by Anna DePalo
“We didn’t until this morning.”
Marty frowned. “Come again? There was a photo—”
“I know about the damn photo,” Zeke said irritably. “The reporter got it wrong. That was Summer Elliott last night.” He added by way of explanation, “Scarlet’s identical twin.”
Zeke was still digesting everything that had occurred in the last twenty-four hours. Damn it, she was engaged!
“Elliott? As in Elliott Publication Holdings?” Marty asked.
“The one and same.” Another piece of information, Zeke reflected, that she’d conveniently left out about herself. Hell, she’d known he’d assume she was some groupie.
Marty threw him a penetrating look. “Heiresses aren’t your usual type. The publicist that we just hired for you has already been busy fielding questions from the media.”
Zeke stopped in front of Marty. “What’s he saying?”
Marty shrugged. “The usual. Fudging and leading the reporters on. You know, a half-hearted denial that you’re involved with her, or rather, with the sister.”
Zeke nodded. His public image was carefully cultivated. There was always a delicate dance with the media for maximum positive exposure and spin. Usually that meant leaving the public guessing about his love life, and appearing single and available and never too serious about any one woman for too long. Successive relationships helped keep his place as front-page news, and that suited him just fine. He knew he wasn’t husband material, especially with a lifestyle that kept him on the road.
“So what’s the truth?” Marty asked with his typical bluntness.
Zeke raked his fingers through his hair. “The truth is that she was a reporter after an interview with me.” He was not going to provide the intimate details about what had happened last night.
“I take it that you didn’t give her the interview.”
“That’s right—”
Marty looked relieved.
“—but I’ve agreed to do an interview with her this week.”
“What?” Mart stood up straighter. “I thought we’d been over this. All interview requests get vetted by me and the publicist. We want to make sure you’re appearing in the right markets—”
“She works for The Buzz.”
“—and that the reporter knows the ground rules beforehand about what topics are off-limits—”
“Give me a break, Marty. This is going to be a short interview, not an in-depth profile for Rolling Stone.”
“It’s not like you to cave in so easily to a request for an interview,” Marty said, frowning.
Zeke shrugged. “This is going to sound nuts, but whenever I’m near her, I start hearing the song that’s been playing in my head for the last few months and that I haven’t been able to write. The only other thing that’s been able to call it forth is a photograph that I have hanging back in the mansion in Los Angeles.”
“She’s your muse?” Marty asked, looking floored.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Zeke watched his manager’s face settle into unhappy lines. “Look, Zeke, I know you’re into this songwriting stuff, but you’re the hottest thing on the music scene right now. There are plenty of people who would love to be in your shoes, but they don’t have your voice and they sure as hell don’t have your sex appeal. Why mess with a good thing?”
They’d had this discussion half a dozen times. “Fame’s fleeting, Mart.”
“So? You can concentrate on the songwriting career later. For now, do yourself a favor and focus on putting out CDs and on touring to keep your name out there.”
“I’m still mulling over that offer to write for a Broadway show.”
Marty rolled his eyes. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that you’re getting serious about this Elliott chick. Remember, you’ve got an image as a heartthrob to maintain.”
Zeke laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Marty, man, you’re a damn pain in the rear.”
Six
E merging from the car, Summer looked up at The Tides and squared her shoulders. She felt as if she were twelve years old again and going in for a lecture from Gram and Granddad that was sure to end with her getting grounded.
Still, The Tides was home, and whenever she was stressed, she particularly welcomed its warm embrace. Probably not many people would think of the nearly 8,000-square-foot century-old mansion made of rusty sandstone as warm and inviting, but it was to her.
She breathed in the brisk sea air. Located in the Hamptons—an exclusive vacation community several hours east of New York City—the five-acre Elliott estate sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
Ever since her parents had died in a plane crash when she and Scarlet were only ten, she and her sister had been raised by Gram and Granddad at The Tides. Even now, she and Scarlet spent most weekends there.
Except, this morning Scarlet had begged off going out to The Tides, mumbling that she had things to do in the city. And when she’d tried to ask her sister where she’d gone last night—because Scarlet hadn’t been home when Summer herself had finally gotten back to the townhouse after staying on at the bar with some coworkers after her sister’s departure—Scarlet had clammed up.
She hoped Scarlet wasn’t mad at her for breaking up with John in the way that she had. Her sister had seemed understanding enough yesterday, but this morning she’d been cool, abrupt and aloof, refusing to say where she’d been or with whom. They’d never kept secrets from each other in the past, so Scarlet’s behavior had hurt.
Summer waved to Benjamin Trent, her grandparents’ long-time groundskeeper, then climbed the steps to the front door.
Home. She put down her bag and tossed her jacket onto a nearby chair, looking around the house as she did so and taking in for the thousandth time the understated and elegant decor that was a testament to Gram’s fine taste.
Footsteps sounded on the marble floor and a few seconds later, Gram emerged from the living room at the back of the house.
“Summer! What a lovely surprise!” Gram said, her voice colored by an Irish accent. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming this weekend, with the wedding planning and all.”
Wedding. She was reminded again of the conversation that lay ahead. Nevertheless, she smiled, then kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Hello, Gram.”
Her grandmother had been a nineteen-year-old seamstress in Ireland when Patrick Elliott had swept her off her feet. Now, though she was seventy-five, one could still detect some freckles on her pale skin and some auburn in the white hair that she always wore in an updo. Despite her somewhat frail health, she radiated warmth and cheer.
When Summer pulled back, she noticed Gram’s eyes went to the door, then back to her.
“You’re just in time for lunch. Scarlet hasn’t joined you?”
“No, she said she had things to do in the city this weekend.” She linked her arm with Gram’s, and they started toward the breakfast room at the back of the house. “We’ll have a lovely lunch anyway, won’t we?”
“With you here, of course!”
She’d always felt protective toward Gram. Not only had Gram lost her son Stephen and his wife—Summer’s parents—in a plane crash, but she’d also lost her seven-year-old daughter Anna to cancer. Adding to the strain, Granddad hadn’t always been on the best of terms with his and Gram’s surviving adult children.
When they got to the breakfast room, Olive—Benjamin’s wife and the housekeeper at The Tides—greeted them warmly, and Gram asked her to set another place at the table.
Noticing that only three places were to be set, Summer asked, “Aren’t Aunt Karen and Uncle Michael here?”
“Michael had to get back to the office yesterday to deal with pressing business and won’t be back till this evening,” Gram responded as they took their seats. “And Karen is resting.” Gram’s face clouded. “She’s too tired to come down and will take her meal in her room later on.”
“How is she doing?” Summer asked qui
etly. Her aunt, her uncle Michael’s wife, had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and had undergone a double mastectomy.
“Karen is never one to complain. I’m thankful the cancer hasn’t spread, but the chemotherapy that she’s taking as a precaution is going to take its toll.”
Summer knew her cousins were concerned about their mother, whose diagnosis remained guarded. The only bright light, Summer reflected, was that her cousin Gannon had just gotten married, and his younger brother, Tag, had recently gotten engaged to a wonderful woman. The celebrations had given her aunt something to look forward to.
Of course, Summer’s own wedding, or nonwedding, was a different story.
She nearly jumped when her grandfather entered the room.
“Well,” Patrick Elliott said in his usual booming voice, “if it isn’t the return of the vagabond grandchild.”
Unlike his wife, her grandfather showed gruff affection at best, but Summer was well used to it. She rose from her seat and kissed him on the cheek. “Granddad, you know I was here just last weekend.” Settling back into her chair, she added, “It’s just me this time, though. Scarlet decided to stay in the city.”
Patrick Elliott took his seat as Olive, humming, came in with their bowls of chicken soup. “So how’s your vagabond sister?”
Summer let out a half laugh.
“Patrick, you’re incorrigible,” Maeve said. “Stop teasing the poor girl.”
Patrick’s only response was a slight movement of his bushy eyebrows as he raised a spoonful of soup to his lips. Summer knew that if there was one person who could bring her grandfather to heel, it was Gram. He adored her.
Over lunch, they talked about current events and Maeve’s charity work, as well as happenings in and around the Hamptons.
Just when Summer was starting to relax, however, and they were finishing up lunch over fresh berries and cream, Patrick nodded at her hand and said, “What happened to your sparkler?”
Darn. Leave it to her grandfather to zero in on her ringless hand. He’d probably noticed as soon as he’d come in and sat down, but, in typical Patrick Elliott fashion, he’d let his victim relax before going in for the kill.
Gulp. “I’ve called off the engagement.”
“Have you now?” her grandfather asked pleasantly, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Oh, Summer,” Maeve said. “Why?”
The million-dollar question, she thought. She wished she had a good answer. She knew that saying she’d lost her virginity to a globe-trotting musician whom she barely knew wouldn’t play well with her Irish-Catholic grandparents.
“Um—” She cleared her throat. “I realized John and I just weren’t suited for each other.”
Maeve’s brow furrowed. “But he seemed like such a nice man, and you two were like two peas in a pod.”
“I think that was part of the problem,” she said. “We had no spark. We were too alike.” Good grief, this was an awkward conversation to be having with her grandparents.
Patrick removed his napkin from his lap and set it down next to his plate, shaking his head. “Too alike? In my day, you met a fella with a steady job, you got married. You didn’t worry that being responsible adults made you too alike.”
Summer groaned inwardly.
“Patrick, do be quiet.” Maeve patted her hand. “It’s all right, dear.”
Patrick stood. “I need to get back to work—like a responsible adult.”
Watching her grandfather’s retreating back, Summer said, “I guess I was speaking a foreign language to him.”
Maeve sighed. “He’ll get over it.”
“I know he liked John.” She looked at her grandmother. “They’re similar in many ways. Smart, ambitious, hard-working.” She hoped her grandfather didn’t think her rejection of John amounted to a rejection of his values as well.
“He just wants to see you happy,” Maeve said, “and he understands John.” She added, her eyes twinkling, “After all, your grandfather’s been a devoted husband for fifty-seven years. Naturally he’s an expert on the formula for marital bliss.”
“Naturally,” Summer concurred.
Then they shared a laugh.
Thank God for her grandmother, Summer thought. She could defuse almost any situation, which was one of the many reasons that she also made an excellent hostess.
Not that breaking the news to her grandfather had been all that bad. Within the range of Granddad’s reactions to news that he didn’t want to hear, his response had been mild. It was almost as if, notwithstanding his subsequent bluster, her news hadn’t come as a complete surprise to him. She wondered, too, whether she’d only imagined the flicker of respect in his eyes for a moment.
“I’ll never understand Granddad.”
Summer didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Maeve said, “He has his reasons.”
She looked at her grandmother. “You know the atmosphere at EPH has become downright chilly since he made it a competition among the magazines to name his successor. It’s true that I haven’t felt it much because Uncle Shane remains fairly easygoing, but I know Scarlet’s felt the pressure at work because Aunt Finny is working harder than ever to make sure Charisma is at the head of the pack.”
She didn’t have to mention the strained relationship between her aunt Finny and her grandfather. She knew Granddad had mellowed with age, but he’d always run a tight ship. While building his empire, he’d sometimes cared more for appearances than for his family, and he’d paid for his mistakes by alienating some of his children and grandchildren.
Maeve looked sad. “I’d hoped Patrick’s challenge wouldn’t put additional strain on his relationship with Finny.”
“But why?” Summer asked. “I just don’t understand why he had to set up this rivalry within the family. It’s started to pull people apart.”
Maeve looked thoughtful for an instant, then said quietly, “As I said, your grandfather has his reasons for doing what he does, and he’ll never back down on this one. I have faith that the family will pull through without falling apart.”
Summer wasn’t so sure.
She was alone again with Zeke in his hotel room and keenly aware of him. Summer tried to forget the last time she had been here.
Today he was dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt and an open button-down shirt. Of course, now she knew what lay beneath those clothes: hard, sculpted muscles, smooth sun-kissed skin, powerful thighs….
She yanked her mind away from her wayward thoughts. She was here to do the interview that he’d promised her and nothing else.
She knew from reading the newspapers that Zeke’s publicist had issued a denial that the two of them—or, rather, he and Scarlet—were more than friends. With any luck, the whole story would soon fade away. It would, she promised herself, as long as she managed to get her interview and get out of here.
When she’d returned to work yesterday morning, after having spent the weekend torturing herself about her recent behavior, Zeke had called to schedule an interview for Tuesday afternoon.
Of course, she’d agonized over what to wear. She wanted to look professional but not prudish. She’d tossed aside her twin sets and an angora sweater, and had finally settled on a fitted silk Chinese-style jacket over black pants and half boots.
She really needed to go shopping. If not for the Chinese-style jacket that Scarlet had tossed at her at a designer sample sale, she didn’t know if she’d ever have found something appropriate to wear.
“Have a seat,” he said, breaking into her thoughts and making her jump. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“J-just some water. Thank you.”
He smiled as he headed to the kitchenette.
Was it her imagination or was his grin tinged with wickedness? Was he remembering that the first time they’d met she’d drunk more than just water? Maybe he thought she was trying to avoid past mistakes.
When he returned, he handed her a glass of water and took a seat in
a chair perpendicular to the couch that she was sitting on.
She took a sip. It was almost a relief to be away from EPH and, instead, here interviewing Zeke. She hadn’t heard from John since Friday, and she supposed he was traveling again. Scarlet was still distant, and her family’s reaction to her broken engagement had ranged from shock to dismay.
“Don’t you have a photographer with you?” Zeke asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“I’m taking the photos.” With her free hand, she raised the case holding her camera.
He gave her a quizzical look. “You’re the photographer?”
She shrugged self-consciously. “I’ve taken classes. It’s a hobby.” She put her glass down on an end table.
He gazed at her intently, and she shifted. What was he thinking?
“You look different,” he said, his voice—that incredible voice—as smooth as honey and as deep and rich as chocolate.
Concentrate, Summer, she scolded herself. “Mmm, really?”
“Yeah, at the concert you were rocker girl, and at work on Friday you had a white-gloves-and-pearls retro look. Today, though, you look exotic.” He cocked his head. “I’m still trying to figure out which of you is the real Summer Elliott.”
Maybe she was, too. “Maybe all of them are.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you’re still trying to figure out who you are.”
“I thought I was the one doing the interviewing,” she said lightly.
His lips twitched. “Isn’t an interview just a two-way conversation? Besides, the more I get to know you, the more I find you intriguing.”
“Thank you—I guess.”
“For instance,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “do you ever wear your engagement ring?”
She thought about lying, but decided it was best to come clean. He’d probably find out the truth soon enough from the newspapers anyway. “I broke off the engagement.”
She saw a flare of heat in those amazing blue eyes of his before he banked it. “You told him.”
“I told him,” she confirmed, then added defensively, “You’re not the reason that we broke up, if that’s what you’re thinking. You just made me realize John and I would be making a mistake by getting married. I broke up with him before I told him what had happened between us on Thursday night.”