by Tawna Fenske
“So, Bree, I’ve been curious about something.”
She glances over with a knowing smirk. “I wondered how long it might take you to start asking about James.”
Guilt pings through me. “I’m a shitty friend.”
She laughs and scrubs her hands. “Not at all,” she says. “When Austin and I started dating, I was like a squirrel gathering nuts. Every little tidbit I could get from his childhood friends—who he’d dated, what he was like in high school—was like this perfect little tasty nugget I’d take back to my tree and roll around with my paws to see what I could make of it.” She makes a face. “That sounded weirder than I meant it to.”
Relief washes through me as I dry my hands on a paper towel. “You really don’t mind if I ask you a few things?”
“Ask away.” She towels off her own hands and leans back against the wall, hands braced over her belly. “I mean, I won’t tell you anything super-personal, but it’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t know much.”
That right there tells me something. “You mean because you and James didn’t see each other much growing up?”
“Well, that,” she says carefully. “But James has always been sort of a closed book. I could tell you plenty about Mark or Sean or Jonathan, but James—he’s different.”
“More of a mystery?”
“Yep.” Her smile is a little sad. “That doesn’t come as a surprise, does it?”
“No.” Truth be told, I’m relieved. The bits and pieces he’s shared about himself, those mean something. They mean more if they aren’t offered up willingly to just anyone.
“Let’s see,” she says, glancing up at the ceiling. “I don’t know much about his past girlfriends. Or anything, really.” She laughs and shakes her head. “How lame is that? I don’t even know if he’s had a serious girlfriend.”
“He hasn’t talked about it with me, either.” I can’t decide whether to feel relieved I’m not the only one he’s holding back with or concerned he’s not opening up.
And really, does it matter? We’re just sleeping together, it’s not like we’re in a relationship.
A tiny spear of melancholy slides between my ribs and into my heart. “We’re not even really dating,” I tell Bree as much as myself. “Not like he owes me his life story or anything.”
“He won’t even open up with the counselor,” she says.
“Counselor?”
“Yeah, I made us all do this family counseling thing,” she says. “We’ve only had one session so far because James keeps dragging his feet on setting another date.”
This doesn’t surprise me, either. “Is there something that made him like that, you think?”
She shrugs. “Beats me. He won’t even talk about that.”
I guess I’m not surprised James Bracelyn is sealed up tighter than a clam with lockjaw. “How about his relationship with your father?” I ask. “I get the sense they were tight.”
She looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure ‘tight’ is the right word, exactly,” she says. “Dad treated him like James was his own personal attorney. This is before James even was an attorney—we’re talking grade school.”
“Your father sought legal advice from someone who still had a bedtime?”
“Not legal advice, necessarily,” she says. “But he always treated him more like a business associate than a son. I suppose that might have something to do with why James is such a tight-ass.”
I shouldn’t be thinking about James’s ass when I’m talking with his sister, but my brain flashes on a picture of his buns in dress slacks. Or the way I gripped his ass last night as he—
“Are you having porny thoughts about my brother right now?”
“Er, maybe?”
She just laughs. “I suppose he is hot in that billionaire tycoon way.” She shakes her head. “When you have this many brothers who are all stupidly good-looking, you get used to girls ogling them.”
“Was it weird being the only girl?”
“Sometimes.” She leans back against the counter, considering. “I kind of liked it when I was little. I got to be the special princess. You were an only child, right?”
“Yep. I guess I was always the princess.”
Bree nods. “I did sometimes wonder what it would be like having a sister. Maybe that’s why I’m so happy to have this great group of girlfriends here.”
The wistfulness in her voice makes me reluctant to steer the conversation back to James. Back to the thing I’ve most been wanting to ask her, but can’t bring myself to voice.
“Do you picture James settling down, getting married, that whole mess?”
“No.” Bree doesn’t even hesitate. “Not really. I could picture it with Sean and Mark and even Jonathan, but James—” She shrugs. “Not really his thing.”
That’s it. The answer I’m always hoping for when I ask this question about a man I’m seeing. Bree knows this about me. Knows my history of avoiding relationships like the plague.
Why do the words sting this time?
“That’s great,” I offer with forced cheer as I run my hands under the water. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Bree watches me with careful scrutiny. “I know you’ve kicked a lot of guys to the curb at the first sign of getting serious, so I figured you’d be glad.”
“Totally.” I scrub some more soap in my palms. “Such a relief.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Didn’t you already wash your hands?”
“Oh. Right.” I shut off the water and grab another paper towel. “You can never be too careful in a school. Tons of germs, you know?”
“Oh, I know.” The smile she gives me has nothing to do with germs. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get back to career day.”
This time, it’s Bree leading the way down the hall.
This time, I’m the one with no idea where I’m headed.
Chapter 12
JAMES
I drag my feet for three days deciding how to contact Lady Isabella Blankenship.
It’s partly that I’m enjoying Lily too much to kill my mood by picking up the phone to inform a royal-blooded stranger I’m her long-lost brother.
The phone isn’t the best way to handle it, anyway. Too much risk involved, too many ways things could go sideways.
Years ago, when my dad brought me into the loop about this illegitimate daughter, he was adamant about keeping things hushed up. Not for his sake, but hers.
But now that she knows and is researching her heritage, it’s time to take control of the situation. I’ve gotten things rolling with a secure, encrypted message arranging a time for a video call. In person would be better, but it’s not an option right now with Isabella in the midst of some royal ball that would likely make Bracelyn gatherings look like trailer park cookouts.
I glance at my watch, ready to get this over with.
Jiggling the mouse to wake up my computer, I toggle to the secure system for private video conferencing. Not that I have any delusions it couldn’t be hacked or that any third grader with an iPhone couldn’t nab a screenshot.
But suffice it to say, privacy and security are two things I’ve learned to protect as much as possible over the years.
The call goes through with three long buzzes. Then my screen flickers to life.
“Hello?” A petite, dark-haired woman flashes onto the screen. Green eyes glint with a combination of nerves and curiosity, and her dark hair reminds me of Bree’s. The color of her eyes, the shape of her face, leave little doubt who sired her.
Not that I had any doubt. I wouldn’t be making this call if I did.
“Lady Blankenship.” I clear my throat. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“Please, call me Isabella.” She bursts out laughing, dark hair falling around her shoulders. “Oh my God, I’m actually speaking with you.” She shakes her head in wonder. “I still can’t get over this.”
That makes two of us. Her voice is bright with the
faintest trace of an accent. Not British, but clipped and melodic like that.
I clear my throat. “You’re in a secure area?”
“Very much so,” she says. “I rented a private suite at the Ritz Carlton. If anyone tracks me, I’ll tell them I’m here having a tryst with Idris Elba.”
“Perfect.” I take a deep breath. “I suppose you have questions.”
I should probably ease in with more flair, but there’s no point making small talk. She’s spent a couple decades not knowing a thing about our family or her connection to it. No sense wasting time.
Isabella shifts a little in her seat. “Your message spelled out the essentials, of course,” she says. “I’ll be honest; at first I thought it was all some grand extortion scheme.”
“I can assure you that’s not the case.”
“You don’t have to assure me,” she says. “I did my due diligence on your family. As I assume you did with mine.”
I nod once, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. I’m glad we’re not going to beat around the bush with this. “The family you’ve been raised by is…of considerable means. As is the Bracelyn family.”
I’m trying to be careful here, not to use terms like “your family” and “our family.” If she wants a relationship with us, it’s key not to make her feel like an outsider.
Isabella’s laugh fizzes up the same way Bree’s does, like bubbles in a glass of Dom Pérignon. The Oenothéque Rosé, not the Réserve d L’Abbaye.
“So clearly this isn’t a financial shakedown from either side.” She tucks a dark wave behind an ear. “Let me be clear about that up front. I don’t want anything monetarily. Inheritance or a share of your resort or any of that. That’s not why I began the process of searching for my biological father.”
Her candor rinses away a few more of my reservations about this whole thing, and I find myself starting to like Isabella. Not as a mystery sister, but as a person. “Why did you start looking?” I ask.
There’s a long pause. I appreciate that she takes a long time collecting her words. “Have you ever had the sense that something’s not quite right in your life? I mean, you’re happy, you have family around you, but there’s this piece that’s missing. You might not even know it’s missing until it suddenly pops up like some magical genie.”
My breath stalls out in my chest. I don’t realize it until lightheadedness sets in, and I force myself to breathe again. “Um, yes.”
Lily. I’m thinking of Lily.
But Isabella frowns and adjusts her laptop. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all. Just some—um, personal stuff.”
She hesitates, probably waiting for me to continue. To share something from my own life.
“Go on,” I tell her. “I’d love to hear the rest of your story.”
She pauses another beat or two, then continues. “I guess for years I felt like something was missing. I couldn’t have described what it was or even said if it was a real feeling or just general restlessness.” She bites her lip, hesitating again. “When I learned from my mother that my father—Duke Dovlano, I mean—that he wasn’t my biological father, I think she expected me to react poorly. But my first thought was simply, ‘ah, this makes sense.’”
“You mean you suspected something?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” There’s a hint of caution in her voice. “But so many things suddenly clicked into place. And when I got your message, I can’t explain it, but I felt this—this sense of belonging.” Her laugh is self-conscious, and she fusses with her hair again. “Is that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?”
My heart burns with the struggle to keep focus on this conversation. To stop thinking about Lily and how closely Isabella’s words describe what I’m feeling for Lily. “Has there been any fallout?” I ask. “From your learning that the man raising you—your mother’s husband—wasn’t your father?”
“He’ll always be my father,” she says quickly.
“Of course.” Dumb of me to stick my foot in my mouth like that. I know plenty about DNA not being a requirement of family. All I have to do is look next door where Mark is busy being the best damn father on the planet to his stepdaughter.
“Thus far, we’ve been able to keep the information private.” Her voice is clipped and formal, and I sense this isn’t something she wants to discuss. “The Duke—my father—would prefer to pretend none of this has come to light.”
Lord knows I know plenty about families wanting to keep secrets stuffed away in a box. “Understood.” I fold my hands on the desk. “Did you have any questions for me about our—that is, about Cort Bracelyn?”
Again, she hesitates. “What was he like? Aside from things I read on the internet or learned through my private investigator.”
Ah, so that’s it. That’s why my father got nervous. The worry that a PI would sniff out the same trail of breadcrumbs that led me to learn he’d faked his own death.
What was he like?
I roll Isabella’s question around in my mind. “He could be a real asshole,” I admit.
Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Sorry,” I add quickly. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but I have to be honest.”
“So you—didn’t get along?”
“We got along well enough.” A dry little laugh slips out. “He’d be the first one to tell you he was an asshole, so I feel okay saying it.”
“Oh. I see.”
I doubt she does, but it’s tough to understand the whole picture of Cort Bracelyn. Even those who knew him well hardly knew him at all.
“He was great at creating children, but not so great at raising them,” I continue. “He paid to support them—”
“Yes, my mother mentioned that.” She presses her lips together. “Apparently, he sent child support checks for years. She always sent them back, so he hacked her bank account and wired the money directly. She donated it to charity, but it was the principle of the thing.”
That sounds exactly like my father.
“He was a determined bastard, that’s for sure.” I shake my head, wondering what Isabella’s mother is like. “The number of smart, beautiful women who fell for him—who married him and had his children—is staggering when you consider his track record for fidelity. Beyond his marriages, he was a ruthless shark in the business world.”
Isabella cocks her head. “Is there a but coming here?” she asks. “Like ‘he was an absolute boor, but had a heart of gold?’ Or that’s it—the man who gave us life was a prig, full stop.”
“No, there’s more to it than that.” So much more. I wish sometimes I could say it all. That I could put it into words what a flawed, complex guy Cort Bracelyn is.
Was, I remind myself, grateful I haven’t spoken aloud.
“He loved his kids.” My voice cracks a little. “He had a weird way of showing it sometimes—usually with money or profanity or both. But he looked out for us.”
“My mother told me about that, too,” she says softly. “Growing up, I had a full-time bodyguard. I always assumed he was paid for by my family. Apparently, your father—” She stops there, frowning. “Our father was the one who insisted on paying for it.”
“Did he also pay to have your prom date threatened by armed thugs if he got handsy?” I ask. “Because that’s the sort of thing he’d do.”
“Not that I’m aware of.” She smiles a little at that.
“Anything else your mother told you about him?”
“Just that he was phenomenal in bed.” She makes a face. “I could have done without hearing that.”
“As could I.” I return her smile, enjoying the ease we’ve slid into with this conversation. “What else are you wondering about?”
“The zebra.” She points over my shoulder, and I don’t have to turn around to know what she’s looking at. “This might be an odd question, but did it come from an antique carousel in Paris?”
“Yes. Why?”
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“My mother has a giraffe that looks similar.” She’s squinting at the screen, so I angle the camera to give her a better look. “Same artist, I’m almost positive. She bought it at an art auction in Paris.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me one bit,” I say. “They did meet at an art auction.”
“He told you that?”
I fumble through my subconscious to recall if this is a detail he let slip before or after his death, then decide it doesn’t matter. “Yes,” I say simply. “I have a whole file on it.”
“On her? Or on me?”
“All of it.” Probably way more detail than she’d like me to know.
“I’d love to hear more about it sometime.”
I nod noncommittally and fold my hands on the desk again. “So where would you like to go from here? I can outline the terms of your inheritance and the portion of the resort you’re entitled to through—”
“Hello?” She leans forward and makes a show of knocking on the camera. “Did you not hear a word I said about not wanting your money?”
“It’s your money,” I argue. “Fair and square, I have documents from my father—our father—spelling it out.”
“Right,” she says. “And I’m telling you again that I don’t need it. I certainly don’t want it.”
“What do you want?”
There’s another long pause. “You,” she says simply. “You and your siblings—our siblings. I want to know them.”
I nod slowly. I was prepared for this, for hearing her say those words out loud. For the knowledge that my life—that all of our lives—are about to change.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Would you like to come here? To visit us in Oregon?”
“Yes. I think I would.” She leans back in her chair, more relaxed than she was ten minutes ago. “We’re approaching the anniversary of his death,” she says slowly. “Did you have anything planned? A graveside memorial or anything?”
I shake my head, struck by the fact that she’s conscious of a date that had slipped my mind. “No,” I say slowly. “But we can plan something.”
