Dynasties: The Elliotts, Books 1-6

by Various Authors

  Shock heated Scarlet from the inside out. “Why?”

  “I want to go with Zeke on his international tour.”

  “For how long?”

  “A month.”

  Scarlet could barely find words. “We’ve never been apart for more than a week.”

  “Life is changing, Scar. We’re changing.”

  “Separating.” I used to be able to read your mind. We used to finish each other’s sentences.

  “It was bound to happen someday.” Understanding and determination rang in Summer’s voice.

  “I can’t believe you’re giving up your dream job, and an imminent promotion, for a…man.”

  “Not just any man, but Zeke. The man I love.” Her calm voice was offset by a stubborn glint in her eye. “The man I’m going to marry.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Scarlet felt more vulnerable than ever. Her link to life as she knew it was breaking. It had been hard enough this past month not to confide in Summer about her night with John Harlan, especially when Summer had asked her where she’d been all night.

  “Don’t be jealous,” Summer said, laying her hand on Scarlet’s.

  “Jealous? I—” She stopped. Maybe she was, a little. She’d been wanting to try her hand at fashion design but hadn’t had the nerve to quit her job as assistant fashion editor for Charisma. “Granddad will accuse you of being ungrateful,” she said to her sister instead, reminding herself of that fact, as well—the main reason why she hadn’t quit her job herself.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. But Zeke has tried to convince me otherwise. Loyalty matters more than anything to Granddad, but I need to do this. I want to do this. I’m going to do this.”

  And everyone thought Summer was the meek twin. “Have you told him?”

  “I’m telling you first. I’ll tell Shane after lunch. Then Gram and Granddad.”

  Shane—Uncle Shane—was Fin’s twin and the editor in chief of The Buzz, EPH’s showbiz magazine, where Summer worked as a copy editor, and was about to be promoted to reporter. Scarlet didn’t envy Summer telling Shane or, worse, Granddad.

  “I’m going to miss you like crazy,” Scarlet said, nearly crushing Summer’s hand.

  “Me, too,” she whispered, her eyes instantly bright. “I’ll call lots. I promise. Maybe you could meet us somewhere on the tour for a weekend.”

  “Three’s a crowd.” Scarlet made an effort to keep things as normal as possible. She dug into her salad again. “Want some?”

  “Butterflies,” Summer said, patting her stomach.

  Scarlet nodded. “What I said about my closet being your closet is true, you know. If you’d like to take some of my stuff on the tour, you can.”

  “Zeke likes me as I am.”

  So had John, Scarlet thought. Summer was so much easier to be with—not anywhere near as demanding of equality or independence as Scarlet. At least, not openly.

  “There you go again,” Summer said, tapping the table next to Scarlet’s salad bowl.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been zoning out for, I don’t know, about a month now.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes. Right after you spent the night away from home and wouldn’t tell me where you’d been. Seems to me you’ve been keeping a secret, and that’s a first for us, too.”

  Scarlet wanted so much to talk to Summer about John, about that night, but that was impossible. There was no one she could talk to, except the man himself, maybe, but he hadn’t contacted her at all, and she both resented and appreciated his self-control. Except for having her coat delivered to her office the next day, without a note, they hadn’t existed for each other.

  Except that her body hungered in a way it never had.

  “Can we spend the evening together?” Scarlet asked, changing the subject altogether, then noting the hurt in her sister’s eyes. But Scarlet couldn’t confide. Nothing would ever change that. Some secrets would be taken to the grave.

  “You’ll help me pack?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t know what time I’ll be home. I’m taking the helicopter to The Tides to tell the Grands.”

  “I’ll wait up. We’ll have margaritas. You’ll need one.” Scarlet added teasingly, “Better you than me this time.”

  Summer grinned. “I know. The shoe’s finally on the other foot. For years you’ve made it your goal to irritate Granddad with your men of choice, and I’ve always tried to get you to stop doing that. The Grands have taken their role as guardians seriously since Mom and Dad died. I guess after fifteen years in that role it’s hard to change. And of course, Granddad still cares about image.”

  “He cares too much about image.” And Scarlet thought, they hadn’t really been her “men of choice,” but men she’d chosen specifically to irritate her overbearing grandfather. Men came and went. Very few had been lovers. Most were just friends.

  Then there was John. She missed him. How had that happened? But she couldn’t reach out to him—she, who’d never been known for her patience, had controlled her impulse to contact him, made easier by the fact that he’d left town, or so the rumor went. In mourning for losing Summer?

  “I need to get going,” Summer said. “I’ll call you when I’m headed home, as long as Granddad lets me take the copter back. If not, it’s a long ride from the Hamptons.”

  “I’ll go up the elevator with you,” Scarlet said, not wanting to stay in the booth alone.

  They waited at the doors. Scarlet would get off at the seventeenth floor, Summer one higher.

  Scarlet swept her into a big hug as the elevator rose with silent speed. “Promise you won’t change.”

  “Can’t.”

  Scarlet pulled back and brushed her sister’s hair from her face. “Is it wonderful, being in love?”

  “Zeke is an amazing man.”

  The simple statement, layered with tenderness, almost made Scarlet cry. She wanted that for herself—a partner, an amazing partner. One who cared for her more than anyone, who thought she was amazing. Someone who was hers, and hers alone, as she would be his alone.

  “I love you,” Scarlet said as the elevator door opened.

  “Me, too, you.”

  Scarlet stepped out of the elevator and headed for her cubicle, past the dazzling sign with the company slogan—Charisma, Fashion for the Body. The bright turquoise color scheme and edgy, bold patterns seemed to shout at her. Everything was topsy-turvy. She needed a little peace.

  She would find none in her cubicle, which was filled with photos and swatches and drawings—colorful and eye-catching, not soothing. She grabbed her sketch pad and flipped to a blank page. She drew almost without thought—a wedding gown for Summer, with a long veil and train, something fairy-tale princesslike, a fantasy dress, layered with organza, scattered with a few pearls and crystals, but nothing flashy, just enough to catch the light. Elegant, like Summer.

  Scarlet turned the page and sketched another wedding dress—strapless, formfitting, no train, no veil, just a few flowers threaded in the bride’s long, light auburn hair—hers.

  She stared at it, her pencil poised over the pad, then tore off the page, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash can. Turning to her computer, she opened a work file. She wasn’t the Cinderella type. She would skip the grand ceremony, the stress of the spectacle and have something simple instead, if she ever married. Married was married. It didn’t matter how it happened.

  Her phone rang. Her one o’clock appointment had arrived. She stood, hesitated, then pulled the waddedup design from her trash can. Her hands shaking slightly, she smoothed out the wrinkles and tucked it back into the pad behind Summer’s design.

  It was a good design, she thought, something she should redo and put in her portfolio—that was the reason she’d retrieved it. She didn’t throw away good work.

  Liar. The word bounced in her head, as much in accusation as relief, but above all, hones
t, a trait that seemed in short supply these days.

  Three

  At 9:00 p.m., two days later, John stood in front of the Elliott town house near 90th and Amsterdam. The gray stone building sported stately white trim and a playful red front door. He put his hand on the ivy-covered, black wrought-iron gate meant to keep out passersby. He knew of another entrance, however, a private entrance that would take him to the third, and top, floor—Summer and Scarlet’s living quarters, comprised of a bedroom suite for each and a communal living room.

  The home’s owners, Patrick and Maeve Elliott, patriarch and matriarch of the Elliott clan, spent most of their time these days at The Tides, their estate in the Hamptons. Summer and Scarlet were raised there by their grandparents after their parents’ deaths in a plane crash. Now the girls lived mostly in the city, occasionally going home to The Tides on weekends.

  John’s family owned an estate neighboring the Elliotts’ in the Hamptons, yet they’d had little contact through the years. John was four years older than the twins. He’d headed to college when they were just entering high school. A couple of years after Summer and Scarlet graduated from college, he’d met them as adults and became an occasional companion to Summer, their relationship escalating from there. No big romance, just an increasing presence and steadily growing relationship.

  This last month away from New York had given him perspective. He and Summer had never been suited for each other. They were too much alike, both with their five-year plans, career focuses and even-keeled personalities.

  She’d changed, apparently. He’d read in some Hollywood gossip column that she’d accompanied Zeke Woodlow on tour to Europe. Amazing. Who would’ve guessed that such an adventurous spirit lived inside her?

  Over and done, he reminded himself. Now he needed to see Scarlet. The month’s separation had allowed him to acknowledge the absurdity of anything happening beyond their one stolen night, but he knew they would run into each other now and then, so they needed to settle things between them.

  He hadn’t called her, although many times he’d picked up to the phone to do so. Nor had she called him. And as bold and direct as she was, the fact that she hadn’t made contact spoke volumes. It had been a one-night stand for both of them.

  He reached for his cell phone to alert her he was there, then didn’t make the call. He knew he should—it was unlike him not to be courteous. He had no idea if she was even at home, or alone, but he wanted to catch her off guard and see her real reaction to him, not something manufactured while waiting for him to climb the stairs, so he punched in the security code to enter the half-underground four-car garage, slipped inside the door and strode past the indoor pool and up the staircase to Scarlet’s floor.

  Nerves played havoc with his equilibrium. The thought caught him by surprise, keeping him from ringing her bell immediately. Maybe he should’ve worn a suit, shown her—and himself—that he meant business. Instead he’d pulled on a sweater, khakis and loafers, as casual as he owned. At the last minute he’d slapped on some aftershave, something with a citrus base that reminded him of Scarlet’s perfume, which had lingered on his skin for days, it seemed, showers not ridding his memory of the fragrance. He’d gotten hard every night in bed just thinking about it, about her, about the way she’d admired and touched him, about the way she kissed, and moved, and—

  Hell, things were stirring now.

  He rang the bell, needing to get the conversation over with so that he could move on with his life. After a few seconds, a shadow darkened the peephole, then came a few long, dragged-out seconds of anticipation. Maybe she wouldn’t even open the door, or acknowledge she was home….

  The doorknob turned; the door opened slowly.

  The living room lights were off. Behind her the open door to her bedroom spilled enough light to cast her in silhouette. He saw only her outline, her hair around her shoulders, a floor-length robe. Her perfume reached his nose, drifted through him, arousing him the rest of the way.

  “John?”

  How he’d ever confused her voice with her sister’s the other time was beyond him. Scarlet’s was silky, sultry…sexy.

  “Are you alone, Scarlet?”

  “Yes.” She gestured toward the living room. “Come in.”

  He looked around, as if seeing it for the first time. He’d been there often with Summer, yet everything seemed different. He saw Scarlet’s modern influence now instead of Summer’s more homey leanings, the eclectic mix of antiques and minimalist furnishings effective and dramatic.

  “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the street. She pulled her robe around her a little more, tightened the sash, switched on a lamp, then sat at the opposite end of the couch.

  Her breasts were unrestrained; her nipples jutted against the fabric. He could hardly keep his eyes off her. He knew she was waiting for him to start the conversation, to let her know why he’d come. He wasn’t sure of his reasons anymore.

  “How have you been?” he asked finally, starting slowly, gauging her reaction to him being there without an invitation.

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Okay.” Inane. Say something important, something honest.

  She smoothed the fabric along her thighs. He wanted to do that, too, then lay his head in her lap.

  “Where did you go?” she asked.

  “L.A. My partners and I are expanding the markets for some new clients, growing the firm. It seemed like a good time to go.”

  “So your decision was because of business, not because of—”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. Would she have said “Summer” or herself?

  She angled toward him a little, which created a gap in the robe, allowing him a glimpse of the upper swell of her lush breast. He really needed to stop fixating on her body.

  “Business,” he said. Which was not entirely true. He’d manufactured some business that needed one of the partners’ attention, then had volunteered to go. His ad agency was already hugely successful, but there was always room to expand.

  “I see.”

  A long silence followed.

  “Why are you here, John?”

  He finally remembered the reason. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with…what happened. I don’t want things to be awkward between us, since we’re bound to run into each other now and then.”

  “I think picturing you naked will remove any sense of awkwardness for me.”

  Her eyes took on some sparkle. He was glad to see it.

  “It’s vivid for me, too,” he said.

  “It was good, John, but emotionally charged. We need to remember that. Make it real, instead of…”

  “Surreal.”

  “Exactly. A fantasy, nothing more.”

  “And a one-time thing.” He added the tiniest inflection at the end, turning the phrase into a question if she chose to hear it that way.

  “Absolutely.” Definite. Certain. No question.

  He looked away. He had his answer. “Okay. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

  “Me, too.”

  He shifted a little. “I didn’t use protection.”

  “We both got carried away. But there’s no problem.”

  “Good. Great.” He stood. “I’ll go, then.”

  He heard her follow him. The air seemed thick. Breathing took effort. He turned when he reached the door, wishing he could read her mind.

  “Is there something else you want?” she asked, reaching toward him then pulling back.

  “You,” he answered, catching her hand, tugging her toward him. “I want you.”

  “John….” There was hunger in her voice, need in her eyes.

  Then they were in each other’s arms, kissing, moaning, hands wandering, bodies pressing. She tipped her head back as he dragged his mouth down her neck, her robe separating, revealing her naked body, warm and dewy, as if she’d just stepped out of the bath.

  “You’re all I’ve thought about,
” he said just before drawing a nipple into his mouth, cupping the most feminine part of her with his hand. “You. This.”

  “Me, too.” Her voice was deep, breathy. “Come with me.”

  He went willingly into her bedroom. Lights were on full. Sketches were everywhere—tacked on corkboard on the wall, scattered over the floor, even on the bed, an unmade jumble of linens. She swept the papers away. They drifted to the floor, as did her pale blue robe, pooling around her feet, making her look like a goddess rising from the sea.

  He jerked his sweater over his head, got rid of his shoes and socks. He touched his belt. She brushed his hands away and undid it, all the while looking at his face. Her color was high, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes a deeper green. Her lips were swollen from kissing, and parted slightly. He felt his slacks drop to the floor and kicked them away. Then she hooked his briefs and tugged. As she knelt to remove them, her hair brushed his abdomen, then his thighs, his shins.

  He dug his fingers into her scalp, pulled her hair into his fists, squeezed his eyes shut. A month of fantasies became reality. Hell, not just a month, a lifetime, but a month of specific fantasies about one particular woman.

  When her exploration became more daring, he pulled her up, moved her back and made her stretch out on the bed. He wanted to drag it out, make it last, but he lost all sense of control and finesse. He plunged into her. She arched into him. His body blasted apart in a long series of hot, explosive, rhythmic sensations. She clenched him from inside and climaxed with him, her face contorted, her mouth open. Then their movements slowed…stopped. He rolled over, taking her along. She stretched out on top of him and he wrapped her close.

  For a long time, neither spoke.

  Scarlet had spent the better part of the past month—months, really—convincing herself that she didn’t love John, that she’d merely been infatuated because he was so different, attentive to Summer in ways that no man had been attentive to her. She’d been envious, that was all, and had created a fantasy about him. Now she was back at square one. Because she did love him.