His throat was parched. He turned back toward the hall to see Alice, rubbing her arms and hugging her waist—which he'd realized was a nervous habit—in conversation with Jennifer. Alice wasn't happy, but then he wouldn't want to talk to Peter's girlfriend either. Perhaps he'd been too judgmental with Alice earlier.
Of all Vicki's friends, only Alice had a smile which promised picnics and a home, complete with a rug and fireplace.
Right now she was the only thing that beamed any light into this place. He walked ahead until he saw Mitch Morgan.
The expression on his father's face as he lay in the casket read in his mind like "suckers". He'd assume multiple Presidents would be here, and that his son would show up too. Once again, Mitch Morgan won, just as he always did.
The rocks in his stomach churned. John leaned toward his father's corpse and whispered, "I guess Vicki avenged her own death. I'm happy someone, even if it was yourself, brought you down."
Souls might not go into the depths of fiery damnation, but if anyone deserved it, his father did. John stood up, seeing that he was alone. No one had heard. John swung around. His gaze met Alice's in the hallway. Her blue eyes held concern, but then she turned away.
A life with someone like her would be so different from everything he'd known. She'd guessed he'd turned out to be a professional poker player. He tugged on his ear. Alice seemed genuine, a rare diamond amongst the dark coals.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. The tension in his neck sent pains down his spine. He had to get away from these people, from this place, from his father. He took a step toward Alice, to apologize, but Peter overshadowed her standing at the door of the hall.
Now wasn't a good time to talk with him. John saw Peter's gaze shift to their father's casket. It must be his turn to say goodbye.
John stepped aside. He'd talk to Peter about this charade later. There was absolutely no way he'd stay at the mansion or in that house listed under his name that his father bought him. Tonight he'd disappear to a hotel nearby.
Tomorrow's funeral would be harder.
He watched as Alice excused herself from Jennifer and walked into the ladies room. When Jennifer wasn't smiling for an audience, her scowl seemed permanently embedded on her face.
Memories and old opinions flooded his brain. John needed fresh air to breathe. He strode past Peter and into the hall. A few minutes later, he found Alice talking to the last President as she clutched the pendant of her necklace.
At least Alice would have a story to share with her future children about meeting a former President. Most people John had met these past few years turned green and averted their eyes when he mentioned weekend stays at the White House. His neck tingled as he turned away to head to the door.
At Vicki's funeral, Alice had been sad, though she found time to check on him. Before he left for the early evening, he'd talk to her one more time.
Outside, the hot Florida sun beat down in the parking lot. He stepped into the crushing humidity, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Here, he could think. He took off his jacket, but stilled as leaves crunched in the distant woods. He narrowed his gaze. If someone wanted to hurt them, they'd hide there.
It had to be the Secret Service keeping watch. His FBI badge weighed down his pants. Responsibility tore at him as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and took his gun from the slim side holster, revealing the badge clipped to the top of his slacks.
That life seemed over now. Miami, despite all its problems, was home. He'd needed change.
He'd think about this later. First, he'd go back in to talk to Peter and then he'd find a good drink to calm him down. The hotel had a bar. With luck, he'd be there soon. Tequila.
The hot, sticky sun made his palms moist. He put his gun in his back holster and untensed his fingers. He hadn't realized he was this wound up. He rolled his shoulders and tried to calm his thoughts.
The FBI had no more place in his life.
His father had once said he'd be a business failure. John fixed his tie and buttoned his suit coat to ensure his gun was hidden. It was time to prove him wrong.
From outside in the middle of the parking lot, he looked into the lobby. A young man was speaking to Alice. A blush stained her cheeks as she smiled at him.
Something ate at his gut as he headed back toward the funeral home.
John stopped walking when his phone rang and he took it from his back pocket. Fire spread through his veins as he read his caller ID and saw his boss's name. "Hello."
Smith asked in sharp, clipped words, "Where are you?"
This was another reason to change. His new boss was a complete jerk. He started walking again, the parking lot at his back. "I'm at my father's wake."
His hands itched and he noticed a dark smudge of residue from handling his gun on his thumb and fingers. He wiped it clean on the hem of his suit coat while his other hand held his phone to his ear as Smith said, "We need you back here, now."
Goosebumps grew on his arms. John's gut told him to check everything and everyone out, but he let it go. He leaned against the funeral parlor door, intending to go back in as soon as he ended the call. He'd told Alice about the million-dollar offer from his dad, which had been his reason to avoid business.
His foot tapped against the door. He'd realized then that his father would control him through money, just like he did Peter. Mitch Morgan expected nothing from him, which had always suited him fine.
Now that Mitch was dead, perhaps he could prove that he understood accounting better than anyone expected. He transformed his millions into one and a half billion dollars from investing without truly caring if he lost it all. He never lost, though. The idea lightning-rodded in his mind that he could now prove he fit his last name. His fingers itched to begin something new. "I told you I was taking a two-week break. I have enough earned leave."
"Bereavement is meant for those who actually cared about their family." Smith sounded spiteful.
Alice, who he saw through the door was still talking to the same man, was the opposite. Years ago, she'd grieved with him over Vicki. The late afternoon heat on his back pushed him to go inside. He swallowed.
Special Agent Smith was unnecessary. The man had been rude the moment he'd been assigned to the Georgia office. "You have no idea what I'm feeling."
Alice noticed him from behind the glass window. The guy she stood with stared back and forth between them. John recognized him from high school, but his name escaped him.
Then his boss yelled, "Your brother will be knee-deep in whatever caused you to hate your dad."
Peter might be. John didn't trust him, but he wasn't the one who killed Vicki. At worst, he'd covered up for their dad. Now wasn't the time. He broke the visual connection with Alice. "Now, I don't know that. So how would you?"
"It's obvious."
His boss's words were the final straw. "No. I wish it was." John's muscles tightened in readiness as he turned away from the glass, patting his concealed weapon. "I'm resigning."
His boss didn't try to hide the derision in his voice. "It took twenty-four hours for the money to call you back in."
He held his head high. John's memory flashed to Alice's blue eyes that shone brighter than the sun. Then his shoulders tightened. "Whatever. I'm through with the FBI."
"Rich kids like you should never have been allowed in my office anyhow."
The ringing sensation in his ears along with the fluttering of relief in his chest told him he'd done the right thing. He kept his feelings about his boss to himself. He had nothing in Atlanta or anywhere that was in his small apartment. He had no reason to return. "I'll come in to drop things off when I'm done here."
"Don't bother. I'll send an agent."
A weight lifted off his shoulders. He widened his stance. "Great. Makes my life easier."
John ended the call. In one conversation, he'd changed. He texted the Morgan cleaning service to open his house for him and settle in there. Turning back to the entryway, John sa
w Alice through the rectangular glass smiling at whatever the man said. John opened the funeral home doors and strolled into the cold air conditioning. The chill made life possible in the subtropics. John chuckled to himself. His father was like the humid air, a blanket of smothering, oppressive heat that had suffocated his life.
Without that weight, John was a different person.
People stared at him, a member of the House of Morgan, but he didn't care.
Alice left the man she'd been talking with and stood next to him. "Are you okay, John?"
He stopped laughing. She must think him crazy. Her flawless skin glowed against her smooth brown hair, angled at her chin. No one ever seemed so sweet. "Yeah. Alice, we have to talk later, if that's okay."
Her lips pressed together. "We'll see."
That sounded like he was dismissed, but she was too polite to say so. John stared at the other guy who waited for her as he held two glasses of wine.
Emptiness filled him as Alice went back to her friend.
John's back straightened as Peter approached. Perhaps his boss at the FBI was easier to talk to than his brown-eyed, too-serious brother. Peter stopped in front of him. "John."
This was a conversation he wanted to avoid, but knew he couldn't. He hesitated as heaviness settled in his stomach. "Peter."
His brother hesitated too, his gaze going to Jennifer who took a step toward them, but Peter shook his head. Then he swallowed and asked, "Can we go somewhere to talk for a minute?"
They had nothing good to say to each other. They never had, but Peter approached a side room and John followed. Peter standing next to Mitch at every "family" meeting replayed in his memory. His brother, the model son, rarely said anything. John closed the door behind them in a small room with no windows.
This was too much. John ran his hand through his hair and sat in the chair across from his brother. "Am I here for this event so we can play perfect family?"
"No." Peter stared at him but said nothing else.
John swallowed as his heart raced. "Then why? Because Dad wanted me for this?"
"I wanted you here. The will reading is in a few days."
"How exciting for you." John pursed his lips. Everyone knew Peter would inherit the company. He'd get whatever second sons get, and nothing else. John fidgeted with the keys in his pocket as he wondered if he took a position in Dad's companies, then he might prove their father wrong about him.
"This was never what I wanted," Peter said.
Yes it was. Peter had earned every penny of his inheritance.
Part of John wanted to shout that he'd start his own business, but then he realized that Peter wasn't their dad. He owed him no explanations. John held back his thoughts and fiddled with the top button of his shirt. "Are you sure you care one way or the other? We don't have to play happy home life. I know I don't want to."
Peter rolled his shoulders, his eyes wide. "So we continue to be rude? It's not like we know each other."
Someone knocked at the door. John loosened his tie. The room was suffocating. Peter stood up and walked across the room. Jennifer whispered, "The President has arrived and you need to greet him."
Peter nodded, but then he silently dismissed his girlfriend. John wondered if he'd be dismissed like that once whatever Peter wanted was done. Peter closed the door. Without a word, he sat back down.
John leaned forward. "That's absolutely true. We don't know anything about each other."
"You went to work for the FBI."
John inhaled. Despite how he was in college and Peter was away in grad school, their father confided and trusted only in Peter. He was the heir and Peter kept their father's secrets. John assumed their father told him about John's FBI career, but then again perhaps they only noticed him because of the multiple arrests he'd made of Mitch's colleagues. Peter sat back in his chair as John nodded. "I did. I wanted to arrest Dad. Should I have gone after you?"
"I didn't kill Victoria. I miss our sister as much as you."
John winced. Score one for Peter. Then he reclaimed his righteousness. "Why bring her up now?"
"She's why you joined the FBI."
There was no reason to deny anything. John said, "True. She was the only one who treated me as family."
His brother shifted his weight as he averted his gaze. "I never knew how to ... we never spoke the same language."
John redid his tie. In a moment they'd go back out. "No, you were always off with Dad."
"I did whatever he wanted, but I wasn't allowed to do most of what you did."
He re-crossed his legs. No one would feel sorry for Peter. John simply said, "I guess we all have our issues."
"I'm worried Father left things to you."
Like what? At least this was the truth and the real reason Peter wanted him here. John's shoulders tensed. Was Peter concerned that there was an off-chance he wasn't the crown prince? John stood up. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I don't want it."
Peter stared at the door and not at him. "I've never had a secret life, y'know. I'm not like you."
The FBI and football were hardly a secret. His family never came to any games, even if he was featured in the newspaper. His father and brother were always too busy for trivialities like that. Mitch disowned him once John joined the FBI. Red-hot fire rushed into his blood. "You could have left Dad in the dust years ago to do your own thing."
The tsk in his brother's voice echoed their father's. John's lip curled as Peter said, "While you were outside playing football, I was stuck inside making sure Dad's books were balanced."
Perhaps there was another side to their story, but feeling sympathy for Peter? He crossed his arms. "You could have come outside."
"No, I couldn't. If I didn't comply, he'd have gone after either you or Victoria, leaving none of us the option for fun."
John froze. Peter had no right to talk about their sister as if he was protecting her. He hadn't cared what happened. "You weren't some hero. Vicki's dead, just like our mom."
"I don't want to bring her up," Peter said. "Mom didn't die. She walked out the door and never came home."
John lifted his chin. Peter sounded like their father, and he'd not let his guard down. No, now was not the time. He refused to share his plans with Peter and argue with his brother about the past. He looked at his watch. In twenty minutes, whoever Peter hired to speak would start. Their father didn't have one person here who truly mourned for him. He glanced at the door. "We should go. Why aren't you speaking?"
"Why aren't you?""
Did you need me to answer that?"
Peter nodded. "The funeral is tomorrow. That's where my strengths have to be. I am glad you're here."
John stilled. Strengths were for important matters. "Why? Are you giving the eulogy then?"
"Someone has to. You have every right to speak if you want."
No. Peter was welcome to pretend to care, but if John spoke he'd accuse his father of murder in front of the enormous crowd. John refused to be that spectacle. His father didn't deserve that he humiliate himself on top of everything else. "Absolutely not."
Peter breathed deep and got to his feet. "Then it has to be me."
Standing as well, John shook his head, his hand on the door. "No, it doesn't. The church can be silent or we can just let the President have his say and whoever else wishes to tell us how Dad was a wonderful, salt-of-the-earth type of guy."
Peter's dark eyebrows quirked. "Salt of the earth? Who would say that?"
He smiled. At least Peter wasn't a complete fool. "I'm sure someone."
Peter lowered his face and kept his voice low. "I'm tired of fighting, John."
They never spoke, so they never fought. John pressed his lips together. Peter had a plan. He shouldn't care, but what if his brother was telling the truth? John opened the door. "Me, too. I'm not staying for the hired performer tonight. I'm exhausted. Bye."
Peter walked behind him. "I'll see you tomorrow."
John's gaze landed on Alice as she
slipped out the front door. He sighed. The only light in this place was now gone. John stared at the room full of strangers as Peter walked away with his girlfriend on his arm. John's hands clenched. He'd show up tomorrow. Whatever Peter thought their father might bequeath him left him with nothing but guesses.
Chapter Four
Alice picked up her phone and then put it down. She'd call her mother after she checked into the hotel. She handed over the SUV keys to the valet and ignored his nose curl. She'd still tip the man, but so what if she didn't drive a Maserati like the customer behind her?
She filed the paperwork and tucked her phone in her purse as the late afternoon sky suffocated the air. Her mother had told her to call right after the wake, but if she dialed, Ellie would chirp louder than the wild parrots in the palm trees above her head. Ellie Collins could wait.
The tropical paradise of this deluxe hotel offered a stark contrast to the funeral home. The clear blue sky with spots of white clouds and happy birds in palm trees helped steal the tension from her body.
She strolled past the fountain and into a marble-floored lobby. The Biltmore was iconic old Miami, built in the 1920s with lofted ceilings, an inner courtyard famous for its outside seating, unlimited Bellinis for Sunday brunch, and one of the best spas in the country. Her heels sank into the plush red carpet as she walked toward the mahogany desk to check in.
She gazed through the French doors to the outside tropical paradise which enticed her with the sound of bubbling water. For one night, she was living it up, and she intended to take a long swim in the morning in that perfectly blue pool.
A dip in the waters would help her forget all about John Morgan and that wake. Tonight, she'd dream that John Morgan's lips touched hers. Of course they hadn't, but her lips tingled with a long-ago high school memory.
Her mother would tell her to never see or think about John Morgan. Ellie had serious issues with the House of Morgan that extended to all of their children. Mom hadn't even been sad when Vicki died. Instead she'd been stoic and not said a word as Alice cried that her childhood friend was dead.
Secret Crush (The House of Morgan Book 1) Page 3
