“I want you to be…” He appears to think over his words, though I know Tor thinks over nothing, always knowing instead. “Off-kilter for this meeting, to seem unsure. And you—” He licks and bites along my skin, and I shudder with mingled pain and arousal.
His finger hooks inside me, and I gasp.
“Lisbeth, you are anything but uncertain.” His hand turns, and his thumb enters my ass. He lifts me until my toes skim the floor.
“Spread yourself, Lisbeth.”
I do.
And Tor does unspeakable things, things he's never done before.
*
I cry after he's through. Tor's never hurt me like he did this evening. But he knows what I need to experience to behave in an authentic way.
I am an hour from seeing my sister for the first time since we were separated as infants. Oh, I've seen plenty of her in ways she could never know.
I've had a front-row seat to the depths of her depravation. I’ve hated her triumphs and rejoiced at her failures.
But this…
This meeting, which an unsuspecting Paco orchestrated, this will be the coup de grâce.
I needed Tor's abuse.
I limp to my wardrobe and grab the tube of ointment I keep for such interludes with Tor, when I must persevere in order to grow.
I whimper as I apply the soothing balm to my most intimate parts. My hands are shaking when I am through.
They do not come away with blood, but I have never been used so viciously. And I am tender.
I am also ready.
There will be no fighting tonight, only lying.
Deceit is a dance I execute expertly.
*
Greta
I come to slowly. From the fog of my mind, handsome features move together.
First they are only a blur, then they solidify into skin kissed by olives, green eyes that are brilliant and deep, not pale and frightening, and hair so black that it rivals a raven's wing.
A dimple where an angel kissed him graces a square jaw. Paco's heritage is on every chiseled inch.
I ache to touch him.
Then my memories rush into the vacuum of my empty mind: my dead sister has come to life; Tor is supposedly a criminal.
I stiffen and a sigh breaks the seal of Paco's lips. I try to sit up, and the room spins.
Tallinn's dark hand offers water, and I take it in greedy gulps. My eyes trace over where I find myself—in my own room.
So much for safety. I tried to meet with Paco on neutral ground, only to find myself inside my room with two strange men.
Paco leans back, and my hands find their way to my sides.
I caress the coverlet nervously.
He watches me with careful eyes. I can't read his expression, and I find I want to, very much.
My gaze shifts to Tallinn, and my stomach twists with apprehension.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
He throws his palms up by his head in the universal move that says, “Don't shoot the messenger.” Tallinn appears shamefaced, ducking his chin. “I'm his bodyguard, Greta. I need to know what I can about everyone he meets. If it matters, I've known for a while, and didn't say anything.”
My fingers bite into the cloth. “Why?” I ask softly. He could have told Paco from the get-go that I was damaged goods. I can hear Gia's protests at my thoughts, but I tamp down on her internal monologue.
“Need to know.” His dark eyes meet mine. “It wasn't important that Paco knew.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Then it was.”
Tears spill over my lashes, and I cover my mouth with my hand.
“Tallinn doesn't wound intentionally.”
In my wavering vision, Paco shoots Tallinn an incendiary glance. Tallinn clears his throat, glaring back at the one he protects.
I let my trembling hands drop. “Now you know,” I say softly. My embarrassment is so deep, there's not a breath I can take without the taste of it between us.
I look into his eyes, steeling myself for the condemnation. But there is only quiet compassion. A breath slides out that I didn't realize I'd been holding.
Paco clasps my hands in his own and raises them to his face in a gesture not unlike Tor’s—but somehow so different. A soft kiss that is hardly more than warm breath shivers across my skin. “The crime against you changes nothing.”
I shake my head. Everything is moving too fast. I don't know who I can trust.
“Listen to me, Greta,” Paco says.
I meet his bottomless stare. “I don't think I can stand any more revelations, Paco.”
“I am more sorry than I can say.” Then he tells me what happened to him in his home country.
The Narco. Their bribery. His people will die if Lisbeth isn't killed.
Or is it me? I ask.
He gives a soft shake of his head. “They only know of her. But if they knew of you? Would it not be the same consequence?” His question is pertinent, inciting me to agree.
“Probably,” I admit, searching his clear, dark-green eyes. I can't lie—his looks put me at ease. It shouldn't be that simple. But from him and Tallinn, who are both men of color, I don't feel criminal intent.
Not that I had before, when an unknown man roofied my peach schnapps. Of course, before I didn’t know about roofies or how they blend so seamlessly with alcohol.
My throat makes a snapping sound as I swallow the painful memory, and Tallinn shoves the glass of water back in my face. I smile gratefully and take a small sip.
I clasp the heavy smooth tumbler between my fingers, grateful for something solid to hang onto.
“So now what?” I ask, hating the broken note in my voice.
Paco strokes my knuckles lightly, and my skin rises in responsive pebbles of flesh. My mouth trembles, and water fills my eyes.
The man moves me. It's undeniable.
But distrust is a burr in my brain. I don't know if I'll ever have one without the other.
Paco allows me my emotions and doesn't comment on my response to him.
Instead he drops the bomb. “Lisbeth has agreed to come here and meet with you. Then I must take her to a preordained doctor.”
I gulp again, sucking in precious oxygen. My head spins with what he's told me. “I-I can't believe Lisbeth is alive.”
Paco looks me dead in the eye. “She will not be for long if we don't circumvent the people that would see her—or you—dead.”
He squeezes my hand.
“I—Father did not say that she was alive. It was—” I flick a glance at Tallinn, then my eyes return to Paco. Tallinn must already know about my inheritance. If he knows about the attack, he'll know this. “I was to inherit his company at thirty.”
Tallinn shrugs. “Public knowledge with a little digging. Also, now that Lisbeth has revealed herself, a simple DNA sample will prove her as your twin, and she would stand to inherit, too.”
I look down at my hands woven together with Paco's. “Five hundred billion.”
Tallinn whistles, and Paco's eyes shoot daggers. “Sorry, dude, that's some cold hard cash. Very attractive to anyone. Just saying.”
“Well, do not say. Greta does not need—” Paco lifts a shoulder, his hands still twined with my fingers.
Our pulses beat together, the inside of our wrists touching.
“I'm okay.” I focus on my breathing. “So if Lisbeth can be what? Crossed off as dead? Then they'll be happy? What about her claiming the inheritance?”
“What are your feelings on this matter?” Paco asks cautiously.
That's a no-brainer. “I could care less. I think she should have her half.”
Paco relaxes, and I look between them. “What?”
Tallinn and Paco exchange a glace. “Lisbeth is very different from you.”
I stifle a snort. “Ah, no. We're identical twins.”
Tallinn looks uneasy.
My body stills. “What do you mean ‘different’?”
Tallinn's dark face tightens. “She was raised like a hardened as
sassin. She kicked our asses when we came up against her.”
“Kicked your ass, Tallinn.” Paco's lips lift at the edges.
Tallinn scowls at Paco. He whips his face my way, and I try to hold back the laughter, but it bursts out of me.
“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up. That's right. But that bitch can maim a fella.” He scrubs his nearly bald head.
My smile fades. “Why would she try to hurt you guys?”
Paco straightens, slipping his fingers from mine.
I miss them—and his touch.
It concerns me how needy I am for this guy I just met. I should be thinking about Tor and about the fact that a sister I thought was dead isn't.
“She knew someone was seeking her out. She thought we were them.”
“And now?”
Paco smiles. It utterly changes the hardness of his face into something wild and exotic.
I smile back.
“She wants to know her sister.”
My sister is alive.
“And we want the narco to think we did her in,” Tallinn adds.
Paco gives Tallinn a long-suffering look.
“So”—Paco turns his attention to me again and lifts my cold hand to his warm lips—“this is not a solemn occasion, but one of reuniting.”
I nod, though I'm unsure.
I've never been one to listen to my gut, but all that's changed over the past two years.
“Okay.”
A soft knock on the door startles me.
Paco nods at Tallinn.
“On it, bro.”
Paco shakes his head, but his affection for Tallinn is obvious.
I swing my legs to the edge of the bed and smooth my shaking hands over my wrinkled lightweight wool slacks.
I looked so beautiful for Tor. Now I look like a crumpled tissue.
“You are beautiful, Greta,” Paco says, seeming to read my mind.
He's too perfect, like a fairy tale.
But that's what Zaire Sebastian promised. For fifty million dollars, I had a shot at perfection. Not all claims are real; some are purely fantasy.
I turn as Tallinn opens the door and a stranger glides through the door. She’s not really a stranger, for she looks just like me. But her eyes are cold, like ice that thaws but never truly melts. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light, because in the next moment, strong arms wrap around me, and there's wetness at my neck.
Our sadness and joy mingle.
Slowly, my arms come around my sister. It's beautiful to have found her.
And terrifying.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lisbeth
Seeing someone who looks as I do is so strange. She moves her body in the same way and uses the same mannerisms.
I have stared at my reflection more times than I can count, but nothing compares to seeing skin and bone, blood and will encapsulated in a moving, talking, thinking being who is your mirror image.
I release Greta, feeling her soft feminine body slide away, infinitely grateful for the honed athletic body I possess. I wince slightly as I shift my weight, and only the black American is the wiser. His brows come together, noting my mysterious discomfort.
I imagine he attributes my stiffness to our prior fight, where his fists were insufficient to conquer me.
Cock and tongue do a better job.
If a man brings his physicality to the equation, I will always be the victor. But in sex, he might win. Tor has.
I spin in a slow circle, noting the exits, windows, and the stance of the men. Greta has been long dismissed as a threat. Now is the time for me to play the sister.
I cup Greta's face. “I am sorry.”
Her beautiful face, so personifying Norway in its smooth, high-boned, and aquiline arrangement of features. Her platinum hair and clear-blue eyes draw together in a frown of confusion.
“What-what could you possibly be sorry for?”
I shake my head, aiming for demure and finding the pain of my sex helps that along nicely. I bite my lip, eyes cast downward. “I could have reached out. Sought you. But I was too frightened.”
Greta grasps my hands; hers are like ice.
Sometimes extremities are a tell. Greta seems as though she has awoken from a shock.
I flick a calculating glance of at Paco.
My little Spanish dog must have barked about me to Greta. Most recently. I allow my attention to return to Greta.
“Why would Father separate us? Why would he tell me you had died?” Her lip quivers.
I give her a gentle smile, though shaking her is what I really want to do.
There will be time later for all the plans I have for Greta.
“He said he must choose. When I was old enough to understand, he conveyed that his prominent financial status was too risky a threat of exposure, and his two children would be in danger.” I glue my eyes to hers. “That there were those who would use one child against the other. He had me trained to protect myself. And his plan was when I came of age, he would reintroduce us.”
Greta pulls back, looking numb.
I lean closer. “He thought that we could be sisters again. My role would be protector, and yours would be to run the company.”
“The school,” Greta gasps, realization swarming the clear blue of her eyes, making them murky with understanding.
I nod. Now she finally understands the sacrifices involved. And if she does not, she soon will. “He groomed us like protégés.” I add unnecessarily.
Her eyes search mine, and I push false warmth into my usually cold gaze. Her face confirms how my efforts soften the words of my carefully contrived story.
“My boarding school—”
I shrug. “I am the mercenary. You are the scholar.”
“I have nothing of consequence,” Greta says, casting a nervous glance at Paco.
Ah, the Spaniard does not know that Greta's wealth hasn't bought her into Club Alpha.
I viciously suppress a smirk. I'm well aware of the soulmate fantasy for billionaires.
Ridiculous.
I'm not privy to how Greta came to have a slot in the game. It is apparent that Paco does not know her lack of wealth. How attractive would Greta be if he knew that she was not wealthy?
Yet.
Suddenly her love or supposed attraction could be attributed to her want of Castillo's wealth.
Tor orchestrated the timing here. His sources were enough to manufacture the seemingly coincidental events. If it were up to Tor, Greta would have already been dead two years before.
But he spared her for me, for now.
“But why?” Greta asks.
I suppress an eye roll. She is nauseatingly naïve. Her innocence grates on my nerves.
Of course, it may be because I never had any innocence of my own.
Tor met me through unconventional means before I was of age then raped me into compliance—and eventual alliance.
When he was through shaping me like clay into the creation of his making, I was the mercenary soldier Father longed for, though I belonged to Tor. I feel as though I always have.
I remember Greta's question, giving a half-smile of apparent lack of understanding. “I do not know. I think, in his way, he meant to keep us safe. Keep the line of his blood strong, the company's heart beating when he was no longer here.”
Paco interrupts, “I think it's time to talk about falsifying your death to this doctor.” His eyes find mine, and I keep my face impassive.
Greta looks at Paco, as well, her eyes soft. I realize that Tor has not fully captured her heart. Why? He commands everything with an iron fist of manipulation. Something has been said.
By whom?
My eyes narrow on Castillo. Tor dismissed him too easily. But this Mexican coffee mogul has fashioned his wealth into an un-mined diamond.
It is not because his intellect is deficient.
I shift my gaze to the American. He behaves like a rough baboon. But beneath his harsh and boisterous exterior is a sharp mind. His gaze
doesn't leave mine. Tallinn is not stupid, either.
He must die first.
I nod. “Yes, you've told Greta about the narco?”
Tor is dealing with that complication. It must be part of this Club Alpha interference. Still, I can't complain outright; Club Alpha offered camouflage and validity to our appearance. The involvement of the fantasy “game” is what has Castillo and Greta in a state of constant question about what is false and what is real.
Greta's staring at me. I understand why.
I surveyed her on film, in grainy cinematic life, before seeing her in the flesh.
She has never laid eyes on me.
Of course I would be a novel sight.
Look away, dear sister, for I will be the last sight that fills your vision when you take your final breaths.
*
Paco
Tallinn's eyes shift my way, and I ignore him. I know what he is telling me with his gaze.
He does not like Lisbeth.
I should be happy that the woman who is a player in Club Alpha, and the survivor of an unmentionable crime, has found a long-lost relation.
But Zaire Sebastian made a great many things clear. Among them was the idea that nothing is what it seems.
Lisbeth Wesbestad is layered.
Greta is not. And if she is, they are all layers that I want to explore.
Lisbeth is deadly.
Maybe that is why the narco want her dead? Has she insulted the wrong set of ears?
“I know where the doctor is,” Tallinn says.
“Can we pay this doctor off?” I ask Tallinn.
Tallinn nods. “He's a real piece of work, but the narco probably didn't grease his palm the way you could. They wanted you out of Mexico; they want her”—he stabs a finger in Lisbeth's direction—“dead.”
Greta makes a low noise of distress, and I go to stand next to her. “I can't. I just met her. You guys are talking about her dying.”
I take Greta in my arms. Without shoes, she’s so tiny that she fits against my chin perfectly. My eyes meet Lisbeth's over her shoulder.
Her gaze is perfectly blank. But her eyes hold the tightness of injury. I can identify the subtleties of hidden pain anywhere, on anyone.
I have suffered many injuries in my time. No one gets to my level of self-defense without experiencing pain. I feel the frown on my face. We could not have hurt her too badly. Yet Lisbeth does not move with the grace she did hours ago. She moves as though wounded. Her gaze falls from mine as if she's too nervous to hold it. I know that is not the case.
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