One Night Scandal

by Joanne Rock

  “I will worry about you if you’re here by yourself.” He held her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. “I know you were upset with your brother that he had a private investigator keeping tabs on you. But if your family is worried that the blackmailer might target you again, then I’m damned well concerned, too.”

  Her dark hair blew across her cheek as the wind picked up. She peeled a strand away from her lips, touched that Logan would think about her safety.

  “The last blackmail note was delivered to Cheyenne, so there is more reason to believe the person threatening the McNeills is now in Wyoming, not LA.” She had kept in contact with her sisters throughout the day, aware of how events were unfolding. She might be upset with her family, but she wasn’t abandoning them either. “The instructions for depositing funds into an offshore account were sent by email this afternoon, although my family ignored them since they refused to deal with the blackmailer.” And now, they would all be paying a different kind of price. “According to the PI firm, the email originated at an internet service provider based in Cheyenne.”

  Scarlett had given up apartment hunting before noon, unable to concentrate with the texts coming from her sisters.

  “How’s your mother doing?” Logan asked. “Has she said anything about the scandal?”

  “No. I know she’s still recovering from her accident, but I can’t believe she hasn’t said what she thinks about this story, or if it’s true.” Scarlett’s feelings about her mother had been all over the map since learning the news. “I go back and forth between feeling betrayed and wondering if she has a really good reason for hiding the truth about her past.”

  “I’ve seen the photos the media have been posting since the story broke. The family resemblance between you and Eden Harris is strong.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t deny it. Of her mother’s three daughters, Scarlett had always resembled their mother the most, a point of frustration for her since Maisie and Madeline were more traditionally beautiful. But even Scarlett had to admit the old photos of Eden Harris revealed a lovely girl. A different kind of beauty, perhaps. One more suited to the era she’d been raised in.

  A random thought occurred to her, one of many racing through her brain as she stared out at the sunset over the water. “I’ve been worried about getting a break in Hollywood, and as it turns out, my maternal grandfather was once one of the most powerful figures in the film industry.”

  “And your mother’s adopted brother is my director.” Logan had no affection for the man in charge of Winning the West. He had said more than once he couldn’t wait to be done working for Antonio Ventura.

  “Do you think Antonio is loathsome enough to blackmail his own sister?” Scarlett knew Antonio had confiscated Logan’s cell phone on a shoot in the Congo Republic earlier in the year, in a misguided attempt to help his cast “bond.” So she knew he was already regarded as a difficult director.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past the guy,” Logan muttered darkly, slumping back in the seat. “But he sure doesn’t need the money. It seems unlikely he’d risk committing a serious crime for a payday when he rakes in an obscene amount for each film he directs.”

  Scarlett couldn’t begin to imagine who was doing this to her family. She leaned back in the love seat, closer to Logan.

  “You’re right. And to make matters worse back home, my brother Brock went to the hospital with a concussion today. He got hit by a light fixture during a set change.” Scarlett remembered the strange text from him this afternoon, asking her to pick him up at the hospital.

  Almost like he’d forgotten she was in Los Angeles.

  With his arm draped along the back of the love seat, Logan toyed with a lock of her hair, winding it around his finger where it lay on her shoulder.

  His touch was one beautiful thing in a day from hell, and she let the joy of that touch surround her. Heat her skin.

  “Your family is struggling with a lot right now,” he told her gently. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to Cheyenne? We could get a private flight and leave tonight.”

  She appreciated that he was looking out for her. That he cared. Her breath caught for a moment as she glanced toward him. He was incredibly good looking. And those green eyes were only for her.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  “I’ve got a better idea.” She wanted to kiss him. Was that wrong of her on a day when everything was falling apart? Maybe that’s what love was supposed to be, though.

  Something good you could count on even when everything else went wrong.

  “You do?” He wound the curl tighter around his finger, tugging gently.

  “My mother is still recovering from a coma and clearly doesn’t want to talk about her past. But her father—Emilio Ventura—is right here in town.” Scarlett was the only one of her mother’s daughters who lived close enough to confront the man. “I’ll go see him.”

  “Scarlett.” Logan relinquished the lock of hair, already shaking his head. “The Ventura compound will be crawling with paparazzi.”

  “I’ll go incognito.” She wanted to be an actress, after all. She’d act her way in there.

  “If he’s anything like his son, I’m not sure you want to go alone.” Logan’s voice had a warning note, but she’d just broken away from her overprotective brothers.

  She was making her own decisions now.

  “I’ll find out for myself if my mother is really the missing Hollywood heiress, Eden Harris.” Even as she said it, she knew it had to be true. The photos didn’t lie. “More importantly, I’ll find out why she felt the need to run away from her family and go into hiding for over twenty years.” It was the first time all day she’d felt like she had a sense of purpose. A role to play in the family drama exploding all over the news. “If something—or someone—hurt her, I will find out.”

  * * *

  An hour into the family meeting, Brock knew he’d made a mistake joining the rest of the McNeills at his father’s house. He sat in the recliner closest to the door and wondered when he could make his exit. He didn’t want to abandon his dad, stepmother or his siblings, but the ache in his head had shifted from physical pain to a gnawing fear that this injury wasn’t like others he’d experienced.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out the discussion with the New York–based public relations consultant flown in the day before at Brock’s grandfather’s request. That was Brock’s first indication that something was seriously amiss. It was one thing to forget the seductive actress, Hannah, since by her admission they’d only just met. But to have forgotten that his stubborn father had mended his estrangement with Brock’s grandfather, Malcolm McNeill, after a rift that had spanned most of Brock’s life?

  He couldn’t begin to remember how that had occurred. Yet all his siblings behaved like having Malcolm—and Malcolm’s girlfriend, Rose—under the same roof as Donovan was no big deal. The extended family filled the living area to capacity, with Maisie and Madeline seated at the kitchen bar so they could be a part of the conversation.

  Brock pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his thoughts to realign, his brain to make some kind of order out of the chaos of information floating around him. Strangely, despite the family drama and the very real news that his father’s twenty-six-year marriage couldn’t be legally recognized anymore if Paige was really Eden Harris, Brock’s thoughts returned most often to Hannah.

  Was that because being with Hannah was less frustrating since they had very little history together, and therefore, less for him to forget? Or did he think of her more because she made a strong impact on him? She had been beside him when no one else could be today. She’d driven him home. Wished him well.

  Maybe that had been all that happened between them on the surface. But he’d felt a whole other layer of things sparking when she’d touched him. She’d meant it to be consoling. Compassionate.

&
nbsp; Yet her hand on his arm had stirred a far more elemental response. And he couldn’t shake the idea that her gray eyes hid secrets he needed to unlock.

  “Donovan, they need to know.” A soft, feminine voice from the edge of the living room suddenly distinguished itself in the rumble of conversation, quieting the McNeill family instantly.

  Brock’s stepmother stood framed in the hallway arch, dressed in a blue floral nightgown with a matching cotton robe, her feet bare and her long brown hair unbound. His father had his arm slung around her. She looked pale and physically frail after the weeks in bed recovering from her fall and a coma—events Brock had only learned about today. But there was a glint in her brown eyes.

  A fierce light Brock hadn’t seen before.

  Madeline moved closer to them.

  “Can we get you something, Mom?” She gestured toward the kitchen. “A drink? Some tea, maybe?”

  Brock leaned forward in the recliner to hear whatever Paige had to say. Was the news true? His stepmother had always been mild-mannered, almost to a fault, given the way she allowed her strong-willed husband’s opinions to rule the household. It seemed hard to believe she had masterminded a scheme to assume a new identity as a teenager, moving halfway across the country and marrying a well-known man in Cheyenne without anyone questioning her past.

  Then again, the so-called missing Hollywood heiress had never been formally reported as missing. She’d simply stopped appearing in public.

  “No thank you, sweetheart. I just wanted you to know.” She glanced from Brock’s father toward everyone else in the room, sweeping the living room with her gaze. “All of you. It’s true, what the tabloids are saying about me.” Her voice trembled a little, and she stopped, then tried again. “I didn’t use a new name with the intent to deceive anyone. I just...needed a fresh start.”

  When the room remained quiet, the public relations consultant—Jasmine—looked ready to ask a question. She drew in a breath and opened her mouth, but Carson was seated next to her and he clamped a firm hand on the woman’s arm, effectively silencing her.

  Donovan hugged Paige closer to his side. “As far as I’m concerned, her name doesn’t change the kind of wife and mother she’s been. And a news story about the past doesn’t alter who she is on the inside.” He turned from Paige to stare at the rest of them. “I know everyone else feels the same way.”

  A chorus of agreement and support echoed around the room. Maisie darted around her sister to hug their mother.

  Paige’s eyes were bright as she nodded. “Thank you.”

  Donovan gently turned her around, guiding her back down the hallway, away from the living area. “Focus on getting well,” he told her softly, his words dissolving before they disappeared into the room at the far end of the corridor.

  “I can’t believe she kept her past a secret our whole lives.” Madeline, the oldest of the daughters Brock’s father had with his second wife, shook her head in the hallway, looking lost.

  Brock knew someone should offer comfort. Words of wisdom. But tonight, with his head throbbing and his thoughts too damn scattered, he couldn’t be that guy. The last thing his family needed was to discover he’d lost his memories for at least—as far as he could tell—the last six months. He could recall delivering two fillies to a neighbor with twin girls just after the New Year, but couldn’t come up with a memory after that.

  Until he woke up with Hannah Ryder staring down at him with concern and secrets in her eyes.

  He was pulled out of his thoughts about Hannah when Jasmine tapped a manicured fingernail on the maple dining table to get everyone’s attention. “If we’re going to get on top of this, we need to issue a statement from the family as quickly as possible.”

  “Agreed, my dear,” Malcolm announced in a weary-sounding voice from his spot beside his girlfriend on one of the sofas. “But as you can see, it’s not easy for us to focus on where to go next when we’re still reeling with what this means for all of us.”

  “We could try a diversion tactic until we’ve come up with a statement,” Jasmine suggested. The woman was apparently a friend of Malcom’s grandson, Quinn, and his ballerina wife, Sofia Koslov McNeill. Jasmine had done some PR for the dancer before her marriage to Quinn, helping to boost the woman’s profile in the dance world.

  That news was, perhaps, fresher in Brock’s mind than everyone else’s. To him, it felt like the Manhattan branch of the family had been making headlines just last week.

  Cody, the older of the twins, rose from his chair at the table and stared out the front window toward the driveway and the darkened fields beyond. “Are you suggesting we manufacture a story to take the spotlight off us?”

  “Not manufacture.” Jasmine sounded offended. “It has to be a real story, but something big enough to change the narrative. Maybe news about a land deal, or some kind of update about the film?”

  Brock wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing on a good day. And today had sucked the will—and the memories—right out of him. He needed to get out of the house where all the talk of the blackmail scheme and the film confused him. Figure out how in the hell he was going to combat amnesia.

  And coax Hannah Ryder into helping him remember what had happened between them, since that memory promised to be more enticing than any other.

  “I can’t do this now,” he announced to the room at large, regretting that he couldn’t be a better family member on a day when his siblings needed him. “My head is throbbing and I can’t think straight, so I’m not going to be any help to the cause tonight.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been a disappointment to his father. The youngest son who flew under the radar was also the one who contributed the least to the ranching operations. Brock’s quarter horse program wasn’t about raising cattle or increasing herd production.

  But it was what he knew best.

  Pivoting on his heel, he headed for the exit, already making plans to text Hannah. He’d take a good horse from his father’s stable to ride home, unconcerned about the doctor’s orders since he was practically born in a saddle. He’d ride past the cabin where Hannah said she was staying since she was practically on the way.

  As he was turning the handle, a knock sounded from the other side of the door. He opened it to find a slender brunette in running shorts and a sweatshirt. Her cheeks were pink, her forehead glistening like she’d been sweating. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, like maybe she’d been crying.

  “Hey, Brock,” she said softly, edging past him into the room.

  He had no idea who she was.

  But the way Carson charged toward her, concern etched on his features, told Brock it was someone important to the younger of the twins.

  “Emma, what’s wrong?”

  Brock hesitated to leave when everyone else’s eyes were glued on the newcomer as Carson wrapped her in his arms.

  “It’s my mother,” she said, glancing around the room at the rest of the family, her gaze finally settling on him. “Brock, you weren’t here three days ago when I was sitting with your mother and recognized the picture in her locket—it’s of the woman we now know is her mother, Barbara Harris.”

  Brock knew the locket his stepmother had always worn. But how the hell could one of Carson’s girlfriends identify the face of an actress who hadn’t made a film in decades? He nodded, though, unwilling to give away how lost he was, how thoroughly his memories had been stolen by the blow to his head. Although he had to admit, all of this news would be hard to follow even on a normal day.

  “I called Mom to talk to her about it since she worked as a maid in the Venturas’ home for years.” Emma used her long sleeve to swipe at her eyes. “And it turns out Mom is in town. She flew here—to Cheyenne—the day before the second blackmail note was delivered to Paige.”

  A silence followed. And when no more explanation seemed forthcoming, Maisie stepp
ed closer to Emma.

  “I don’t understand.” Maisie’s uncomprehending gaze went from Emma to Carson and back again. “Your mom missed you? She came to see the filming?”

  “It’s not that.” Sniffling, Emma shook her head and straightened. “My mother had an affair with her boss—Emilio Ventura—long ago. She’s always been a little obsessed with him, and she’s fought manic depressive disorder my whole life,” she clarified. “The fact that my mother is here, in Cheyenne, when the demand for money was sent to Paige from this town, makes me very concerned that my mother could be the blackmailer.”

  Six

  As he left his father’s house, Brock gave up trying to put the pieces of the blackmail drama together. He wouldn’t be any help tonight when he couldn’t even identify some of the people in the room.

  Maisie made a half-hearted effort to call him back to the house, asking if he was okay or if he needed a ride home. But his father’s stable would have a horse that could get him home. The animals raised on-site made the trek between the Black Creek Ranch and the Creek Spill with regularity, and Brock’s house was in between, right on the river.

  Not to mention, he’d trained most of the quarter horses personally for the past six years. His successful breeding and training program had given him his own domain within the ranching operation, allowing him autonomy despite all the ways the McNeill businesses intersected and overlapped.

  Even concussed and suffering amnesia, he understood horses far better than his family.

  He saddled a buckskin mare, Aurora, in the closest stall, taking pleasure from the details he remembered about the animal’s heritage, facts that came to mind easily. She was five years old, and one of the offspring of the ranch’s most prolific sire. Smart and athletic, Aurora was everything Brock enjoyed about the breed.

  When he led her outside into the cool summer night, he had only to nudge her in the direction of the path to his house—a finished home now, according to the photos he’d seen in his phone. The last Brock recalled, he had been framing in the walls, so to see the thing finished had been jarring. He was anxious to see it in person, to see if those photos were real.