Charming Lily

by Fern Michaels

  “I’m the worst kind of thief, Betsy,” Marcus said miserably.

  “No, I am. Together, we’ll make this right. Some way, somehow. I miss the girls, Marcus.”

  “I do, too, honey. We’ll work something out. Come on, let’s get out of here. Where are you staying?” Betsy told him. Marcus raised his eyebrows.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money. We need to talk about the IRS. Dennis put the fear of God into me where they’re concerned.”

  “I’m square with the IRS. I pay quarterly and am a year ahead. That was the one thing I never messed around with. Hell, I’m even square with the stock options. I can’t believe you just up and walked in here. I’ve been wishing and wishing, and as each day wore on I started to panic.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and led her to the door, his shoulders straight, his eyes bright.

  Betsy woke, instantly aware of where she was and what had transpired earlier. She moved slightly, unwilling to wake her husband. She looked over at him, a smile on her lips before her gaze swiveled to the window. It was snowing outside. A good day to stay in and cuddle. She felt his hand reach out for hers. She’d missed this gentleness, the warm intimacy they’d shared all night long.

  “How long have you been awake, Betsy?” he whispered.

  “Just a minute or two. It’s snowing. Maybe later we can go for a walk and try to find a place to make snow angels like we used to do with the girls when they were little.”

  “That’s too easy, too normal. We need to talk, Betsy. Call down and order us some sweet rolls and coffee. We’re going to try and make this come out right for everyone concerned.”

  Hours later, the coffee and pastries finished, Marcus leaned back on the chair and propped his feet up on the rumpled bed. “Are you sure you’re okay with all of this, Betsy? It’s going to be a long rough patch until we get past all this. The first thing we are going to do is bring the girls here. We’ll rent a little house in the country and I’ll finish what I started years ago. You’re going to sell your jewelry, and with that money coupled with my bonus money, that’s what we’ll live on. We’ll send back that $100,000 Dennis gave you and the half million you weaseled out of Eric and BQWARE. I can’t believe they were stupid enough to give it to you. I’m going to wire all but ten million of Eric and BQWARE’s money back to them and sign a note for the balance plus ten percent interest. We’ll liquidate everything back in the States, pay our taxes, and with the balance, I will finish developing the software I’ve been designing these past few years on my own time. I’ll cut in Eric, BQWARE, and Matt for a percentage when we sell it. It won’t make up for what I did, but it’s a start in the right direction. If this software goes the way I think it’s going to go, they’ll make a fortune. Three years from now, we should be on solid ground. You’re sure now you’re okay with this? You’re going to have to do all the household tasks yourself. There won’t be any housekeepers or nannies. No fancy designer duds and no costly vacations. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to go back to the States someday with our heads held high. Then again, maybe not. We’ll always be thieves, Betsy.”

  “I’m okay with it all, Marcus.” Betsy fingered the pendant hanging from her neck. “I wished for this, Marcus. We can make this work, can’t we?”

  “I think so. I’m going to do my damnedest to make things come out right. Now, did you say something about going out in the snow to make snow angels?”

  “I did say that I wish the girls were here. You’re right, though, let them finish out the semester, then my parents can bring them over here. It will be something for us to look forward to.”

  “The jewelry has to go first. What do you call that thing hanging around your neck? I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before.”

  “I ordered room service at the hotel, and it was wrapped up in the napkin. I assume it’s a souvenir of some kind the hotel gives out to guests. It’s rather tacky-looking but also kind of sweet and different. I just put it on and have been wearing it ever since. It makes me feel good for some reason. It’s not something I can explain. Besides my wedding ring, it’s the only jewelry I will be wearing from now on.”

  Marcus smiled. “It will be nice to be a family again, won’t it, Betsy?”

  “Yes it will. Marcus, will we ever truly get past this? What we both did was really terrible. This. . . what we’re planning is like . . . we got away with it. We’re walking around free as the air. It will always be hanging over our heads, won’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s our punishment. And we deserve it. We’ll be living with that punishment twenty-four hours a day. Working together, it might not be too bad.”

  Betsy reached for her husband’s hand. “Let’s go make some snow angels.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Then let’s do it!”

  Don’t miss the other novels in Fern Michaels’

  exciting Sisterhood Series!

  For a look back at Julia’s story,

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  Prologue

  Myra Rutledge, heiress to a Fortune 500 candy company, looked around her state-of-the-art kitchen, at the pots bubbling on the stove, at the table set for two. Even though it was late afternoon, the sun danced through the stained glass ornaments hanging on the kitchen window creating rainbows on the white walls all around her. The girls—that’s how she thought of Barbara and Nikki—had made the colorful ornaments for her as gifts one year at summer camp.

  She’d adopted Nikki at a young age, but she and Barbara couldn’t have been more alike than if they’d come out of her womb at the same time. Barbara was gone now, killed by a hit and run driver in the District by a man with diplomatic immunity.

  Myra tried her best not to let maudlin thoughts overcome her, but sometimes, like now, at the end of the day, she thought about her two girls and the dangerous path she’d embarked on. She needed to fortify herself against such thoughts because she knew they weren’t going to go away on their own. A snifter of brandy helped a little. She poured generously, eyes watering at the first massive gulp. She always gulped brandy even though she knew it should be sipped. She took another mighty gulp as she looked at the clock. The girls of the Sisterhood would be arriving before nightfall, to prepare for their second mission. The thought warmed her more than the brandy did. They were like daughters now, and she loved them all.

  She was worried a little about Alexis, though. She’d mentioned her worry to her live-in companion, Charles, the way she mentioned everything that bothered her, and he’d agreed that perhaps Alexis wasn’t quite ready for her mission. If not, they’d open the shoe box, fall back and regroup. It wouldn’t be a problem. With Charles at the helm, it would all go smoothly.

  There was another problem, though, outside of the Sisterhood. Assistant District Attorney Jack Emery, Nikki’s fiancé. Ex-fiancé to be more precise.

  Myra set the glass down on the table and massaged her temples.

  “You’re at it again, eh, Mom?”

  Myra’s head jerked upright as she looked around. One of the stained glass ornaments, a red tulip hanging in the window, was jiggling on its little hook. “Barbara? My dear, sweet girl, I was sitting here thinking about you and Nikki when you were little. I miss you so.”

  “I know, Mom, but I’m always close by. I’m looking at you right now. Don’t worry so much. Things will work out. Trust Nikki.”

  “But Jack . . . Jack could ruin everything.”

  “Nikki won’t allow it, Mom. I think what you’re doing is super. That first mission of Kathryn’s was really kick ass. Thanks, Mom. I know you’re doing it for me, and I can’t wait till it’s your turn. I’ll be with you every step of the way. ”

  Myra looked down into her brandy glass. Was she really talking to her dead daughter? Was her dead daughter actually communicating with her? Or was it the brandy? She finished it off, not wanting to let go of her daughter’s voice. />
  “Easy on the sauce, Mom. I’d hate to take away a vision of my mom dancing on the table. I know how rowdy you can get. I’m teasing, Mom.”

  “I know, dear. I’m feeling a little light-headed right now just talking to you. I wish . . . Oh, Barbara, I wish so many things.”

  “Don’t, Mom. You can’t un-ring the bell. I just want you to know how proud I am of what you and the girls are doing. Sometimes . . . sometimes you simply have to take charge and make things come out right. Kathryn is a new person these days. You’re right about Alexis, too. She isn’t ready, but Mom, let her be the one to tell you she isn’t ready. Don’t make the decision for her. And, Mom, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I will, dear, I will. I just thank God I have the money to fund this venture. And to think I don’t even like candy.”

  “I hear Charles coming. I’m going upstairs to spend some time with Willie. I love you, Mom.”

  Myra smiled at the mention of Barbara’s tattered teddy bear. “When Nikki moved back here to the farm she started to sleep with Willie so he wouldn’t miss you so much.”

  “I know, Mom. Trust Nikki. And, don’t worry about Jack. Nik has it under control. Love you, Mom.”

  Myra was up and off the chair in the blink of an eye. She ran over to the kitchen window to touch the stained glass ornament that was now still. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  She felt Charles’s hand on her shoulder. She turned around to bury her head in his broad chest. “She was here, Charles. We talked.”

  Charles Martin, ex-M16 operative who had devoted most of his life to Her Majesty, eyed the brandy bottle and the empty glass. “I’m glad, Myra. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you check the bedrooms to be sure everything is ready for the girls. Did you buy something special for Kathryn’s dog, Murphy?”

  “Yes, Charles, I did, a chew toy and a box of jumbo biscuits. He’s a wonderful animal, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Myra, he is.”

  “I love you, Charles. I wish . . . I wish . . . never mind. Barbara said . . . it’s all right, Charles. I’m not dotty. Isn’t that a term you Brits use?”

  “I’m an American now, dear. I say nutsy cuckoo like the rest of you. You are my dear, sweet Myra and I love you with all my heart. Scoot!”

  Myra smiled. She adored flirting with the love of her life. “I’m going. I might have overcooked that mess on the stove, Charles.”

  “I’m throwing it all out, Myra, and starting over. It’s all right, dear. You have other wonderful talents.” He twirled the dish towel and then playfully swatted her backside.

  Myra laughed all the way down the hall and was still laughing as she climbed the steps to the second floor.

  One

  Alexis Thorn frowned as she looked around her small apartment. There was nothing about the tiny place to suggest permanency of any kind. There were no knickknacks, no green plants, no family pictures. It was a place to sleep, a place to come home to at the end of the day, nothing more. How could it be anything else when her name wasn’t even Alexis Thorn? Alexis Thorn was an alias. She’d taken a new name with the help of her lawyer, Nicole Quinn, when she got out of prison for a crime she didn’t commit. She didn’t want to think about why she was living in this run-down apartment but she had to think about it, like it or not.

  Without Nicole Quinn she didn’t know where she’d be. Nikki had gotten her a job as a personal shopper to some of Virginia’s older, wealthy residents. It was a far cry from being a high-powered securities broker in her other life, that was for sure. Nikki had helped her with a new identity, too. Who in their right mind would hire a jailbird? No one, that’s who. These days she was Alexis Thorn and she liked it but someday when the time was right, she’d go back to being her real self.

  Today, in just minutes, she had to climb into her little Mini Cooper and head out to McLean, Virginia. There, at Nicole’s adopted mother’s palatial estate, she would join the other members of the Sisterhood. She’d joined a year ago, again, with Nicole Quinn’s help. The Sisterhood wasn’t just any organization. Myra Rutledge had formed the organization after her daughter was run down and killed by a diplomat’s son. With the aid of Nikki’s legal expertise, Myra formed the Sisterhood to help women get the justice and the revenge they deserved, even if it meant going outside the law to get it.

  The Sisterhood consisted of six women, seven if you counted Myra, all recruited by Nikki. They’d gone on one mission so far and it had been successful. At the end of that successful mission, they’d drawn names to see whose case would be next. Alexis’s name—not her real name of course—had been drawn from the cardboard shoe box.

  But she wasn’t ready yet to seek the justice she deserved. She needed more time to wallow in her misery, and to build up her strength and resilience. She didn’t know why that was, it just was. She would have to tell the sisters they needed to choose someone else for the second mission. She knew in her gut she was still too fragile, too broken with her thirteen-month stint in the federal pen. She tugged at her lavender dress, straightening it over her slim hips. The dress was one she’d chosen from her pitiful wardrobe and was a knock-off to boot. It went well with her brown skin and dark hair. She’d chosen the dress because she thought she looked best in pastels. The days were long gone when she didn’t think twice about buying high-end designer clothes. Everything from her past was gone. Every damn thing she cared about. Even her dog.

  Alexis started to shake when she tried to imagine what the other sisters would say when she told them she wasn’t ready for her mission. Kathryn, the most verbal, and the toughest of them all, in her opinion, would narrow her eyes and tell her to grow up and get with the program. Isabelle, who saw things other people didn’t see—meaning, of course, that she was psychic—would shrug and close her eyes, maybe in the hope of conjuring up the reason for Alexis’s pass on the mission. Julia, a retired plastic surgeon, who had contracted AIDS from her philandering husband, the senator, would stare at her as if she were a speck under a microscope. She’d say, “You need to make those bastards pay for what they did to you and get on with your life because you have a life to get on with.” Yoko would nod and say she understood whether she did or not. Nikki would use logic to try to convince her to take the bull by the horns, and Myra, sweet, gentle woman that she was, would smile wanly and say, “Honey, if you aren’t ready then you aren’t ready and we’ll choose one of the other sisters.” At which point she’d feel like a fool and probably start to cry. The others would look at her with disgust and she’d cry harder. They might even become so disgusted with her they’d try to drum her out of the Sisterhood.

  She’d done so well with Kathryn’s mission. It couldn’t have succeeded without her expertise. She could take nothing and transform it into something wonderful and exciting. She was a master with a makeup brush and she knew it. Costume design was something she loved doing. Nikki said she was a master at that, too. She’d been so proud when Nikki had said that. All the sisters had complimented her. Life after prison. She owed this new life to Nikki and the sisters. And she was happy. So, what the hell was her problem?

  Alexis eyed her suitcase by the front door, and then let her gaze go to what the sisters called her Red Bag of tricks, complete with everything she needed to alter a person’s being. Makeup, spirit gum, latex, costumes, wigs, glasses. She had the talent to take an ordinary person and transform him or her into a movie star. Where she’d come by this particular talent, she had no idea. Everything in the Red Bag had been updated or replenished by Myra.

  Alexis looked at her watch. Time to get on the road. The Sisterhood’s hosts, Myra Rutledge and Charles Martin, didn’t like to be kept waiting. She smiled when she thought of Charles, Myra’s right hand man, and the one who planned each mission. Charles was an ex-British M16 operative who had once worked for the queen on the other side of the pond until he’d been compromised. In the spook world, according to Charles, the bad guys had found out who he was and steps had to
be taken to keep him safe. Now he worked and lived with and for Myra. Charles always said being a super spy for Her Majesty had equipped him to head up the Sisterhood. On top of all his other accomplishments, Charles was a gourmet cook. Alexis felt her mouth start to water at some of the wonderful meals he’d cooked for all of them. Today, she hoped, would be something just as wonderful.

  Suitcase in one hand, the Red Bag of tricks in the other, Alexis still somehow managed to lock the flimsy door of her apartment. She didn’t look back because there was nothing to see except a bunch of shabby, secondhand furniture. She hadn’t seen the need to buy new furniture, preferring to bank all her money until she was sure where she was going with her life. A new life, a new name without the stink of ex-con attached to it. What more could a girl want?

  Alexis tossed her suitcase into the back of the Mini Cooper, then climbed behind the wheel. Before she turned the key in the ignition, Alexis looked around the ratty-looking neighborhood and the building she lived in. They should just demolish the entire three blocks. Once she’d lived in a pretty little house with window boxes and flowers on her front porch. She had furniture that she saved for, beautiful linens, fine dishes and crystal. And she’d had a dog she’d loved dearly. It was all gone now, sold to pay her legal fees. She’d been told that one of the officers who arrested her had taken her dog.

  If anyone should be ready for revenge, it was she. She knew in her heart of hearts, deep in her gut, that the two partners who framed her for their own crime did it because she was a black securities broker. She’d been careful not to play the race card in her defense. Now, she wished she had. Maybe her problem was she couldn’t come up with a suitable revenge that would make her whole again. Nothing she could come up with was bad enough, horrible enough, ugly enough to make her whole. Death was the only thing she could come up with but that wasn’t an option. She had no desire to go to prison again.