Throne of Lies: Prequel to Legacy of Lies

by Leigh, Tara

  Uh oh. Nothing good starts with that question. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself. “Sure.”

  “I wasn't looking forward to this.”

  That made two of us. “Ditto.”

  He turned surprised eyes back to me. They were an interesting shade of gray, like the sliver of horizon suspended between the sea and sky on an overcast day. A place you could try swimming toward but never reach. “I thought all girls were into these kinds of things.”

  A blush burned my cheeks, and I curled my fingers into my palms, indenting my flesh with the half-moon shape of my nails. “Not this girl.”

  “How long do you think we have to stay?”

  Except that suddenly I wasn't very keen on leaving. “Um . . . I'm not sure. Maybe a couple of hours.”

  Mischief turned his gray stare silver. “How about we give it our all for the next hour and then get out of here?”

  “If you want to go, I'm sure it's fine. I don't want to keep you here or anything,” I stammered, fighting to keep the sharp sting of disappointment from my tone.

  His brows, two shades darker than the hair on his head, pulled together. “You're coming with me, of course.”

  “Oh.” It was just a soft puff of air as Tripp pressed his hand against the flat of my back and led me into the main dining room.

  You're coming with me.

  Did Tripp feel what I was feeling? Even one-tenth of what I was feeling? One-hundredth? The current that seemed to run between our bodies, energy sparking at the slightest touch, a magnetic pull tugging us together—he had to be feeling it, too. Right?

  Of course.

  2

  November 2007

  Tripp

  Walking into the Bachelor Brunch—seriously, could there be a more ridiculous event?—I wasn’t exactly in a good mood. My father made it sound like Jolie couldn’t get a date on her own, and I’d agreed out of pity for the shy, awkward girl I remembered meeting a few years ago. But the real reason I didn’t put up a fight was because I knew one of the other debs, too, and had planned to find out whether her bachelor was any kind of competition.

  Except that from the moment I set eyes on Jolie Chapman, this updated version of her that was somehow both regal and enchantingly unsure of herself, I lost interest in any of the other girls. In anyone else at all, actually.

  Blonde hair that had been plaited into submission the last time we met now tumbled over her shoulders, an unbound river of gold and platinum. And although her eyes were still blinking rapidly against the sudden onslaught of bright sunshine in the dimly lit lobby, they were the fierce blue of a vivid sky on a sunny day, bright and straightforward. Her smile was shy, and entirely genuine.

  Jolie’s body was different, too. Tall and lean, but hinting at curves in all the right places.

  Intrigue was an unfamiliar emotion to me. It curled around my ribs, leaching into my veins. Every part of me responding in a way that was instinctive and primal. I wanted this girl. Wanted her to want me in return. Not just naked behind a locked door, or a drunken make-out session in the middle of a party—I wanted to know her. Jolie’s body and her mind. I wanted to hear her laugh and taste her lips. Hold her hand. I wanted it all.

  What I didn’t want was to share Jolie with a room of debutants, their dates, and especially our parents.

  We needed to ditch this brunch.

  Keeping Jolie close, I launched the most effective charm offensive I’d ever waged. We worked the room like no one’s business, inserting ourselves in every grouping just long enough to make a good impression, before moving onto a new target.

  An hour later, I pulled Jolie toward the door, pausing briefly to jot a quick note on the back of a card and hand it to a server, pointing toward my father.

  Jolie giggled. “What did you write?”

  “To stay away from the eggs, and that I was taking you home.”

  “But I didn’t have any—”

  “Exactly. Come on.” I pushed open the door. “Let’s go get some real food.” Outside, the city had warmed up. A rare post-Thanksgiving treat with temperatures edging toward seventy degrees. Once the sun went down it would feel like winter again, but for now, it could have been spring.

  I pointed at Jolie’s feet, knowing from my mother that female footwear generally dictated how far they were willing to go. “Can you walk in those?”

  Jolie looked down, then back at me. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  I laughed. “What I mean is—how many blocks before you’re limping?”

  She considered the question, giving a reluctant shrug. “I don’t know, maybe five.”

  Exactly what I’d thought. I stepped to the curb and put my hand out. “Come on, we’ll catch a cab back to your place. You can run upstairs and change, then we’ll grab takeout and head to Central Park.” A taxi pulled up and I opened the door. “We probably won’t get another day like this until next year, let’s not waste it inside.”

  As Jolie slid inside the back seat, her skirt edged upwards, flashing a long expanse of smooth, toned thighs. Getting in beside her, I swallowed heavily and loosened my tie, staring out the window until the back of my neck didn’t feel like it was broiling.

  Her apartment wasn’t far, and Jolie didn’t take long to change. Unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she returned wearing jeans instead of another skirt, I gave the driver our next destination and Jolie turned to face me. “What’s at Broadway and Seventy-Second?”

  I grinned. “A New York institution.”

  Forty minutes later, we were scrambling up a sun-warmed rock and settling beside each other, drinks in one hand and a bag from Gray’s Papaya in the other. “So you took me away from Eggs Benedict and Brioche French Toast for,” she scrunched her nose, “a hot dog?”

  “Oh no, not just any hot dog. The best in the city.”

  She opened her bag skeptically, pulling out a rectangular cardboard box, already stained with grease. “Better than the Second Avenue Deli?”

  I feigned offense. “Second Ave is strictly pastrami on rye. Are you sure you’re a city kid?”

  She giggled, a soft lilting sound that had the birds around us twittering jealously. “Do you eat anything besides smoked meat?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I admitted, taking an enormous bite of the dog and chewing enthusiastically. Jolie’s bite was more tentative, but she smiled at me around the bun. “Better than Eggs Benedict?”

  “Yes, but kind of a tie with the French Toast.”

  I took a pull of my papaya drink. “Okay, fair enough.”

  “Back at the Brunch, you mentioned you were at Columbia, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m planning to stay in the city after I graduate, too.”

  At her admission, an unexpected rush of optimism surged forward like a rising tide. Bobbing on the waves was a strange sense—almost a premonition—that I was going to know Jolie for a long time. At least distance wouldn’t be an issue. “Where’d you apply?”

  “NYU, FIT, and Parsons.”

  “A creative type.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The indignant flash in her eyes sent a bolt of heat slamming against my chest.

  I choked down the last of my lunch. “No, not at all. I don’t understand it, but I think it’s cool.”

  “What are you studying up in Morningside Heights?”

  “It’s only my second year so just the core requirements for now, although my major will be economics. I’m basically marking time until I can work at the company.”

  “You want to work with our dads?”

  “Yeah. I mean, they’ve built one of the best independently owned investment companies on Wall Street.” I gave her a curious look. “I’m kind of surprised you don’t.”

  She slid her half-eaten meal in the bag and wiped at her face with a napkin. “Nope, it’s all yours. I want to design clothes or jewelry or maybe even furniture. And I love my dad, but I wouldn’t want to work with him.”


  I scoffed. “I can pretty much guarantee my father will do his best not to actually work with me either. I mean, I’ve been going there after school for years, and our only interaction is when he waves at me from behind the glass walls of his office.” I tried to keep the resentment out of my voice.

  Jolie’s sympathetic expression was proof that I didn’t do a very good job of it. “That must be really discouraging. I’m sorry.”

  I rolled my shoulders, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “It’s fine, I’m used to it by now.”

  I rarely spoke about my father or the business I intended to join. In high school, everyone knew who I was. And in college, as soon as my classmates discovered I was one of those Montgomerys, I became a stepping stone to an introduction or an internship.

  Jolie not only knew exactly who my father was, she was also an heir to one-half of the same firm.

  And yet she wanted nothing to do with it. A fact I found both incomprehensible and admirable.

  Staring at Jolie now, the billionaire’s daughter wearing frayed denim and a shy smile, her carved cameo profile framed by a wild mane of honey hair, that coil of intrigue pulled just a little tighter.

  “If it makes you feel any better, my dad says that he doesn’t know anything about the side of the business your father runs either.” She peeked over at me. “I think they fight about it sometimes.”

  I cleared my throat, searching for an even tone that wouldn’t betray my scattered thoughts. “Well, if my business partner didn’t let me onto the floor he ran his operation out of, I’d get pretty pissed, too.”

  Jolie’s eyes widened. “My dad’s not even allowed on the floor?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No.” She shook her head, blonde tendrils swaying like streamers around her face. “I used to ask to visit his office, but he never agreed so eventually I stopped asking.”

  My father had hardly rolled out the red carpet for me, but I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t expected to be there every minute I wasn’t in school, sleeping, or sweating on a sports field. “Yeah. They lease three floors. One for their offices and conference rooms. That’s the floor clients see. One level up is the trading floor and back office operations, which your father manages. The level below is for individual investment accounts and the administrative staff maintaining them. That’s the part of the business my father manages.”

  “Why can’t my dad just walk down the stairs?”

  “There’s an access panel to get in the door.”

  “And he doesn’t have the code?”

  “Nope. I’ve never been down there either. My dad says it’s to protect confidential client information, but I think it’s because he’s a control freak.”

  “Hmm.” Jolie’s lips closed around her straw, sending an avalanche of lewd thoughts pouring into my brain like some kind of sewer pipe with no shut-off valve. I imagined them closing around something else, something belonging to me. Something a hell of a lot bigger than a damn straw. “Well, I guess you can’t argue with success.”

  Exhaling, I forced myself to look away from Jolie and the plump pink temptation of her mouth. “If that were true, our dads wouldn’t be arguing about it.”

  She put her drink down on the rock, extending her arms behind her and leaning back, tilting her face up toward the sun. My gut clenched, taking in her perfect profile, the ends of her hair whipping around her wrists like a flag, her breasts pushing up through her t-shirt. And those long legs of hers, wrapped in soft, worn denim. “True.”

  For the next hour, we talked about more than our fathers, or the business they shared. I learned about her stepmother, and that Jolie only joined the drama club so she could learn how to make costumes. That she loved Harry Potter but hated The Hunger Games. That she’d never been to a lacrosse game. And that she’d rather eat tacos than just about anything else.

  I talked mostly about college life and lacrosse, and trying to live up to my parent’s expectations as Remington Montgomery III. “So, do you want to work for him because it’s what you want to do with your life—or because you want to see if he’ll give you the code to his secret floor?” She sent me a cautious glance, as if she was worried the question might be a bit much for only knowing each other an hour or so.

  It was. And it wasn’t. Jolie and I were barely more than strangers, but she already seemed like a longtime friend. I felt understood in a way I never had before. And I understood more about the girl sitting beside me than I should after just a few hours. There was a common thread between us, a shared experience. It was a strange sensation, but a good one.

  An unexpected laugh rolled up my chest, rumbling from my throat. “Maybe.”

  Her sideways smile looked almost out of place within the symmetry of her features. “Maybe isn’t an answer.”

  I liked that she wouldn’t let me get away with a crappy, half-assed comeback. “I guess I don’t want to be just another rich kid who will never live up to his father’s success. I want to add my own mark to the legacy he’s spent a lifetime building.”

  “I never thought about it like that.” Jolie straightened, turning to face me and crossing her ankles beneath her knees. “I’m in the same boat you are. Anyone looking at me thinks I’m just another entitled Park Avenue Princess. But I want to break out of this world entirely. Be judged on my talent rather than the number of zeroes in my bank account.”

  I grabbed a branch from the tree limb swaying above our heads and began pulling at the leaves. A puzzled frown crept up Jolie’s forehead and she leaned toward me, her shoulder brushing mine. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Instead of pestering me further, she scooted closer so that her knee was resting against mine, a garland of flyaway strands floating up to brush against my neck. I had to grit my teeth, focus on what I was doing so that I didn’t pounce on her. Yet.

  After a few minutes, I held up my creation. “Voila.”

  Jolie giggled, her wide smile revealing an even expanse of bright white teeth. “Is that what I think it is?”

  I placed the band on top of her head, purposely pushing my fingers through the lush blonde locks. Her hair felt like strands of sunshine, like the softest silk. “Every princess deserves a crown.”

  “Crowns are for queens.” Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Princesses wear tiaras.”

  “Ah.” My cup was empty, so I reached across Jolie’s lap to swipe hers. She didn’t bat an eyelash at me drinking from her straw. “How about princes?”

  “What do they wear, or what do they deserve?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “The luckiest ones might be granted a kiss from a fellow royal.”

  “And am I one of the lucky ones?” There was no denying I’d led a charmed life so far. But right now, I was most grateful for the girl sitting in front of me.

  Jolie’s eyes slid away from mine as she tilted her head to the side, her lips pursed in concentration. My stomach did a slow churn as I waited for her answer. “I think that can be arranged.”

  I put her drink in the space between her crossed legs, my hand lingering on the worn denim covering her thigh. “Yeah?”

  We shared a smile, and Jolie gave the slightest of nods. I leaned in to her, wrapping her hair in my hand and bringing it up to the back of her neck, silky strands and satiny skin burning the flesh of my palm. A fusion of fireworks exploded as our mouths met, both of us holding our breath and just tasting, exploring. Her hands crept up my chest, fingers curling around my shoulders and interlocking behind my neck. We exhaled together, our breaths escaping on the breeze. I caught Jolie’s lower lip within mine, running my tongue along the even gate of her teeth. Releasing the delicious flesh with a groan, I kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting the sweetness of papaya nectar from our drinks offset by our salty lunch, and something else. Something that was intrinsic to Jolie herself, a freshness.

  Without breaking our
kiss, I reached for the plastic cup, moving it out of the way before scooping Jolie into my arms and settling her onto my lap. The softness of her breasts pressed against my chest, and I slid my thumbs between the hem of her sweater and the band of her jeans, allowing myself just a narrow bit of soft skin to explore. I wanted more though. So much more.

  Central Park was P.D.A. Central. No one would bat an eye at a pair of teenagers making out on a rock beneath a canopy of trees. I wanted more, and from the tremor that shook Jolie’s spine as I deepened our kiss, she did too.

  But not yet.

  Jolie Chapman was like the last present you open on Christmas morning, the one that makes all the others pale in comparison. She was a girl worth waiting for, a gift I wanted to take my time opening, enjoying the crackle of the paper, the pull of the ribbon.

  Besides, I didn’t know if I could stop kissing her long enough to do anything else at all.

  3

  December 2007

  Jolie

  If my father knew I was going to see Tripp, he would have insisted on sending me uptown in a car. But for once, I wanted to feel like just a regular girl, with a subway card in her pocket and a secret crush in her heart. Well . . . maybe not so secret.

  It was pretty obvious that Nina was thrilled Tripp and I had hit it off. Which was fine, I guessed . . . but kind of weird, too.

  Every time I mentioned his name, Nina’s lips twitched, as if just barely holding back an exultant, “I told you so.”

  And I’d been saying his name a lot. Not always to Nina. Mostly it was just a quiet whisper to myself as I doodled his name on a notebook. It had been nearly two weeks since the Bachelor Brunch and we’d talked and texted every day since. But with finals looming for both of us, seeing each other hadn’t been as frequent.

  My chest was tight with nerves and excitement as I exited the subway at 116th Street, craning my neck to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. I’d never been this far north in Manhattan before, and felt almost like a tourist in my own city. Following several people who looked likely to be Columbia students, judging by their bulging backpacks, I headed north a few blocks, then entered the campus through a set of imposing black iron gates.