hardly low enough to warrant a second glass.

  What’s her angle? I wonder, shifting uncomfortably.

  I really wish she had given me some warning that she would be showing up in person. Though in retrospect, I understand why she didn’t. Because I would have told her not to come. Because she was right—I don’t like this.

  I can hardly manage to keep still in my seat. My eyes keep darting between the two of them nervously. Liam is staring at her with an expression of unmistakable intrigue.

  Typical, I think. Whenever Miranda is around, I feel like I may as well fade into the wallpaper. It’s always been that way, especially when there are boys around. As hard as Miranda may try to flatter me by calling me a “babe,” there’s no denying the fact that she’s the stunner in the family. Add in her effortless confidence, and it’s no contest.

  “So what do you do, Liam?” she prompts as the waiter returns to the table with three glasses of wine.

  “I run a venture firm,” he says, tilting back his first glass of wine and finishing it off quickly. He offers the empty glass to the waiter. His hand finds the second glass.

  “Really? I never would have guessed it. You seem completely different than all the investment guys I know.”

  “And what are they like?” Liam says, sounding amused.

  “Stuffy,” Miranda declares. “Boring. I can already tell that you’re nothing like that. You seem way too suave to be an ordinary venture capitalist.”

  You’re laying it on too thick, Miranda, I scoff silently. You don’t know Liam like I do. No way is he ever going to buy that.

  But to my astonishment, Liam laughs.

  “You hang out with a lot of investors, do you?” he says.

  “Sometimes.” She flashes him a grin. “I happened to be in Curaçao last year during some kind of venture capitalist retreat. I have to tell you—I have never seen so many tie clips in my life. And I could have sworn the air smelled like pomade when they were around.”

  Liam chuckles. With a devious smile playing across her lips, Miranda leans forward and not-so-subtly shows off her cleavage. She tosses her long hair over one shoulder.

  “But let me tell you, with the exception of all the suits, Curaçao was marvelous. All those pastel-colored colonial buildings lining the harbor, it feels like you’re in some kind of fairy tale. Have you ever been?”

  I stare at Miranda in disbelief. Has she even been to Curaçao? As far as I know, she’s barely left the continental states.

  “No,” Liam says, shaking his head. But then he pauses. “No, that’s not true. I have been there once, but I never left the tarmac. We stopped at the airport for an emergency refuel of the jet.”

  “You have a jet?” I ask Liam, surprised.

  “Two, actually.”

  Miranda’s eyes are as wide and round as dollar coins. A greedy smile spreads across her face. I already know it well—it’s the look she gets when she’s fully committed to a scheme.

  And when that happens, there’s no stopping her.

  The waiter returns with a silver tray balanced on the tips of his fingers. As he lightly puts down the plates of crab beignets and fire-roasted oysters, Miranda taps him on the shoulder.

  “One more round of wine for Mr. Hawthorne and me, when you have a moment,” she says sweetly.

  She continues chatting Liam up throughout the rest of the meal, leaning over to touch his shoulder at every possible opportunity. Liam’s smile turns increasingly lazy as he finishes his third glass of wine, and then his fourth, his inhibitions loosening.

  I pick at my food and watch them bitterly. Miranda’s new, mysterious plan has become crystal clear. She wants to wedge herself between me and Liam, and pick up right where I left off. Become his new plaything. Earn his confidence.

  And she’s got the benefit of a clean slate—she hasn’t made a terrible first impression on Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne like I have. If she plays her cards right, they might actually trust her. This plan might actually work.

  So why, then, do I feel so crappy? Why does it make me feel sick to my stomach, to watch Liam smile at her and laugh at her jokes? He glances at me every so often, and I flash him a tight-lipped grin as if I, too, am having the time of my life here in this restaurant. As if a heavy rock hasn’t just dropped into the pit of my stomach.

  When the check comes, Liam and Miranda’s arms both shoot out to receive it. Their hands bump clumsily together.

  “Oops, sorry,” Miranda giggles, slurring her words.

  I raise an eyebrow. Is she really drunk, or is this an act?

  “Let me pay. You didn’t even eat,” says Liam.

  He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. When he flips it open, I can’t help but notice how Miranda is hungrily eyeing the gold and silver cards inside. She catches me watching her and gives me a quick grin. He slips a card into the leather check book and hands it to the waiter.

  “That’s very generous of you, thank you,” says Miranda. “And thank you for a marvelous evening. What a happy coincidence, running into you both.”

  The waiter returns with the check book a moment later. We rise from the table and begin to gather our things.

  “Sophia, I’d love to take you for a coffee to catch up, just you and me. It’s been ages,” Miranda says, putting a hand on my arm. “We can go to Cafe Du Monde. If you don’t have any plans, of course.”

  I glance over at Liam. We had plans, but I’m not sure where they stand now. Liam was going to—what was it that he said? Stretch me as far as I could go? My thighs clench in anticipation at the thought.

  But what Liam says next makes my heart sink.

  “Go with your friend. Enjoy yourselves, don’t let me interrupt,” he says, knocking back the rest of his glass of wine. He gives me a wink, as if he’s indulging a little request of mine.

  Miranda’s fingers wrap around my warm. Her grip is tight as she begins to steer me towards the entrance.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Hawthorne,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

  “You could’ve given me a head’s up, you know,” I say angrily as we burst into her hotel room. Compared to my dinky, beige-walled room, Miranda’s suite is a palace: there is a four-poster bed, a claw-footed chaise lounge, and a tinkling glass chandelier.

  “What? And miss that look on your face when I showed up to your table?” says Miranda, dropping her purse onto the lacquered entrance table. She turns and gives me a grin. “I needed you to be surprised when I showed up. Sophia and Carol haven’t seen each other in years, remember?”

  “I could’ve pretended
to be surprised,” I insist. “My acting chops aren’t that terrible, you know.”

  Miranda responds to this with a snort.

  I sink slowly on the chaise and stare despondently at the rug. The pattern is intricate: a swirl of roses, thorns, and twisting vines in shades of scarlet. Miranda always did like to travel in style. At least she’ll be comfortable in this room; she’ll probably stay here for a while. Longer than me, anyway.

  I wonder what she’ll say when Liam unlocks his room for her for the first time. When he puts his hand around her wrist and slips it into a leather restraint. The thought makes my stomach turn.

  “I hope you don’t mind taking orders,” I mumble. “Particularly when your clothes are off. He’s got a wild appetite, you know.”

  Miranda grins.

  “Yes, I remember you mentioned something about that,” she says. “I’ve never tried it myself, but I admit I’m intrigued.”

  She turns to scrutinize herself in the mirror. She plucks a tissue from a nearby box and carefully dabs at her lips, removing her cherry red lipstick.

  “But it’s a moot point. It’s not going to work anyway,” she says heavily. She bares her teeth in the mirror, turning her head this way and that, checking for red smudges.

  My head jerks up. “Why’s that?”

  “Because he hardly paid attention to me.”

  I blink, certain that I’ve somehow misheard her.

  “Were we even sitting at the same table?” I say. “Which Liam were you talking to? From my vantage point, he didn’t stop talking to you through the entire meal.”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t stop looking at you,” Miranda says. She walks over and plops down onto the chaise lounge beside me. “April, he’s obviously crazy about you. There’s no way he’ll consider dating me, not with you around.”

  “Crazy? Let’s not exaggerate here…” I say feebly. But inside my chest, my heart is thumping wildly. I’ve spent so much time watching Liam—keeping an eye on his every flickering smile and every twitch of his jaw, as though they might somehow reveal the truth of his family’s crimes—but I’ve never actually paused to notice how he thought of me.

  Could that really be true? Can he really have feelings for me? A current of excitement slicks down my spine, tickling my skin. I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning.

  “Oh my God.” Miranda’s voice is like a blade, slicing through my thoughts.

  “What?” I say, quickly looking over at her. “What is it?”

  Miranda is staring at me with wide eyes and a thunderstruck expression. Her hand covers her open mouth.

  “You like him too, don’t you?” she says through her fingers.

  She may as well have just pulled the chaise out from beneath me. I draw in an involuntary gasp of air.

  I have feelings for Liam, sure, I’ll admit it. But they’re strictly physical. My body takes on a life of its own when I’m around him.

  But do I like him?

  “What are you talking about? You’re crazy,” I say. But the words come a little too quickly and too loudly to be believable.

  Miranda shoves herself off the chaise in a huff. She paces to the door and then back again, her stilettos click-clacking beneath her.

  “I can’t believe this,” she says bitterly. “No wonder you wanted me to find an alternate plan for you. There I was, thinking you were just chickening out, but no—you didn’t want to break your poor little Liam’s heart.” Her voice begins to take on a harsh, mocking quality. “Suddenly he’s more important to you than your parents, than the vengeance you’ve been talking about for the last three years.”

  “Of course he’s not,” I say, rising from my seat.

  “How did you think this would end, April?” she demands. “That you could get justice for your parents and get to keep the boy, too?” A burst of angry, unhinged laughter escapes from her lips. “Doll, that’s not how it works.”

  At her words, I can feel my defiance start to wither.

  “Tell me,” Miranda says, storming up to me, “which do you want more: vengeance or Liam? Because you can’t have both. And before you answer, let me tell you this—if you say ‘Liam,’ then I’m out of here. You’re on your own.”

  I hesitate. My mind shifts back to that fateful day in the courtroom. Even now, after all these years, I remember the smug expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Hawthornes’ faces as my parents were being dragged away in handcuffs. I can still remember the anger, hot and white, that took seed in my heart that day.

  My hands clench into trembling fists.

  I whisper, “They have to pay.”

  Miranda’s mouth curves into a satisfied smile. “They will,” she promises me. Her eyebrows furrow. “But the only way that’s going to happen is for you to get out.”

  “What?” I breathe out. My chest deflates.

  “Give me a few weeks and I’ll have Liam eating out of the palm of my hand. I know his type. I know what he likes. Hardworking executive, just wants a pretty young thing to help work out the kinks of his day,” Miranda says cloyingly. “But in order to get Liam to even look at me, I need you out of the picture.”

  I can feel my back begin to stiffen at her words.

  Oh, she knows him, does she? I think angrily. What can she possibly know about Liam? She’s barely talked to him. She hasn’t seen his passion and his playfulness, like I have. She hasn’t looked into his blue eyes and seen the sincerity that lies deep within them.

  If she had, she’d realize that Liam Hawthorne is not his parents’ son. He may share the family name, sure, but there’s a doubt that stirs within him. I’ve seen it. And this doubt, this hesitation—this is the source of his urgency when he puts his hands on me. This is why he owns the rope, the paddles, everything. I understand it now. It’s his attempt to reclaim control over his maelstrom life.

  But Miranda doesn’t know all of that. She’ll chew him up and spit him out, just like any other mark. She’ll tread all over him in those razor-sharp stilettos in her attempt to scam the Hawthornes for all their worth.

  A chilling thought occurs to me, shivering up my spine. How can I trust Miranda to keep going after Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne? With me out of town, what’s to stop her from settling her sights on the easier, more accessible, and equally lucrative target?

  After all, for Miranda, there are no wrongs to avenge, no villains to punish.

  There are only targets.

  “No,” I hear myself whisper.

  Miranda’s eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”

  “No,” I repeat, this time more loudly. “I’m staying.”

  Her face slowly begins to contort: first her arching eyebrows, then her wrinkling nose, then her quickly flaring nostrils. Her teeth, pearly-white, flash at me as her mouth stretches into a snarl. I notice a stray smear of lipstick on her back tooth.

  I’ve witnessed the full extent of Miranda’s temper only a handful times in my life, mostly when we were kids. As infrequent as they were, her hair-pulling and shin-kicking episodes were enough to convince me to stay on her good side. As we grew out of our adolescence together, her fevered tantrums became increasingly rare. I assumed that, since we were finally adults, she had finally mellowed out.

  But as her talon-like nails dig into my hair and pull violently, I realize that her anger was there all along, just simmering beneath the surface. Tears prick at my eyes from the sudden pain.

  “Do you know how many hours I’ve sunk into this job? Do you know how many strings I’ve pulled, to bring in our partners? Do you know what they’ll do to me if I back out?” she shrieks. “You were the one who begged for my help. You were the one who pulled me into this scheme in the first place. And, of all people, it’s you who’s standing in my way!”

  “It’s not about me, Miranda. Or you, for that matter,” I retort, pushing her away. My hands fly to my head, smoothing down my hair and massaging my aching scalp.

  “No, apparently now it’s all about Liam,” she seethes.

&n
bsp; “It doesn’t have to. And that’s on you, you know,” I shoot back hotly. “Maybe if you were a better criminal, you’d find a way to get to his parents that didn’t involve him. Maybe we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation.”

  Wrong thing to say.

  Miranda rushes toward me, shoving me towards the door with a surprising strength.

  “Get out, get out, get out!” she screeches. With a final, violent push, she knocks me into the hallway. My heels give way beneath me, and I stumble to the carpeted floor.

  Her door slams shut loudly. All along the corridor, doors begin to open. Heads poke out of their rooms, curious about all of the commotion.

  With difficulty, I clamber to my feet. Desperate to flee this damn building and retreat to the safety of my own hotel room, I begin to walk forward. But as soon as I do, my ankle twists and I stumble once more to the ground.

  I glance down at my feet, confused, and notice the swinging hinge of my left heel. It’s nearly snapped in two, hanging on by a thread.

  Great, I think bitterly. Icing on the cake.

  11

  The call comes the next day. Thinking that it’s Miranda calling, I let it go to voice mail at first. I know she’s only calling to further berate me; when she loses her temper like this, it tends to last for a few days. I tug the hotel comforter up around my ears to muffle the sound of the ringing.

  But when it rings a second time, and then a third, my curiosity gets the better of me. What could be so urgent? I wonder, flinging out an arm towards the night stand.

  My eyebrows rise in surprise when I see Riley’s name on the screen. I answer.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my cousin.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Riley says. “Did the two of you have a falling out or something?”

  “Something like that,” I say vaguely, moving my hand to my head. My scalp is still tender from the hair-pulling yesterday. “Anyway, what’s going on?”

  “I found them,” he says simply.