Deceiver

by Robin Lovett

  “He’d go out with you in a second.”

  “Which is why he’s off my list.” And why I wish I could forget his voice.

  You have no idea what you want.

  I can help.

  I don’t even know what I want yet. How could he possibly know?

  I’m furious. Furiously fascinated.

  What does he mean?

  That man rubs insecurity into my choices like salt into a wound. He knows too much about me. I should do research on him at work. I bet there’s loads of dirty secrets about the infamous Vandershalls.

  Gigi pats my hand. “We’ll find you someone. Don’t worry.”

  “What makes you think I want to find a someone? I’ve turned down plenty of someones.”

  “One of these days you’ll say yes to one of those proposals you’ve gotten so many of.”

  “I’ve got better things to do than turn down proposals.”

  “Like . . . ? I thought you were here because you were bored.”

  “I am.” And at least I found some entertainment.

  Blake isn’t just interesting or intense. He’s a walking mystery. A treasure trove of excitements lurking behind that defensive exterior. I got the best of him tonight. Judging by his surprise and anger, I don’t think that happens often.

  Everyone around me is perplexed that I, a well-bred debutante with rich parents—a socially connected mother, successful father head of a prestigious law firm—am not married and having babies. Every guy in my graduating class intending to go to law school, including Gigi’s now-husband, saw me as the ultimate prospect for the cushy law job that would no doubt fall to any Nowell son-in-law.

  I can’t control other people. But I can control myself. So I’ve gotten very good at the word no.

  I’m twenty-three. I have no intention of settling for a man before I figure out what I want in life.

  Gigi moans as we get in the car. “Those awful sprinklers. What an embarrassing way for a party to end.”

  I cover my laugh. Yes, it was. And that’s how I planned it.

  * * *

  I ascend the front steps of the law offices of Nowell & Nowell LLC with anticipation blazing in my blood like fire. The historic Southern mansion, complete with Corinthian columns and a wrap-around porch, is the location of my first move.

  Daisy is inside. Her father, Emmett Nowell, is inside.

  In minutes, their lives will be in my hands. Any free will they thought they had will be over. I am the master of their fates.

  I’ve waited my whole life for the satisfaction.

  The revenge animal clawing inside my chest breathes heavily, salivating for the coming feast.

  I step through the front doors, unable to quell the devious grin I feel slipping onto my face. But my expression falters, not at the sight of the glittering chandelier or the ornate paintings, but at the girl. The woman. The . . . Daisy.

  She digs through a filing cabinet, her brow furrowed with intent, her fingers flipping through the papers. She mumbles to herself. But it’s none of those things that stop my feet and my thoughts.

  She looks up, her eyes meet mine, and I think . . . Light. Optimism. Hope. Joy. Though I don’t know how I know those words. They don’t apply to my world.

  My sinister need to see her suffer is bolstered. She fought me last night, but how much sweeter that will make it to bring her down. Watching her lose control of her life to me will be a greater pleasure than I anticipated.

  Her expression starts with surprise, then changes to excitement—a brief reveal that she’s glad to see me. She’s been thinking about me. But she guards it quickly, masking it with an expression that challenges and taunts.

  Damn, she’s going to be fun.

  “So soon, Mr. Vandershall?” She steps forward. “I assumed you’d be at least another day.”

  “I’m smitten,” I say, as drily as I feel. “What can I say?”

  “You? Smitten?” She laughs, a loud bright sound. “That’s as likely as snow in July.”

  I stop in front of her desk. “It happens somewhere.”

  “But not here. How’s your lawn?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care.” I lean closer to her. “I’ll let you plow through it with a bulldozer next time, if you want.”

  Her brows raise. “You need landscaping? I’m not qualified.”

  “Ah, but I’d enjoy watching.”

  She perches on the edge of her desk. “If you’re here to flirt with me, you’re going to have to come back another time. I’m working.”

  “I am here for business. And to enliven your no doubt monotonous day.” Manning the front desk of a law firm is a job I envy no one for. She must really be doing it to help her father out.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Yes, we will. “Is your father in his office?”

  “You don’t have an appointment, Mr. Vandershall.”

  That name, my father’s name, irks me. “Blake.”

  “We are nothing if not professional here, Mr. Vandershall.”

  I lean on her desk. “Did you forget what I said yesterday?”

  “I remember every word you said yesterday. Including the things I’d rather forget.”

  “So you don’t need me? You’ve figured out what you want in life in the last—” I check my watch. “—twelve hours?”

  “What I want and how long it takes me to figure it out is none of your business, Mr.—”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Vandershall,” I snap, my temper rearing its head. “Professionally, I’m telling you, don’t call me that.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Okay.” She pauses and then says evenly, “Blake.”

  “Thank you.” My temper calms as quickly as it rose. To hear her say my name, my given name, the one my mother gave me, is strangely soothing. For a moment.

  She persists and her lack of self-preservation in the face of my anger astounds me. “Why don’t you like Vandershall? It’s a very respected, well-established, and—”

  I grit through my teeth, “If you’d known the man my father was, you wouldn’t say that.”

  She cocks her head and teases, “Did your father have a dark side?” It’s a joke that, if she knew anything, she’d know was in unforgivably poor taste.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Is your dark side as dark as his?” She leans closer to me, taunting me again, begging me to answer.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She stifles a laugh. “How could you not know? Don’t you know how dark you are?”

  “I don’t think anyone wants to find out the answer to that question.”

  “Such cryptic answers, Blake.” She lowers her voice to an almost seductive tone. “Are you trying to make me more curious? Because it’s working.”

  “I’m trying to get you to stop taking your life in your hands every time you open your mouth.” I stare at it—her mouth—and watch her gasp. Her lips part, luscious and full, and I have the urge to take them in mine and teach her about just how dark I really am.

  A man says behind me, “Daisy?”

  She jumps back from me and stumbles to her feet. “Hi, Dad. This is—uh—Blake Vandershall.”

  It’s him. Behind me stands the man whose blood I want to see more than anyone, whose death would be far too easy a punishment, whose fate I have been plotting for months. My hands vibrating in anticipation, I stand and turn.

  Emmett Nowell steps from his office and holds out his hand. “Welcome.” His face is so cheery, with a relaxed mouth. He has a rounded belly, and I can almost picture it bouncing with jovial laughter. I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting a hardened slimy type who made my skin crawl.

  This is worse. The evil ones who don’t seem evil are always the most vicious. I should know—I was raised by one.

  I shake his hand, gripping it tight. “Nowell.”

  He returns it, and his cheery face washes away. In its place comes the calculation of the best litigator in Nashville. “How can I
help you?”

  “He doesn’t have an appointment,” Daisy says.

  “That’s all right. Blake’s father and I go way back. Come in.”

  Daisy cautions him, “You have another appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  He shakes his head. “Reschedule.”

  “For tomorrow. You’re booked through five o’clock today.”

  “I can work till—”

  “No,” she scolds. “You can’t.” She crosses her arms and gives him a disciplinary stare that almost makes me smile. She is here to keep him to a limited schedule and is doing a good job of it.

  “Fine, reschedule for tomorrow.” He turns to me with a broad smile. “A Vandershall will always take precedence. Please.” He gestures for me to follow him to his office.

  I glance at Daisy, unable to hide my sinister elation at what is about to take place. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Concern crosses her face. “You didn’t say what you’re here for.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  The way she tilts her head next, I get a flash of the past when I met her, what she doesn’t remember. A flash of the things I’ve wondered, more than once since. Whether being around someone like her, someone full of so much goodness, who’s lead a life unblemished by evil, could help me. Whether the good things she’s made of could penetrate my darkness or if my darkness would destroy them.

  The latter.

  I’ll look forward to it.

  I follow her father and close the door behind me.

  His office is a stunning display of wealth and class, not unlike my father’s estate—antique rugs, original artwork, tall windows draped in velvet. Emmett sits behind his hand-hewn mahogany desk and nods to a leather chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

  I sit, my blood alive and pulsing with the words I will say.

  He steeples his fingers. “I’m glad you stopped in. Daisy mentioned she had a nice time at your garden party last night.”

  “Did she?” I wonder how much sarcasm went with that remark.

  He nods and his expression turns more somber. “Please accept my condolences for your father’s passing. He was well admired.”

  “Not by you.”

  He drops his hands. “Pardon?”

  “He fired your firm twenty years ago. Don’t pretend there was any respect left between you.”

  He leans forward. “That was a long time ago. Your father and I mingled in similar social circles well and put the bad blood behind us.”

  “Of course, you did. He paid you a monthly sum for your silence, despite not doing business together since I was a child.”

  His expression and his gestures remain stoic, giving away nothing. “Unless you were given express permission in your father’s will, I cannot discuss private matters of clients deceased or living.”

  “You don’t need to discuss it. I already know.” I sit on the edge of my chair. Here it comes.

  He clears his throat and tries to change the subject. “Your achievements as an attorney are impressive.” He forces a smile. “I was hoping you were here about a job.”

  “Nowell.” I suck in a breath and prolong the moment. “Because of you, two women are dead.”

  His horror is worth a lifetime of waiting.

  Chapter Three

  My ear pressed to the door, I hear, “Two women are dead.” Then my desk phone rings.

  I leap back to answer it by rote, my brain spinning over what’s happening on the other side of that door. When I finish the call, I resist the urge to run inside.

  The look on Blake’s face before he walked in there . . .

  Like he had a plan. Something ambitious, malicious—the kind of thing that you know is dwelling in that gaze of his. I’m almost afraid for my father, for the added stress this will bring him. That’s part of the reason I have this job, even though I have no desire to study law. My mom, the doctors, and I are worried about the toll Dad’s profession is taking on his heart. I’m here to keep him from working too much. Anyone else he’d push around until he got his way. But not me.

  It doesn’t change how curious I am to know what’s going on the other side of that door.

  When Blake walked in and looked at me . . .

  He has no right to look at me that way—like I’m something to be consumed.

  I have no right to like it so much—like a wash of hot blood through my whole body. He’s an enigmatic, larger-than-life manifestation. He’d take my life in his hands to do with what he would, if I let him. And God help me, I want to see what he would do.

  I woke up this morning and, faced with having to go to work again, I couldn’t fathom surviving another day of answering mundane phone calls. And it has been—hours of the same, old, boring, mindless, empty tasks. I have to remind myself constantly: it’s for a year or two at most, or until we convince Dad to retire sooner.

  Remembering Blake from last night, the intensity of him, the excitement of provoking him, made my morning easier.

  And he came. Like I conjured him with my desire. Or maybe he conjured the desire in me last night—I’m not sure.

  Either way, he’s not leaving here without agreeing to see me again. That I had plans to avoid men like him is insignificant in the face of the excitement he brings.

  I answer the phone, take messages, and direct arriving clients to the various partners’ offices. Most of it simple. Some of it sad. I get a message from one of our family’s favorite charities—one focusing on the welfare of homeless women and children in the city of Nashville. They’re ceasing operations. My parents have donated piles of money to it—only to have it fold due to mismanagement.

  A blast of guilt slugs me. I should have done something. I should’ve helped. I had the time; I took some social work and business classes in college. I’ve volunteered at non-profits before. But I didn’t do anything.

  I’m ashamed and a little disgusted at myself. I was too busy going to parties with my friends and moping about not doing anything with my life. Here was something I could’ve done, but I didn’t.

  The desire to press my ear to Dad’s office door again is fierce.

  What’s clear from my desk chair, by their raised voices, is that Blake has problems, problems he’s angry about.

  Which I can fathom. Blake’s father was president of Fenton University, my alma mater and his, for thirty years. Blake has more money and more doors open to him than any twenty-something ever should, just because of his last name. And all the pressure that comes with it.

  Ten minutes pass. I understand none of what they’re saying until Blake shouts from inside, “Tomorrow, Nowell!” Then he stalks out, slamming the office door on his way. He sees me and stops.

  My heart lurches.

  His eyes blaze at me.

  It’s not fixation—it’s malice, it’s hatred, it’s bitterness and . . . a level of wickedness I can’t wrap my mind around. Evil, but also ruthless on a depthless, limitless scale that I can’t believe I’m seeing.

  There’s a brutality to him. He has vital secrets to reveal—but vicious ones he’ll never tell.

  It should make me afraid. Except I’m not. I’m awake, I’m alive, and I want him to direct everything that’s screaming from his eyes at me. To give it to me—with his mouth, his hands, and his . . .

  I rise from my chair, hands braced on my desk.

  He takes two steps toward me. As if a predator. As if hunting.

  And coming for me.

  “Blake!” Dad shouts from his office door.

  Blake doesn’t even look at him. His gaze stays fixed on me.

  The contained violence bunching his shoulders and neck provokes a response in me I didn’t know was there. I should run, flee, save myself. But this man—not a man, a carnal enigma—warps my survival instincts. Rather than flee the danger he is, my urge is to go toward it.

  His lips part, his tongue licks the lower one, and his words grate, something between a tempting purr and an ominous growl. “Until next time,
Daisy.”

  “Stay away from her!” Dad cries. It’s an uncivil response, the kind I’ve never heard from him.

  Blake doesn’t listen, in fact he comes closer, and a low rumble emanates from his chest. It’s an animal sound—not just hungry but territorial. It vibrates into me on a straight track for all my pleasure sensors, awakening me from my dulled existence.

  “Vandershall!” Dad bellows.

  Blake turns his menacing stare on him.

  “Don’t even look at my daughter,” Dad says, and it’s like watching two primal males battle for dominance. Except my dad doesn’t stand a chance.

  “I’ll do more than look at her.” Blake’s voice echoes like approaching thunder, ominous and dictatorial.

  Dad’s expression wavers for a moment, but quickly settles on steely resolve. “Come here again, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you, Nowell,” Blake whispers, far scarier than any shout.

  He glances once more at me, a possessive domineering stare, then walks down the hall. Leaving me trembling—my fingers shaking, my limbs vibrating.

  Who was that? Not the civilized Vandershall who throws garden parities. Something far removed from that. And my curiosity is so piqued it fires questions through my mind like bullets. My breathing elevated, my skin pulsing, I’m embarrassingly aroused—in front of my father.

  “If he calls here, hang up.” Dad’s mouth is pinched with worry.

  I pat my skirt and attempt to collect myself. “Why?”

  He takes out his handkerchief and dabs the sweat from his brow. “We won’t be doing business with him. If he approaches you, don’t speak to him. If he contacts you, call the police. Understand?”

  “How come?”

  “Because I said so!” His face breaks with an anger I’ve never seen from him before. Or maybe once before, when I told him I went bungee jumping with my sorority sisters over spring break freshman year. Dad angry is cause for concern, not anxiety.

  “He really upset you.”

  He palms his face and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t shout at you.”

  I walk to him and put a gentle hand on his arm. “Tell me what he said.” I wish I’d continued listening at his door.