by Amelia LeFay
“You drive me insane, Maxwell, and you know it! Who screens their mother’s calls?”
“Anyone above the age of sixteen.”
She took a deep breath. “Tonight I’m having a very important party. You will be there, with a beautiful young woman, preferably someone who will not embarrass you or me and is of marriage material. You will smile, you will laugh, you will pretend you are the only son of the Emerson family, and heir to everything when your father and I die. Which might be soon since you are keen on breaking my heart. It will be a splendid night and then you can go back to your fortress of solitude high above Boston. Do you understand?”
“Where am I supposed to find this beautiful young unattached woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know son, but the brunette producer in your office seems like a viable option.”
“Goodbye, Mother.” I hung up, fighting the urge to drop my head on the table. Apparently my phone was cursed.
“I looked pitiful the other night, right?” Irene asked me at the door. She was dressed in an outfit I could not afford, diamond earrings only seen in catalogs, and perfect makeup while I scrubbed her toilet.
If she was what ‘pitiful’ looked like, I’d love to take a stab at it.
“No, you didn’t,” I finally answered while spraying the toilet bowl with bleach.
“I used to be really popular; people lined up to come to my parties.”
I realized she really didn’t give a damn what I thought, she just wanted to vent, but listening to rich people and their sob stories were not in my job description.
“People in this city…they are just so fake. You know? They all love you when you have money and power, but the moment you slip up, they leave you out in the cold.”
Again this was not my business…but again she didn’t give a fuck and I could do nothing about that.
“I killed someone.” My head whipped back to face her and she busted out laughing. “Oh my god! Your face Ha! Ha! HA! You looked ready to piss your pants.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“Now you know how I felt when you said you didn’t know English.” She crossed her arms.
“Touché.” I nodded before standing up and flushing the toilet. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep what in mind?”
“That you have a twisted sense of humor,” I blurted out, but she didn’t care and instead smiled brightly at me.
“You know you’re way too pretty to be a maid.”
“I tried being a prostitute, but it didn’t work out.”
Her eyes widened, and this time I laughed.
“Who has the twisted humor now?” She shook her head at me.
“I never said there was anything wrong with dark humor. In fact, I applaud it.” I grabbed the bucket and moved out of her bathroom to go back downstairs.
“Jane, are you done?”
“Yes, why?” Turning to face her, I prayed to god she didn’t have anything else for me to do. I’d already cleaned for five hours.
“I need help.” She pointed to the two dresses on her bed. The first was a beautifully simple emerald sweetheart dress with sleeves that would fall over the shoulder. The other was an elegant champagne chiffon dress with lacy cap sleeves.
“Definitely the champagne one.”
“Great, you can wear the green.”
“I’m sorry, come again?” I stared at her, hoping she’d laugh to prove that it was another dark joke…like ha ha ha, of course you can wear the thousand-dollar dress—just kidding, you’re a maid type of joke.
But she took the cleaning bucket from my hand and put it down by the door.
“Ms. Monrova—”
“Everyone who didn’t come to my party is going to be there,” she said on the brink of tears, picking at her nails. “They are going to huddle together and laugh at me.”
“Then don’t go.”
She shook her head. “If I did that, they would know I was hiding. I have no friends here any more. If I go alone, I’ll just sit there with one—”
“You’re beautiful! Don’t you have a guy you can call? Someone…anyone.”
She shook her head. “I’ve burned a lot of bridges. Besides if I brought a guy, they’d either try to steal him away or talk about me until he distanced himself from me.”
What was this? The adult version of Mean Girls?
“Whoever these people are, they aren’t worth it.”
“Yes, they are!” she snapped. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to come off as offensive because I really do need your help, nor do I want to insult you, but you just don’t get it. Yes, these women are catty bitches. No, I don’t want to be their friends, but they are the daughters of senators, bankers, moguls, and a lot of important people who can make life harder than it needs to be. I would rather be in the room being ignored than out in the cold. It’s just the way it is. I’ll pay you personally for the overtime.”
I wanted to cry, stomp my feet, or do anything to get out of this, but I was weak-willed when it came to people who needed help. Even though this was the dumbest, most annoying and elitist type of ‘help’, I could remember her sobbing at her party.
“Why me?”
“You’re hot—not hotter than me, but if I go there with a beautiful new bestie no one knows and laugh my ass off at our twisted jokes, then they’ll see I don’t care and I can make friends. You wouldn’t happen to know French would you?”
“I do.”
Oh my God! She grabbed on to my shoulders, jumping around. “This is fate!”
If fate was a stripper named Dominique, yeah maybe. I loved learning. It was my way of overcompensating for never getting to go to college. Dominique spoke it all the time and the men poured out their wallets for her. I said a few words and got better tips. ‘A’ plus ‘B’ equaled me learning French; anything to make an extra dollar. Allen then marketed the Bunny Rabbit as the only exotic strip club in the city with a full-on French burlesque night.
That was about my only talent, though.
“Jane?”
“What?”
“You’re going to be my exotic French friend. We need to come up with a name—”
“Jane,” I said.
She frowned. “What?”
“I don’t change my name for anyone. Jane. Besides, are you sure you want to get caught in a lie later?”
“You really are no fun.”
“Great, you can take someone else.” I moved toward the door but she grabbed my arm.
“Fine, but at least speak in French, please?”
How? How in the hell do I get myself into this shit all the time?!
“Okay.”
“You might want to take a shower since you smell like bleach.” She wrinkled her nose and backed away. I could only stare in shock.
So apparently I had two talents: languages and getting myself in the most unpredictable and ridiculous situations known to man.
“How is it possible you look better than me?” she pouted when I stepped into her room. I wasn’t sure how to answer that because I wasn’t sure if she was trying to insult or compliment me…maybe both.
Turning back to my reflection in her mirror, I still could not believe it was me. I wore light makeup like always, but Irene had added some light, smoky eye shadow and it had made a big difference. My auburn hair was curled at the ends and was parted to one side to expose my neck. It stopped at the side of my breasts, the mounds of which you could perfectly see because of the sweetheart of the shape of the dress. Irene had also offered me a diamond bracelet to wear, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it. First because I was scared I’d lose it and have to sell her my soul, and second because it was too much. She instead suggested I wear some diamond earrings, and I gave in only because at least those would be attached firmly to my body and not just dangling off my wrist.
But the damn cherry on top of the ice cream was the heels…her beautiful, stunning, silver shimmering Christian Louboutin pumps that fit my feet
like a glove.
Wait. I had been so swept up that I hadn’t caught it immediately.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
She stood next to me fluffing her hair. “Size eight and a half. Why?”
“I wear a seven.” I stared at her, but she still didn’t get it. “How do these shoes fit me?”
She froze.
I glanced down at the dress again. My breasts were bigger than hers and yet the dress cupped me perfectly.
“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?” I backed away from her. She was much smarter than I’d initially thought. She had called Mary and gotten me there just so she wouldn’t have to go the party alone, and I had fallen right for it.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little desperate,” she replied, a small smile on her lips.
“You spent thousands of dollars just to have a friend? You could have gotten an escort.”
She shrugged, picking up her clutch. “Nothing I can do now. Let’s go. We’re already late.”
What the hell?
Part of me was impressed…another larger part of me was a little creeped out, but I followed her anyway.
Foster stood at the bottom of the stairs. Upon seeing me, his eyebrow rose. A teasing smile spread on his old face. “Lady Chapman.”
“Don’t even start.” I glared. “You didn’t warn me when I got here.”
“You’ll learn. Ms. Monrova is hard to say no to.”
Leaning over to him as she put on her coat, I whispered, “She isn’t crazy is she?”
“Have a good evening Lady Chapman.” He snickered before leaving me to fend for myself.
“Jane come on!” She threw me a fur jacket and I glanced at the clock. It was after nine. Only three more hours until midnight and I could turn back into a pumpkin.
Placing the coat on, I rushed out to the waiting Mercedes.
“I look all right…right?”
Isn’t it too late to be asking? “You look beautiful. Completely stunning.”
“French, remember?”
Sighing, I repeated, “Vous êtes belle. Très étonnante.”
“Merci, et toi.” She giggled, leaning back into the chair.
Rolling my eyes, I glanced out the window, not sure why I had butterflies in my stomach. I was nervous but had no idea why.
“If you planned this, why did you make me clean your house first?” I asked her.
“Because it was dirty, of course.”
I turned back to her. “I cleaned on Friday. You messed it up on purpose didn’t you? So I wouldn’t just leave?”
“You make me sound a lot more devious than I really am,” she said, pretending to check her phone.
She was insane. I kinda liked her for it, though.
One night playing dress up couldn’t hurt, right?
Chapter Five
From Boston to Weston—aka the third wealthiest town in the United States—was only thirty minutes, but it felt like I had gone across the world. The houses here were bigger than half my neighborhood. It was insanity. When we drove up the long driveway and around the water fountain to the European-style mansion, my stomach dropped and I didn’t want to get out of the car.
“Welcome,” the doorman said. Stepping up, I held on to the coat around my shoulders while Irene came out of the other door to stand beside me.
“Be mysterious,” she said in French, and I hoped that meant not speaking.
“Names?” said another man at the door. He was dressed in a tailored suit; given the cold night, I was worried the poor man would freeze.
“Seriously?” Irene snapped, annoyed. “Irene Monrova, Elspeth Yates’ niece.”
The moment she said that, he straightened up. “Sorry ma’am, but we were instructed to check everyone. Please enjoy.”
Elspeth Yates? Where had I heard that name before?
“May I have your coats?” A maid took it from me before I could answer. Irene didn’t even blink, just tossed it to her.
Leaning into me, Irene whispered, “Smile. The vultures are all here.”
I didn’t know what she meant until I stepped around the corner into the large living room. Most of the furniture had been moved for the party, but that didn’t at all take away from the décor. The paintings that hung on the walls had to have been lifted straight from museums; hell, the place was like a museum. I was actually interested in seeing more of it, but all the guests’ eyes were focused on her…us…the both of us. They glared at her as if she was actually a murderer, and I felt her take a step back. She was scared and she couldn’t move.
“Irene,” I whispered.
“This was a bad idea. I’m sorry.” I grabbed her arm before she could run. Speaking in French, I said to her, “I have no idea what you did, but I spent hours today cleaning your house. I let you convince me to come to a party I wanted no part of, in a dress I am terrified of ruining. You are going to walk in there like the motherfucking queen of England, or so help me, I’m going lose my shit.”
She stared at me wide-eyed before laughing and taking a step forward. “Your French is a little rough around the edges, but good.”
Of course that was all she’d gotten from my speech. Shaking my head, I walked after her. When I did, two guys across the room smiled at me. I smirked, making direct eye contact with them before looking away and taking one of the glasses of champagne. I was supposed to make her look good, right?
“You’re a natural,” she said to me
I learned from strippers, so of course I am a natural. For the men at least, I could fake it because whether they were in a suit or jeans, they functioned the same.
“Irene! Long time, no see.” A blond man was the first to come over to us and his brown eyes dropped over to me. “Who’s your friend?”
“How do you know I’m her friend? We could be lovers,” I said in French, knowing he couldn’t understand. Irene snorted and tried not to laugh.
He looked at us, confused. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Jane,” I answered him, offering him a hand.
“Archibald Saint James,” he said kissing the back of it. “But my friends call me Archie.”
“That’s quite nice of your friends, Mr. Saint James,” I said, and the corners of his lips turned up.
“I think so too, maybe you—”
“That’s a very long handshake, Archibald.” We both turned to find Maxwell Emerson dressed in a fitted black suit and bow tie with his hand in his pocket. His blue eyes glared at Archibald.
Elspeth Yates…Elspeth fucking Yates…his mother! Shit!
He said nothing more, but walked up beside me and placed his hand on my waist. My eyes widened. I wanted to push him away, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention. I was trapped.
Whoever said no good deed goes unpunished was talking to me.
Contrary to popular belief, I did not hate people. Did some people annoy me? Yes. Did I often lose my temper? Who didn’t? However, I hated Archibald Saint James so vehemently that if he were drowning in front of me, I’d go inside and make a sandwich.
His snake eyes dropped to my hand on her waist, and I tried to ignore the heat coming off her skin.
“Maxwell I didn’t know you were acquainted with such a beautiful woman,” he pressed, obviously feeding into the circulating rumor that I had to be gay. To gossipmongers, this explained why I never brought women to any of my parents’ ridiculous parties thrown with the simple purpose of showing off their wealth.
Turning to Jane, I could tell she was yelling at me with her eyes. Reaching up, I cupped her waist harder and blatantly kissed her. She stared and I gave her ass a squeeze to intimate to her to play along. Closing her eyes, she kissed me back, but before it went any further than that, we broke apart. Her lips were puffy and her face flushed.
“Now you know, Archibald,” I said, taking Jane’s hand and pulling her away from the living room completely.
I didn’t stop walking, or let go, and I could feel mysel
f getting heated, but I wasn’t sure why. The image of Archibald kissing her hand pissed me off—or was it the shock of seeing her to begin with? Dressed like…
“Let go!” She kicked me in the shin once we were in the privacy of my childhood bedroom.
“What the fuck!” I hissed, releasing her hand to grab my now throbbing leg.
“That’s what I want to know, asshole!” she screamed at me, kicking one more time, forcing me to back away. “How dare you put your lips on me without asking first?”
“Stop it now!” I yelled when she tried to kick me again. She just lifted her fist. “I was trying to save you!”
“From what?”
“Him! He’s a fucking rapist!”
She froze with her fist still in the air. “What?”
“Fuck.” I hissed, sitting back on my bed and rolling up my trousers; sure enough, my shin was bleeding. Her heel was one hell of the weapon. “You should be thanking me, not assaulting me.”
“Says the man who grabbed my ass.” She crossed her arms, still keeping her distance. “What do you mean he’s a rapist?”
“I wasn’t aware there were differing definitions of rapist,” I snapped at her while wincing when I touched the wound.
She sighed before looking around the room and opening a few doors until she got into a bathroom. I heard the water turn on for a second, and she came back out with a wet washcloth. Moving to sit on the bed beside me, she grabbed my leg and placed it on her lap.
“Why is he here if he is a rapist? I thought your mother was running for president,” she said, softly dabbing my shin.
“Because he wasn’t officially prosecuted for rape. His family paid them off. The victim was some broke college student. The moment she took the money, she left Boston for good. I’m sure there are more like her, but when your father owns one of the biggest financial services companies in the country, you can sweep a lot more under the rug. I kissed you because the only family you don’t mess with is mine. If he thinks you’re mine, you’re safe.”
She frowned at me and looked up with those big hazel eyes of hers. “You’re this super famous reporter, so why not expose him?”