by Susan Crosby
She couldn’t go home, either, to her grandparents’ town house where she and Summer shared the top floor. Summer probably wasn’t even home, might even be with Zeke, but Scarlet didn’t want to take the chance. She would get a hotel room for the night, order a bottle of wine, take a hot bath and figure out where she’d gone wrong.
Except that it hadn’t felt wrong—not when she was in John’s arms. It had felt so…right. He wasn’t her sister’s fiancé anymore. She hadn’t violated any codes of ethics, sibling or otherwise. She and Summer had made a pact when they were eight years old that they would never pretend to be the other, and while she’d gone to John’s apartment as herself, she knew fairly soon that he’d thought she was her sister and she hadn’t corrected his mistake until it was almost past the point of no return. If he hadn’t realized it on his own, she would’ve told him, though—wouldn’t she?
Yes, of course. Probably.
So…a bath, some wine and some reflection. She would put John Harlan out of her mind once and for all.
And by morning she would be fine.
Just fine.
Two
Early April
S carlet glared at her watch. A quarter past noon. She checked her cell phone, making sure it was turned on. It was. No missed calls. No voice-mail messages. Irritation whipped through her. It was unlike Summer to keep her waiting, especially for fifteen minutes. But then, Summer had lost her predictability. She’d even gotten herself engaged to Zeke Woodlow less than a month after ending her engagement to—
Scarlet went no further with the thought. At least there was a sparkle in Summer’s eyes and a lightness in her step that hadn’t been there before. A totally different kind of aura surrounded her, and for that Scarlet thanked Zeke.
He’d just better not ever hurt her….
Pasting on a smile, Scarlet returned a wave to a fellow employee then stabbed a piece of avocado in her Cobb salad. Seated in the company cafeteria, she was grateful she’d been able to grab a booth. She hated eating alone in public—Summer knew that. And it was especially bad here where noise bounced off the walls and the steel tabletops, the modern decor not helping to absorb sound, not letting a person think clearly. Plus, the entire twenty-five-story Park Avenue building was owned by EPH—Elliott Publication Holdings, her family’s business. Or rather, businesses, their many magazines, so that a lot of people could pick her out of a crowd. Plus she was an Elliott, one who’d already caused enough talk.
She should’ve told Summer to meet her at the deli down the block.
“Who are you waiting for?”
Scarlet looked up to find Finola Elliott, editor in chief of Charisma magazine and Scarlet’s boss for the past two years—and for twenty-five years, her aunt Finny.
“Summer. She’s late.”
“That’s unlike her.”
“I know.”
Fin lowered her voice. “Are you okay?”
Surprised, Scarlet focused on her aunt instead of the cafeteria entrance. “Sure. Why?”
“You’ve seemed tense lately.”
“I’m fine,” she said, resisting the temptation to make a similar comment to Fin, who was under a great deal of stress since her father, Scarlet’s grandfather, had issued a challenge regarding who was to fill his shoes when he retired at the end of the year—a challenge which had only added to the long-standing tension existing between Fin and her parents. The fact that Fin was eating in the company cafeteria instead of the executive dining room indicated her discomfort, as well.
“I’d ask you to join us, Fin, but Summer called this meeting. Here she is now.”
“No problem,” Fin said as Summer hugged her then slipped into the booth. “I’m meeting Bridget. See you later.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Summer said, her eyes shimmering. “Cute outfit. Can I borrow it?”
Scarlet smiled. Even though Summer had made sweeping changes recently, her wardrobe still wouldn’t include anything like the purple-and-red minidress that Scarlet had designed and made this past week. “My closet is your closet,” Scarlet said.
Summer laughed.
Scarlet could usually anticipate what her sister would say, but not this time. Not for the past few weeks, actually. She only knew that Summer was revved about something. “What’s up?”
She linked her fingers together and set her hands on the table. “I’m taking a leave of absence from The Buzz.”
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 bo
th 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, honest, a trait that seemed in short supply these days.
Three
A t 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?