Guilty As Sin

by March, Meghan

“Is she okay?”

  “Who?” my sister asks.

  “Mother.”

  “I haven’t talked to her yet today. I’m at work. I wanted to know if you’ve laid the groundwork for me to get Jackie Gable back, or if you’re still working on pulling your head out of your ass.”

  McKinley hasn’t heard, which means she’s a sitting duck.

  “You need to double the security at the resort right now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ricky Rango’s estate filed a request for a paternity test to be performed to prove he was Dad’s biological son.”

  My sister sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you serious? Is that why Whitney came back?”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, if you want to know the absolute truth. But I’m working on pulling my head out of my ass, so I need a favor from you and I don’t want to pull rank.”

  “I’m listening.” Her response is hesitant.

  “I made a mistake this morning, and I need to fix it.”

  “Does this mistake have to do with Whitney Gable again?”

  I don’t know when my sister became so perceptive, but she is. “I need two suites on the VIP level of the resort to put her and her family in. The press is already swarming at my house, and I want to keep the Gables out of the line of fire.”

  McKinley’s quiet for several moments before answering. “As long as Jackie Gable comes back to work for me, you can have whatever rooms you need. We only have a couple VIPs coming in this week, anyway.”

  “Thank you. I owe you, Mac.”

  “Don’t call me that. And whatever you do, don’t let Mother find out until you have a better explanation to give her than you did me. I’ll tell the household staff to hide the newspapers, kill the cable and internet, misplace her cell phone, and tell her the cars are all in for repair, but that’ll only work for so long.”

  A proud smile makes my lips twitch as she runs down the list of all the ways she’s going to cut our mother off from the outside world. It’s shockingly thorough. McKinley has learned well from Commodore on how to manipulate people.

  “I like your plan. I’ll work on finding out what the hell is going on.”

  “You do that. And, Lincoln?”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like for Mother not to have another episode if we can avoid it. None of us wants or needs that right now.”

  “Agreed. I’ll do whatever I can to resolve this as quickly as possible.”

  “Is there . . . is there a chance that Ricky Rango could’ve really been our half brother?”

  I answer with complete honesty. “I don’t know yet. I’m trying not to jump to any more conclusions.”

  “Good. Because you can’t see clearly when Whitney Gable’s involved with anything. Pulling your head out of your ass should help.”

  The most unlikely of smiles tugs at the corner of my mouth again at my sister’s advice. She grew up into a formidable woman when I wasn’t paying attention.

  “Duly noted.” I hang up the call and roll toward the gate. It’s time to run the gauntlet . . . and I’m not referring to the press.

  I need to find Whitney, apologize, and get her to agree to stay at The Gables before the press destroys us all.

  6

  Whitney

  The past

  My big brother’s strong arms rocked me from side to side. His hug was the first thing to shake me loose from the fog I’d been lost in for the last forty-eight hours.

  Ricky had been here nearly twenty hours a day, and would probably never leave, but Aunt Jackie had kicked him out at night and insisted that I sleep. But it was impossible to sleep. Maybe that was why I felt like a walking zombie.

  “I’m so sorry.” I said it to Asa over and over, but I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for anymore—the loss of our parents, or being with Lincoln when it happened. Except . . . Asa didn’t know about Lincoln and me since he’d only just walked in the door.

  My brother released me and stared down at my face. “Do we have any idea what the hell Mom was doing with Riscoff?”

  I looked away, not wanting to acknowledge the obvious, but Asa was no idiot.

  “She couldn’t have been screwing around with him,” he said, answering his own question. “They’ve treated us like shit for years. She wouldn’t.”

  Karma laughed from the kitchen doorway. “Didn’t you hear, cuz? Gable women love the Riscoff dick. Just ask your sister who she’s been sneaking around with.”

  I wanted to punch Karma in the face. She’d been hovering nonstop since Aunt Jackie brought me back to their house from the hospital, like she wanted a front-row seat to my grief. How could anyone be so cruel?

  “Karma, get out of here. Give them some space,” Aunt Jackie snapped, shooing her out of the room as Asa stared at me with disbelief.

  “What is she talking about?”

  I swallowed, not wanting to admit it, but I couldn’t lie to my big brother. I’d never been able to lie to him.

  “Lincoln Riscoff and I . . . we . . .”

  Shock crossed Asa’s face as he took a step back from me. “Fucking hell. This is my fault. I should’ve taken you with me and gotten you out of this town. You deserve better than this. What the fuck did I think was going to happen without anyone to watch out for you?” He shook his head, and I was stunned that he was blaming himself. “You’re not staying here, Whit. We’ll get through the funeral, then you’re leaving with me.”

  Before I could respond, Ricky came up behind me, having entered the house through the front door so quietly I didn’t hear him.

  He threw an arm over my shoulder. “Not necessary, man. She’s coming with me. I fucked up, and I know it. I’m going to take care of her from now on. I promise.”

  I twisted out from under Ricky’s arm, suffocated by the weight of their combined smothering. Why can’t anyone let me decide what I want? Why is everyone always trying to control me?

  I looked from my brother’s face to his best friend’s. They meant well, but it was too much. I just needed space so I could breathe.

  “I can’t talk about this right now.” I took a step toward the kitchen, but Ricky caught my wrist and pulled me against his chest.

  “I’ll take care of you, Whit. No one will ever be able to hurt you again, especially not those fucking Riscoff assholes.”

  My brother watched us both. “Yeah, you fucked up, Ricky. And when you say no one will ever hurt her again, you better mean you too, jackass, or I’ll take you out back and shoot you myself.”

  “I’m sorry, man. Shit got crazy for a little bit. It’s the rock-star way. But Whit and I, we’re a forever thing.”

  I tugged my wrist from his grip and stepped away before he could pull me back. “I’m not having this conversation. Not here. Not now. And not ever, if I have my way.” Ricky and I hadn’t talked about what he’d done, and I’d been too shattered to bring it up until now.

  “Baby, I hurt you and I’m sorry. I know what I have with you is worth so much more. Please, just give me a second chance.”

  I felt like I was being pulled in too many different directions, and it was going to tear my soul to shreds before I found my way.

  “Just stop. Both of you. Let me have some peace!” My tears flowed again, and this time Aunt Jackie rescued me.

  “You boys back off. Asa, I need your help finalizing funeral arrangements. We didn’t want to make decisions without you here.”

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I ran upstairs to Cricket’s room, where I’d been staying.

  My phone showed a missed call. Lincoln.

  I stared at his name. What could he possibly have to say to me?

  Nothing I wanted to hear.

  7

  Whitney

  Present day

  Commodore’s questions become more pointed as Martin guides the Escalade up the mountain roads. I shouldn’t be surprised that the old man waited until we’re out in the middle of nowhere to really begin the inq
uisition.

  “Did he ever say anything about his father?”

  “Ricky never wanted to talk about his dad. Ever,” I say with complete honesty.

  “Did he say if his parents were married?”

  I shake my head, wishing Commodore would quit with the questions. “He didn’t talk about any of it.”

  “Where is his mother now?”

  At least that’s one question I can answer easily. “San Diego. She left Gable and moved down there after Ricky bought her a condo.”

  “But why wait so long to push for a paternity test?” The old man seems lost in thought, and I have no idea how to answer his question. His attention snaps to my face. “How old was Rango when he died?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  The old man’s tanned face loses a few shades of color. “Which means he was born before Roosevelt married Sylvia.” Commodore curses under his breath. “If my son married and divorced that woman without me knowing, her son could’ve been a legitimate Riscoff heir.”

  My stomach twists as he says the words. Oh Jesus. This can’t be—

  Commodore’s heavy hand wraps around my arm, his fingers gripping tightly.

  “What?” I jerk my chin toward him.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  My head flies back at the unexpected question. “No.”

  His gaze drills into me with enough intensity to frighten a hardened killer. “If you lie about this, I’ll make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”

  I keep my voice as even as possible. “I’m not pregnant. I’ll go pee on a stick right now and prove it if you really want.” I yank my arm out of his grip. “But don’t ever touch me again, old man.”

  He gives me a curt nod and looks out the window on his side of the Escalade.

  The wheels in my brain spin out of control. Commodore’s right. The only reason for Ricky’s mother to try to have him legally declared a Riscoff after he died would be to get a cut of their fortune for a child. Ricky’s child. Her grandchild.

  But that child doesn’t exist. Does it?

  Ricky was cheating on me . . .

  This can’t be happening.

  My mind races as question after question flies through my brain until one finally sticks.

  Why would Renee Rango wait until after Ricky died to file a paternity suit?

  The answer seems so blindly obvious, I’m shocked it didn’t occur to me sooner. Ricky was her golden ticket to Easy Street—and now he’s gone, and he left her nothing. She didn’t even have enough money to battle the bank when it went after his future royalties. Royalties for songs I wrote.

  That fact burns now more than ever before.

  “All because of the money . . .” I whisper the words to myself, but Commodore’s hearing is sharp, and his attention turns back to me.

  “Why else would someone cause this big of a mess if they weren’t after money? It always comes back to money.”

  “Not always,” I say. “Some people don’t give a shit about how much money your family has.”

  The old man’s gaze narrows. “You may be the only person who could say that and I might actually believe you.”

  “Believe whatever you want, but if Lincoln’s last name weren’t Riscoff and he didn’t come with a billion-dollar inheritance, things would’ve been a whole lot different ten years ago.”

  “I haven’t settled my will quite yet, girl, so it’s a good thing you’re not attached to him for the money.”

  “I’m not attached to him at all,” I say, my tone full of false confidence.

  “I’d tell you you’re lying, but you already know that.”

  I hate that Commodore calls me out so effectively, but even more, I hate that I’m this affected by Lincoln. I need to exorcise him from my soul. But if I couldn’t do it over the last ten years, how in the hell am I going to do it now?

  “You don’t know shit, old man.”

  “Watch your mouth, girl. That temper of yours will be your downfall. If you let someone make you angry, you give them control over you.”

  “I don’t need your advice on how to live my life. I’m doing just fine on my own.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest as the Escalade rumbles over a bridge, and one of his bushy white eyebrows disappears into his hairline. “You’re a terrible liar, Ms. Gable.” I turn away, but he keeps speaking. “You’d do well to learn that not everyone shares that quality. Be careful who you trust. Most people will never deserve it.”

  “So that’s the Riscoff way? Don’t trust anyone?” I say the words to taunt him, but Commodore nods.

  “Proof before trust. Even with your own blood.”

  He goes quiet as we approach Magnus’s driveway, but my brain is caught on what he just said. This is the man who groomed Lincoln to assume control of an empire from the day he was born. That sentiment has probably been drilled into him over and over.

  I thought Lincoln didn’t trust me because I’m a Gable. But maybe it’s not personal. Lincoln probably doesn’t trust anyone. Even his own family.

  It’s sad . . . but enlightening.

  Martin shifts the SUV into park at the end of Magnus’s driveway. Thankfully, there are no reporters waiting here.

  I reach for the door handle and pause to look at Commodore. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “I would prefer not to have to rescue you a third time, Ms. Gable.”

  “I can see why. White knight isn’t exactly your normal role, despite your hair and beard.”

  One corner of his mouth quirks up.

  “Be careful, old man. You almost smiled.”

  “Good luck, Whitney Gable.” Any lightness fades from his expression. “And what you told me—you tell no one else.”

  I give him a short nod as I climb out of the SUV and shut the door.

  8

  Lincoln

  “Is Cricket with you?” I ask Hunter, the next person on my list to call.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I need your help getting her family to the resort with enough clothes to stay for a few days while things die down, and I need her to pack for Whitney.”

  My friend goes quiet. “While what things die down?”

  “Ricky Rango’s estate is claiming he was not only a Riscoff, but also would have been the rightful heir.”

  “Fuck,” Hunter whispers. “His estate? Does that mean Whitney has something to do with it?”

  “People keep asking me that, and I have no answer for you because she stormed out of my house after I asked her one simple question.”

  Hunter groans. “Please don’t tell me she’s trying to leave town again. You gotta quit fucking up with this girl, man. You’re killing me here.”

  He’s right, but it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. When it comes to Whitney Gable, fucking everything up seems to be what I do best.

  But that’s going to change.

  “I’m doing everything I can to stop that from happening, which is why I need you to bring all of her family to the resort and have Cricket pack Whitney’s bags. I’m on my way to Jackie’s to find her, and I’m guessing the press will be staking it out soon if they aren’t already. They were outside my gate this morning, and I’m doing what I can to keep the Gables out of the line of fire. Putting them up somewhere I can protect them is the best solution I can offer while we figure this mess out.”

  “Is this going to fuck up my wedding and make Cricket unhappy?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  He groans. “That motherfucker Rango. I know I shouldn’t ask, but do you think it’s possible? Could your dad have—”

  It’s one question I haven’t wanted to think about, but knowing my father . . . “Anything’s possible at this point.”

  “And you have no idea if Whitney was in on all of this?”

  I shake my head, but Hunter can’t see it. “No.”

  “And you’re going to protect her family anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “M
aybe you’re finally getting your shit straight then.” He pauses before continuing. “I’ll talk to Cricket about her family. She’ll stay with me until this goes away. I don’t know how we’re going to convince her mom to move into The Gables, though.”

  “Tell her about her promotion and raise. McKinley’s ready to meet with her whenever she’s ready.”

  “All right,” Hunter says. “I’ll see what I can do. I make no promises, though.”

  “One more thing . . .”

  “Do I really want to hear it?” he asks with a healthy dose of skepticism underlying his tone.

  “Your wedding at The Gables?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No charge. Not for a goddamned thing.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Don’t argue. It’s done.”

  As soon as I hang up with Hunter, I head for Jackie Gable’s house. It’s time to fix what I fucked up this morning.

  9

  Whitney

  I knock and wait for the sound of the shotgun cocking. Magnus doesn’t disappoint.

  “Who’s there? If you’re trying to buy my land for that prick next door, you can walk your ass right back to his car.”

  “Uncle Magnus? It’s Whitney.”

  The floorboards creak as he shifts to look through the window. “You playing Benedict Arnold now?”

  “He gave me a ride. I . . . I got caught without one this morning.”

  “Walk of shame? Thought you were old enough to know better, girl.”

  I release a long breath and try to ignore the embarrassment that goes with it. “Can I please come in? Or do you want me to walk my Benedict Arnold-Scarlett Letter ass back down the driveway where the press might see me and descend on you too?”

  He opens the door. “What press? What the hell is going on now?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Magnus eyes me up and down like he’s afraid I’m carrying Riscoff cooties. Which, of course, I am. I mentally add a shower to my list of things I need so I’ll feel less like an idiot.