CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The scotch hadn’t helped with his headache, not that Carter had expected it to. He’d wanted it to try to stop his reeling thoughts. He had played it down with Mark that afternoon, but the truth was, his preoccupation with this whole situation had nearly gotten him killed.
They’d told him on the set that he’d been underwater for about twenty seconds while the film’s key grip and several others who had gone in after him searched the river. Carter had come to on the boat’s deck, coughing and disoriented, with the director and a half-dozen white-faced crewmembers standing over him. Amanda, the PA who’d been in his trailer a few days before, had rolled him over to drain the water from his lungs and given him a puff of air from her mouth before he’d started breathing again. He recalled seeing her afterward, red-eyed and sniffling, having kept herself together only until the crisis was over.
Embarrassed, he’d been an asshole, refusing to let the paramedics take him to the ER. A dangerous move, he now admitted to himself. His chest still burned from the water he’d taken in. He made a mental note to send Amanda a dozen roses.
Sitting on the bed in his hotel suite, Carter looked at the bottle he’d been putting a serious dent into all night as he awaited a call from the PI he had hired over the weekend. He’d received a text from him hours ago, promising an update. Tension knotting his shoulders, he finally got up and went onto the balcony. Hands braced on the railing, Carter stared out over the darkened ocean.
The investigator was local to Memphis. Carter had asked him to keep a low profile as he tried to find out more about Trina Grissom. He said a fervent prayer he might learn something to rule out the possibility that she and Samantha were one and the same.
I’m happy. Can’t you see that? Just leave it alone, all right?
Carter bowed his head. He had been on the verge of telling Mark what he knew so far—about the bad debt, as well as the chance that Samantha wasn’t at all who she claimed to be. But the desperation in his brother’s voice had stopped him cold.
Mark knew something was off about Samantha. He and Carter had both known it since the mysterious break-in she wouldn’t talk about. But Mark was in some serious denial, and each day he seemed to be falling harder.
He sighed heavily. If the worst were true about her and he had to be the one to tell him, he just didn’t know how Mark would react.
It was getting late, and the waiting was driving him insane. As he watched the tumble of white-capped waves, Carter considered confronting Samantha. Just going over to her place and laying the whole goddamn mess at her feet to see what she would say. And if Mark was with her, he could hear it, too. He was weighing the pros and cons of that course when his cell phone rang from inside the room. He went in and picked it up to peer at the screen, his heart dropping into his stomach.
It was the PI. Carter tried to quell the sudden dryness in his throat.
He answered, reaching for the scotch again as he listened to what the man had to say.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The late summer weather appeared idyllic. A cloudless azure sky reigned overhead, and the gray-green ocean was docile. Mark stood at the window in his office, absently observing tourists around the pool. He felt a weight pressing down on him, aware that in a matter of days, the scene in front of him could change drastically.
The latest bulletin from the National Hurricane Center had not contained good news. Gina was gathering power and had been reclassified as a category two. It now appeared to be headed for the Carolinas’ coast, although its ultimate strength and exact point of landfall were still unknown. Depending on the storm’s path, it was possible an evacuation could be enacted within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Already, Mark’s maintenance staff had begun double-checking the sturdiness of the hotel’s storm shutters and bolts.
He made a silent plea for a weakening storm front and all-out miss to the area. But statistically, they were due. Charleston and its surrounding communities were hit about once a decade, and the last time, aside from tropical storms, had been in 2004 when Hurricane Charley had done only minimal damage. Mark was just old enough to recall Hurricane Hugo in 1989 and its devastating effects.
He didn’t want to think about the possibility of another catastrophe.
He turned as the door to his office opened. Carter entered, his physical appearance catching Mark off guard. If possible, he looked worse than the day before, the hollows deeper under his eyes.
“You look like hell,” Mark pointed out. “You didn’t make it to the set today?”
“I was there since before sunup.” Carter appeared tense. In a troubled voice, he added, “We’re on a break, so I drove back. We start shooting again at dark.”
Mark glanced at his wristwatch, noting the late afternoon hour. “You ask me, you should’ve just stayed in your trailer and caught a nap.”
Although he tried to sound casual, Carter’s unexpected, somber presence gave him an unsettling sense of déjà vu. He hadn’t forgotten their exchange in the corridor the day before. Carter closed the door behind him and came farther inside, his posture slumped and hands shoved deeply into his pockets.
“I’m here because we need to talk, Mark. This is the only chance I have today, and I’m not leaving until we do.”
The weight pressing down on him grew worse. Seating himself, Mark averted his gaze and began searching the stack of papers on his desk. “In case you haven’t been paying attention to the weather reports, I’m a little busy—”
“It’s about Sam.”
“Of course it is,” he muttered under his breath and continued roaming through the papers.
Carter took a step closer. “Just stop what you’re doing and look at me, all right? This…it can’t wait any longer.”
Mark took a slow breath and then met Carter’s gaze. His tone held a quiet warning. “I asked you to leave it alone. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you telling me how to behave or that I’m getting serious too fast—”
“It’s not what you think.” Carter’s words were strained. “There’re…some things you need to know. About her. Things I found out.”
Mark felt the sluggish beat of his heart. The missing pieces of Samantha’s past loomed up at him again.
Carter rocked slightly on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “I’d been waiting to find out for sure, to have some proof before I came to you—”
“Proof?” Mark repeated roughly.
“When I went up to New York, I went to Sapphire, the place Samantha worked before she moved here.” He quickly held up his palms to hold off a reprimand. “I know you’re going to tell me it’s none of my business. But I was there anyway, and I thought I was helping. After the break-in at her apartment, you were so worried about what was really going on with her. I thought maybe I could learn something.”
Dread knotted Mark’s stomach. “So what did you find out?”
Carter shook his head softly. “Things I wish I hadn’t.”
Mark felt anxiety coil inside him. He couldn’t help it—he also tamped down resentment that Carter had interloped in his personal life. But whatever he believed he had learned, Mark needed to know, too. Rising from behind the desk, he walked to where Carter stood.
“Just tell me, Carter,” he urged, his voice clipped and sounding calmer than he felt.
Carter’s stare was pained. Then, withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket, he fiddled with it for a second before handing it over. Mark glanced at him, then looked at the screen. On it was a grainy image.
“What’s this?”
“Just look at the photo,” Carter said quietly.
Mark took in the girl’s face—the delicate features, the full mouth and doe-brown eyes. She was young, probably no more than twenty, and scantily dressed. Nearly naked. Platinum hair spilled over her shoulders as she lay back suggestively. He felt embarrassed looking at the image, as if he were viewing some kind of porn. But the resemblance dawned on him, making his stomach hard
en.
He shrugged to hide his confusion, a slow numbness creeping over him. “So what do you want me to think, exactly? That this girl is Samantha?”
Carter dragged his palms along his thighs. “The things I found out in New York led me to Memphis. Samantha Marsh isn’t even her real name, Mark. It’s Trina Grissom. She worked at a place there called the Blue Iris—”
“Where’d you get this?” Still looking at the phone’s screen, Mark tried to swallow past the dryness in his throat.
“I’m trying to tell you. I…hired a private investigator. He went to the Blue Iris and did some asking around. One of the dancers took him to a room with posters of past performers on the walls. He took a photo of it with his phone and sent it to me.”
Mark tried to process what he was hearing. But it was hard to see past how far Carter had gone. He’d actually hired a private investigator, without his knowledge or consent? He continued staring at the image, his heart beating hard.
“It’s a strip club,” Carter emphasized carefully.
It wasn’t her. Mark shook his head, his muscles tightening with the realization. There was a resemblance, but the body was wrong. He had been with Samantha, had memorized every inch of her soft skin, every curve. She was slender and supple. But this girl’s ample bust was barely contained in the black lace bustier she wore, her areolas clearly visible through the meshing.
He looked at Carter angrily. “What did you do? Photoshop this?”
Carter’s face reddened. “I didn’t Photoshop anything.”
Backing away, heat flushing through him, Mark tossed the phone dismissively onto the desk. Carter flinched as it sailed over its mahogany top and landed on the floor. Still, he took a tentative step closer. “Do you think it was easy for me to come to you about this? I’m telling you because I care about you. I know you have feelings for her, and you need to know who she really is before this goes too far. She hasn’t been up-front with you, or any of us, not by a long shot. She’s living a complete lie.”
Mark looked away, his lungs squeezing.
“Listen to me. The stripping isn’t even the half of it. I wish to God it was.” Carter hesitated. “Trina Grissom disappeared from that club six years ago. She’s in some real trouble— the Memphis Police want her for questioning in a murder. She stole a lot of money from the club’s owner, too.”
Mark felt nearly lightheaded. He went to stare out the window. “You should leave.”
“I…know you’re upset. But you needed to know this before she digs her claws in any deeper, before she damages your life and Emily’s. You’ve been sheltered here, Mark…”
Mark winced. His vision clouded as his brother continued talking. He didn’t want Carter here for another second, didn’t want to hear another word coming out of his self-centered mouth. He had never cared about anyone but himself. Mark had been sheltered? His pulse pounded as he thought of how he’d taken over the hotel single-handedly after their father’s fatal heart attack, not even thirty years old at the time. How he had helplessly watched as his wife lay dying in front of him, their sweet little girl witnessing all of it.
Carter laid a hand on his shoulder, his voice hollow. “I’m sorry, Mark. But it’s better to learn this now than—”
Mark ignited at the touch, whirling and striking Carter hard with his fist. Carter staggered back, nearly tipping over the lamp on the desk. He held a hand to his eye, surprise and pain etched on his features.
“Mark,” he pleaded shakily.
“I want you out of here,” Mark ordered, breathing hard. He gripped his stinging knuckles with his left hand, a dam of long-held umbrage giving way inside him. Emotion made his voice shake. “And not just my office. The hotel. Today.”
“You’re not thinking clearly—”
“You want your share? Fine, I’ll find a way to buy you out.” He pointed a finger. “But we’re done.”
Carter’s expression was bleak. The skin around his left eye had already begun to discolor. Several beats passed as the two men stared at one another, the only sound the muffled laughter of children coming from the pool outside the window.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you.” Carter swallowed heavily, “But you had to know.”
He left the room, softly closing the door behind him.
Mark bent his head and rubbed his eyes, still reeling over his brother’s claims. He attempted to reason them away, to convince himself that Carter had made all of it up for some twisted reason only he understood.
But in his heart, he knew.
The things he’d already known about her crowded in with what Carter had told him. Mark tugged his tie loose at his throat and undid the top button of his dress shirt. Then he ripped the tie off completely and threw it over the back of his chair.
From almost the moment they’d met, it had been clear that Samantha was trying to distance herself—from others, from him. He wondered again whom she had gone to see at the Sea King that night, why she had been so desperate for money. He had called the motel and asked who had been staying in room six, but was told the information was confidential, which hadn’t surprised him. Mark squeezed his eyes closed, thinking of the butterfly tattoo. He had been trying to prepare for any number of possibilities—that she had an ex who was trouble, maybe even a family she had left behind somewhere. He had hoped one day she would confide in him.
But he’d never expected anything like this.
He’d struck Carter. God. Mark ran a shaky hand over his mouth. He had never hit anyone before in his life, never had anger spill out of him like that. Remorse fell over him for his violent, irrational outburst.
Carter’s cell phone still lay on the floor. Mark walked over and picked it up. He forced himself to look again at the image of this too-young girl with the wrong hair, the wrong body. But the eyes were unmistakable—caramel brown and nearly too large for her face.
She’s in some real trouble—the Memphis Police want her for questioning in a murder. She stole a lot of money from the club’s owner, too.
Mark felt sick.
He sent the cell phone’s image to his printer.
The meal was right on schedule. Samantha had left Luther in charge of closing up at the café so she could go to Mark’s to prepare dinner, a thank-you for all he had done for her at the St. Clair. An herb-encrusted rack of lamb and potatoes roasted in one side of the kitchen’s Viking double oven, while golden macaroni and cheese bubbled in the other. She’d made that for Emily since Mark had said it was her favorite.
They were going to watch a movie after Emily was put to bed.
Nearly everything was ready—the salad waiting to be dressed, the dessert of individual flans chilling in the fridge. Samantha wanted everything to be perfect yet casual and unfussy. Mark had been receptive to her plans to make dinner, giving her his security code and telling her she could find a key to the front door under a terra cotta urn on the porch steps.
A grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the hour. It was seven, and Mark had said he’d be home half an hour ago. She wondered if he had been held up by news of the threatening hurricane. The entire town was on its toes, waiting for the latest weather report, Samantha included. Mercer was also supposed to drop Emily off, but hadn’t arrived yet, either.
As she pulled the lamb from the oven and covered it with foil to rest, she heard the front door open. Footsteps sounded in the foyer. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel and replacing it on the granite countertop, Samantha turned. But the bright smile she wore faded as she saw Mark’s face.
Worry bloomed inside her. The hurricane. Emily. “What’s wrong?”
He stared at her with pained eyes.
“I know your name’s Trina,” he said hoarsely.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The air disappeared from the room. Samantha tried to bring breath back into her lungs, but could not. The way he was looking at her felt like a knife plunged into her heart.
“Mark,” she whispered, but could th
ink of nothing else to say.
Her eyes fell to the image on the printed sheet of paper in his hand. It was wrinkled, his knuckles bruised. She didn’t have to see it up close to know which photo it was. Recognition weakened her knees. She pressed her hand to her stomach, fighting the urge to flee. Instead, Samantha forced herself to speak. “Where…” Her voice faltered. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” His haunted eyes, the absence of color in his face—it was nearly more than she could bear. Mark stared at her for several long seconds. Then he laid the paper on the table between them.
Adrenaline spiked her pulse. That photo had been taken not long after she’d started performing. Her memory of the photo session itself was fuzzy due to the pill Devin had pressed on her, insisting it would relax her for the camera. She also knew the photo—used for a poster and put on flyers handed out to draw male passersby into the club—had been the most innocent of the ones taken that night, by far. Her face burned with humiliation.
“It came from a private investigator,” Mark said finally. Samantha felt a wave of betrayal, but knew she had no right. She was the one hiding things, keeping secrets. Her only question was whether Mark had hired the investigator, or if Olivia had been the one.
“How old are you in that photo?”
“Seventeen,” she admitted softly. “Almost eighteen.”
He didn’t reply, instead rubbing his hand over his mouth. Lines of tension appeared around his eyes.
“How long did you do it?” He swallowed before speaking again. “Taking off your clothes in front of—”
“Four years.” She closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t want to hear him describe it.
She shrank from him then, but he blocked her exit from the kitchen.
“You’re not leaving,” he rasped. The confusion she saw on his features tore at her. “Talk to me, Samantha. Make me understand why you’d—”
“His name was Devin Leary,” she managed to get out. “I was a runaway and flat broke. Devin…took me in.”
Before the Storm Page 20