by Lori Wilde
“Yes.”
“How’s that? By showing up on my doorstep in a pink raincoat?” His gaze took a deliberate road trip down her body.
He was bringing that up? She couldn’t believe his audacity. She was mentally halfway to the door when she realized that was exactly his intention. To chase her off.
She ignored his comment, opened up her briefcase, and pulled out the glossy, tri-fold brochure for All the World’s a Stage.
He looked it over, quickly flipping to the back page to find her fee structure. “Kinda pricey. I think maybe you’re peddling your wares in the wrong neighborhood. Try The Woodlands. They can afford to be gullible up there.”
“As I told your grandmother, I’m willing to defer the payment of my services until the house sells, and if it does not sell in a specified period of time, I don’t get paid at all.” She raised her chin.
A suspicious glint shaded his eyes. “Now why would you do that?”
“Your grandmother’s house presents an exciting opportunity to expand my business.” She told him about the American Home Design contest.
“Yes, I see what’s in it for you, but what’s in it for my grandmother?”
“Quick sell of her house for an asking price that will more than offset what I charge.”
“Maybe we don’t want a quick sell. Maybe we’d rather have the right buyer, one who could love this house as much as we do over someone with deep pockets.”
“Your grandmother needs a quick sell in order to purchase the condo she’s interested in.”
He glared at her suspiciously.
“There’s just one catch to my proposition.”
“Of course there’s a catch.” He was looking at her mouth and it unnerved her. “There’s always a catch. What is it?”
She regretted having to say this. Dragging the words from her mouth was almost painful. “In order to save your grandmother money, you’re going to have to stand in for my crew.”
Just what in God’s name had she gotten herself into? She couldn’t believe she’d be working so closely with the one man in the world she had hoped never to see again.
Delaney lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. One pillow under her head, the other clutched to her chest. She must be out of her mind.
“I did it to stretch my wings. To prove I can take on new challenges. Who knows? This might lead to a whole new angle to my business, especially if I can win the American Home Design contest.”
“That’s not the reason.”
The voice startled Delaney. She looked over and saw Skylar perched on her vanity and realized she must have fallen asleep.
“What do you want?” She sighed.
“Dropped by to get the goods on the hottie you spent the afternoon with, and here I find you talking to yourself.” Skylar tsk-tsked. “Keep that up, and people are going to start thinking you’re crazy.”
“I am crazy. I see dead people in my dreams.”
“You don’t see dead people. You only see me.”
“You’re dead.”
“Yeah, but I’m not people. I’m a person. Singular. You see a dead person in your dreams.”
“So that means I’m not crazy?”
“Please, you were raised by Honey Montgomery Cartwright. Of course you’re crazy on some level.”
“Touché.”
“Wanna know why I think you took the Vinetti job?” Skylar grinned. “Hey, I like the sound of that. Vinetti job. Like you’re in with the mob.”
Delaney sighed again and pulled the covers to her chin. “I’d say no, but you’d just tell me anyway, so go ahead.”
“You’re hot for her hard-bodied grandson.”
“That’s not it. You are so far off base.” Delaney laughed but it sounded hollow, forced.
“You want to prove yourself to him. He thinks you’re a spoiled rich Cartwright, and you want to show him he’s wrong.”
Now that was probably the real truth. Delaney didn’t have a comeback.
“Personally, I think taking the job was a great move. I mean, did you check out his butt? Makes a girl feel faint just looking at it.” Skylar fanned herself.
“You’re a ghost; haven’t you gotten past physical lust?”
“Hey, indulge me. I never got to have sex when I was alive.”
“Really? That’s sad.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, just let me live vicariously through you a little.” Today Skylar was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and a blue-jean miniskirt and fisherman’s wading boots.
“What’s with the boots?”
“Borrowed ’em from Granddad. He said to say ‘hi,’ by the way.”
“Tell him ‘hi’ back.”
“Will do.”
“What do you need wading boots for in whatever place it is where ghosts hang out?” she asked.
“You keep getting this all wrong, Laney. I’m not really a ghost. You’re dreaming me up. Whatever I wear, you’re the one who dressed me in it. For whatever weird reasons are churning around in that disturbed brain of yours.”
“So I can change you out of wading boots?”
“Sure. Give it a try.”
Delaney imagined Skylar in glass slippers, and darned if the wading boots didn’t fade away and glass slippers take their place.
“Cinderella, cool.” Skylar stuck her legs out in front of her to admire the shoes. “Now all I need is a Prince Charming.”
“Okay, this is officially freaky.”
“No, it’s not. There’s nothing more natural than dreaming. So anyway, back to the hottie. He’s so much cuter than Evan.”
“Evan’s cute,” Delaney said defensively.
“Please, Evan looks like he’s been popped from a cookie-cutter mold. Handsome rich doctor from central casting, anyone? Come on, wouldn’t you rather have a real man like that delicious Nick Vinetti?” Skylar licked her lips.
“You’re not being fair to Evan.”
“Yes, okay, he is a nice guy. But I remember the time when he was twelve and dropped a pocketful of change on the ground so he could get a good look up my skirt.”
“Evan’s not like that.”
“Maybe not now, but he was back then. Believe me, I was there.”
“How can I trust that tidbit of information if, as you claim, everything you say is something I’m making up in my head?”
“Good question.” Skylar propped her chin in her palm. “Keep it in mind whenever you’re talking to me.”
“You’re messing with my head.”
“No, you’re messing with your own head.”
“Maybe you should just go away.”
“Maybe you should just wake up.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Fine with me.”
Delaney flopped over onto her side, refusing to look at Skylar anymore.
“You’re not waking up.”
“You don’t know Evan the way I do. You don’t know how he was there for me after you died. He comforted me. Helped me through it. He was my only real friend until I met Tish. He liked me when I was ugly, Sky. Before the surgery and the weight loss and the braces.”
Skylar lay down on the bed next to her, stacked her hands under her cheek, and gazed into Delaney’s eyes. “He’s a compulsive helper, Delaney. He’ll always be where someone needs help, and as soon as they’re emotionally strong enough not to need him anymore, he’ll find someone who does need him.”
“Evan would never cheat on me.”
“I’m not saying he would. I’m just predicting he’ll always be standing you up in favor of his work. Unless you’re in a crisis. Then he’ll be there.”
“He’s a doctor, for Pete’s sake. Surely you get that his patients must come first.”
“My point exactly. You’ll always play second fiddle.”
“It would be pretty petty of me to be jealous of sick people,” she said.
“You say that now, but what about when you have children? He can’t ever make the Little League games or the da
nce recitals. Your Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas Eves are interrupted by hospital emergencies.”
Delaney had never thought about the long-term repercussions of Evan’s career. Honestly, she’d never even imagined what it would be like to have children with him. That was strange, wasn’t it? She was marrying him, and she’d never pictured having his babies.
“Very strange indeed,” Skylar whispered, reading her mind.
“I’m doing the right thing by marrying Evan,” she said defensively.
“Even though you have zero sexual chemistry together?” Skylar asked.
“Sex is overrated.”
“You only think that because you’ve never had great sex. Or great love.”
“You never had sex at all, so buzz off with that advice.” Delaney glowered.
“Don’t you want to know what great sex is like? Why Tish and Jillian and Rachael talk about it with such passionate enthusiasm?”
“No. I like things just the way they are with Evan. Calm, sweet, tender.”
“And orgasmless.”
“I have orgasms.” Delaney furrowed her brow. “At least I think I do.”
“If you’re not sure, then you probably don’t.”
“Once again, you would know this how?”
“It’s going to be tough, working on Lucia’s house with her gorgeous grandson Nick hanging around, keeping his suspicious eyes on you. And all the while Evan is far away in Guatemala.”
Concern winnowed through her. This was what she’d been worrying about ever since taking the job. Knowing that she’d be around Nick Vinetti every day for the next several weeks.
“I have to back out of the job.”
“No, you don’t. I say explore it to the hilt. Find out if the chemistry you feel with this guy is real or just a passing fancy.”
“What about Evan?”
“What about him? He’s the one who took off for Guatemala just weeks before your wedding.”
“That’s lovely. My fiancé is away helping poor children to have a better life, and you want me to screw around on him with some cocky cop.”
“I didn’t say screw around on him.”
“It’s what you meant.” Delaney glared at her.
“I’m going to go now. You’re upset and need time to think. Besides, your alarm clock is about to go off.” Skylar started fading away, getting smaller and smaller, dimmer and dimmer.
She lay there, watching Skylar go until her glass slippers were all that remained.
Her sister was right. She couldn’t back out of the job. Lucia was counting on her. She was such a sweet woman, and she’d just lost her husband. It would be wrong to go back on her word now.
Delaney blew out a breath. One way or the other, she would just have to suck it up and learn to suppress her lusty feelings for the sexy Mr. Nick Vinetti.
Chapter 6
Honey Montgomery Cartwright ran a lint roller over her peach-colored Italian silk suit even though she’d just taken it from the dry cleaner’s bag. She checked the sticky roller paper and spied a hint of fuzz. Hmm. She made a mental note to change dry cleaners. Clearly, they were not doing the job she’d paid them to do.
Squaring her shoulders, she double-checked her teeth in the bathroom mirror. She’d already flossed and brushed twice this morning, but she wanted to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She was having lunch with Delaney’s future motherin-law, Lenore Van Zandt, to discuss preparations for the wedding rehearsal dinner. Lenore, a noisy chatterbox, made Honey nervous, but she’d be damned if she would show it.
She scrutinized her reflection. Fifty-three, but none of her friends would ever guess it. Honey considered herself both smart and lucky. She religiously avoided the sun, worked out two hours a day, six days a week, spent a small annual fortune on antiaging potions and creams, and she had her dermatologist programmed on speed-dial.
When they were dating, James Robert had said that with Honey’s platinum blond hair, high cheekbones, flawless complexion, well-toned body, and rigorous self-discipline, she was like Princess Grace in boot camp. These days, he no longer commented on her looks, just grunted and asked her how much her spa treatments had set him back. As if he didn’t clear twenty million a year. What was it about the ultrarich that made them such tightwads?
Resolutely pushing thoughts of her husband aside, Honey snugged the clasp of a three-carat diamond and emerald necklace around her neck, added matching earrings, and then bestowed her mirror image with her most brilliant, practiced smile.
There. Everything was perfect.
No one, especially not her husband of thirty-four years, would ever guess the real truth.
With a regal toss of her head, she walked like a runway model down the stairs of the sweeping Colonial-style mansion that had been in James Robert’s family for three generations. Her four-inch heels clicked smartly against the granite tile. She might be over fifty, but she wasn’t over the hill. Honey refused to trade in her Manolo Blahniks for Birkenstocks. She would rather break a hip first.
She grabbed a bottle of Evian on her way out the door. Honey carried bottled water wherever she went. She was convinced that was one of the reasons she had such a youthful complexion. Sauntering out to the garage, she paused a moment to smooth down her skirt before sliding across the Cadillac’s plush leather seat. Once outside the security gate, she stopped to pick up the mail. Leaving the engine running with the air-conditioning blasting, she minced to the mailbox, collected the day’s correspondence, and got back inside.
Quickly she leafed through the pile. Bills, a sales circular, a party invitation, a couple of catalogs, a fitness magazine.
And then she found it.
A plain white envelope with no return address or postmark. Her name was printed in block letters with a primitive hand.
It hadn’t been mailed. Someone had placed it in their mailbox.
Honey sucked in her breath, flipped the letter over, and tentatively slipped a fingernail underneath the envelope flap. She opened it up and pulled out the sheet of notepaper.
I KNOW YOUR SECRET. IF YOU DON’T WANT YOUR HUSBAND TO FIND OUT THE TRUTH, COME TO THE ENTRANCE TO THE GALVESTON ISLAND AMUSEMENT PARK ON SEAWALL BOULEVARD. NOON TOMORROW. BRING TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS IN CASH.
That was it. No signature. Nothing else.
Feeling fragile as a dried-up autumn leaf, Honey stared at the note, not wanting to understand what she was reading. Someone had learned her terrible truth.
The past had caught up with her at last.
Air left her lungs. She gasped, felt the color drain from her face.
The deception had started out as nothing more than a little white lie, but it had become Honey’s entire life. Day by day, for thirty-four years, she’d steeped in her secret until it eventually permeated every corner of her soul.
Hand over her mouth, Honey flung open the car door and, contrary to the ladylike delicacy she’d perfected over the years, vomited in the gravel.
When she was finished, she rinsed her mouth with the Evian and in a great inhalation of breath calmly drove to her luncheon date with Lenore. The blackmail note she crumpled and stuffed in the glove compartment.
She didn’t want to go, but if she didn’t show up, Lenore would wonder why. And Honey had spent a lifetime doing her best to keep people from wondering about her. As she searched for a parking place, dark questions plagued.
Who had sent the letter? Why had this person only asked for twenty thousand? And after all these years, how had he or she managed to track her down?
She could guess the answer to the last question. The blackmailer must have seen her picture with Delaney in the recent Society Bride article on society weddings. Why, oh, why had she allowed herself to be photographed for a national magazine?
Her stomach roiled again and she closed her eyes, fighting back the nausea. So much time had passed, she’d foolishly thought she was safe.
Idiot. You can never, ever let down your guard. There’s no room for
mistakes. Not now, not ever.
Not with the secret she harbored.
But here was this letter, threatening to ruin the life she’d built. Threatening to destroy not only her marriage, but her daughter’s chance at happiness. Honey simply could not allow that to happen.
She would meet with the blackmailer and she would pay.
What other choice did she have?
The following day, Delaney took Tish with her to video Lucia’s house.
Luckily, Tish had been able to rearrange her schedule so she could film the “before” video of the house so Delaney and Lucia’s family could get started on the renovations as quickly as possible. Time was of the essence, both for Lucia’s financial situation and for entry in the American Home Design contest. They had four weeks to get the house renovated and decorated before the July 9 deadline.
When they arrived at Lucia’s house, Delaney was surprised to find so many cars in the driveway. She parked along the curb behind Nick’s red pickup truck, and her stomach did a loopy little swoon.
She spun her engagement ring on her finger. Remember what you swore to yourself last night? Get over your attraction to the guy. You’re taken.
“This house totally rocks,” Tish exclaimed. “I can see why you’re so excited. It’s got such great potential.”
“I know,” Delaney breathed.
Tish collected her equipment while Delaney gathered up the briefcase chock-full of plans, computer printouts, and sketches she’d prepared after she’d returned home the night before. Tish filmed everything as they went up the walkway. The tiled roof, the palm trees, the pink flamingos on the lawn.
Delaney rang the doorbell and a gorgeous black-haired woman in her late twenties, with coltishly long legs, answered the door. She looked a lot like Nick, possessing the same intelligent brown eyes and long, thick, dark lashes.
“Hi,” she said, greeting them. “You must be Delaney. I’m Gina, Nick’s baby sister; come on in. Most everyone is in the kitchen waiting for you to film the house before we start packing up Nana’s things.”
“Packing?” Delaney asked.
“Nana’s moving over to Trudie’s while the renovations are going on. She put a retainer down on the condo this morning, and Nick’s taking her to apply for a bank loan tomorrow afternoon. With any luck, you guys will be finished renovating this house before she has to close on the condo.”
