Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  Eventually he lets go, and we walk over and sit on the long couch. I peer at him. “Are you really all right?”

  “Of course.” A faint smile, then very deliberately, his face relaxes. But I know it’s not a genuine reaction. There’s a tight, slightly discordant undertone in his voice.

  “Why are you faking it?” I ask.

  “Um… What?”

  “Something’s bugging you. It’s in your voice. We decided to be honest, right?”

  He takes my left hand and massages it. “We did. It’s just… I can’t tell you.” He looks at me, a little wary. “Are you upset?”

  “N… Okay, yes.” It’s surprising how many responses are automatic, like my mind just knows what’s appropriate to say regardless of what I really think. “A little. I mean, I wish you could tell me, but I understand if you can’t.”

  He looks away, his shoulders collapsing a bit, like a man who’s failed.

  “Tony, I’m glad you said you can’t tell me rather than lying about it. I’d be more upset if you lied and I found out later.”

  He pulls me closer, placing my head on his shoulder, and kisses my hair.

  I close my eyes with contentment and snuggle closer. At least he wanted to tell me and was upset he couldn’t. The fact that he doesn’t want to keep secrets from me makes me feel better.

  I sense the weight of Tony’s gaze on me even through sleepiness. I sigh softly, wondering what’s going through his head right now. Is he thinking about the kiss from yesterday? Or is he thinking about whatever it was that stopped us?

  He can’t tell me what it is, but of course I’m still curious. Whatever killed Tony’s lust yesterday evening must be something serious.

  What personal news could douse a fire like that in a man so fast? Or put such an oddly haunted look in his eyes?

  * * *

  Anthony

  Iris has her eyes closed, but the gears in her head are turning. It takes a while before she finally falls asleep. Her beautiful face relaxes, and she lets out deep, even breaths, her hands on her thighs.

  I arrange her to be more comfortable, her head resting on my lap. I run a finger lightly over her gently arched eyebrows.

  Iris Smith does exist. Used to live in a small town in Northern California called Almond Valley. Distantly related to Sam Peacher.

  Edgar’s words still ringing in my head, I glance at the music on the piano. “Mazeppa.” Nobody attempts that unless they have technical chops of the highest caliber. Decent amateur pianists who can manage a serviceable Mozart or Beethoven usually give up after about three or four seconds of it. I wouldn’t try it, and I’m better than decent.

  I study the scar on her right palm, the mole right below her mouth and the slightly marred skin where Ivy said she got a tattoo. I run my fingers along hers, the same long, dexterous digits that used to delight me in and out of bed. I recall the taste of her lips—cherry and caramel—the same as Ivy.

  All night and morning, I argued with myself. Plastic surgery might be able to change a person’s face to match someone else’s, but can it change the length of one’s fingers? Or the way a person tastes? Or the way she speaks, plays and lives?

  I know Edgar’s a second away from catching a flight back to L.A. If I were the smart, self-preserving type, I’d do as he suggests and stay the hell away from Iris. The clubs I own in Paris, Tokyo and Seoul could use some personal attention. The local management teams would love some face time with the boss.

  So I fiddled with my phone all last night, picking it up and dropping it, turning it in my hand, studying my contact list—all the people overseas who’d like to talk to me about business opportunities or improvement.

  But ultimately, I couldn’t make myself text Wei and tell him to ready my plane.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Iris

  I dream a crazy dream, something so psychedelic I can’t forget it. The sky’s a deep electric-purple dome, the field mossy and soft. I run barefoot, my arms spread out under a golden sun, silver moon and glinting stars. Somewhere in the distance, somebody’s playing Schubert’s Fantasie—secondo only. My fingers itch, and I start to run toward the music, but the field is endless. The moss starts to grow softer and wetter, and my feet sink deeper with every step.

  Suddenly, water reaches my ankle. It isn’t cold, but it makes me shiver anyway. I look up at the sky. The sun and the moon are gone. Only pinprick lights from the stars remain.

  The music’s growing fainter. I resume my run, trying to reach the piano.

  The stars grow brighter and bigger. Then they fall, their tails silver needles across the amaranthine sky, and pierce my body from all directions. I gasp, try to evade the bombardment, but now my feet are rooted…

  “Wake up. It’s just a dream.”

  Not a dream. I’m submerged in the water, and I can’t breathe. I can’t swim.

  I struggle to rise to the surface, but something tugs me downward. A girl in a blue dress is holding my ankle. Her hair unfurls in the water like reddish-gold ink. Smiling up at me, she waves with her free hand, turning my blood to ice.

  “No!”

  “Ivy!”

  I jerk awake, panting, my skin sweat-sticky and uncomfortable. Tony is holding me, stroking my back and offering comfort.

  I shiver, unable to forget the mermaid girl. She was terrifying. Her grip felt so real…

  “It’s okay. It was just a dream,” he whispers into my hair.

  “Right… Just a dream.” Except I’ve never had a dream like this before. And I almost never remember my dreams, although I have been starting to remember them since returning to the States. I wipe at my cheeks, and my hands come away wet.

  Tony pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at my cheeks and hairline. I let him take care of me, trying not to tremble. I’ve never had a nightmare during a nap. God, it was so vivid, so horrifying. I could have sworn I was dying.

  He presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Gradually, my nerves settle. Then something occurs to me. “Who’s Ivy?”

  “What?”

  I lift my head. “You said Ivy.”

  “You must’ve misheard.”

  “No, I didn’t. I know what I heard—”

  His stomach growls then, cutting me off. “Let’s have lunch,” he says, too smoothly.

  “Let’s wait until you answer my question. I want to know why you said Ivy.”

  His lips compress until they’re white. His whole body coils like he’s ready to bolt.

  No, no, don’t do that. Just tell me. I can handle whatever the truth might be…although the tightening in my gut makes me wonder.

  Finally, he exhales. “She was someone I knew. I was thinking about her when you started thrashing around, and the name slipped out. Sorry.”

  That’s it? All the tension drains, leaving me slightly dazed. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  He gives me a look. “What woman is going to be okay with being called another woman’s name?”

  “Well, yeah, okay…nobody. But people can make mistakes. Ivy is sort of close to Iris,” I say, trying to sound casual. But Ivy knots my gut, and it isn’t jealousy. It’s something else, almost like fear. Not the kind that makes you flee screaming, but the kind that makes you pick up a knife and edge toward it, while your heart is pounding and cold sweat is breaking out along your spine.

  Tony’s belly growls again. I let him order us lunch, and we sit down to eat. He’s quiet, probably embarrassed about using the wrong name. Since I can’t probe Tony about Ivy—he’s too chagrined already—I’m mulling over my weird dream. Specifically, the girl in the blue dress. She seemed familiar. Is she a friend? Did she play a prank on me in a pool when I was younger? Somehow, it felt more sinister.

  Ugh. I wish everyone in my dreams came with nametags, especially when they feel this real. That way I could figure out who they are. I can’t draw well enough to do a sketch l
ike the police.

  My phone rings. It’s an unknown number. “Hello?”

  “Hi. This is Rhonda from the Pryce Family Foundation. Is this Iris Smith?”

  Oh my God. I clear my throat. “Yes, this is she.”

  “We liked your résumé and would like to invite you for an on-site interview. Is this Friday good? Say, ten a.m.?”

  “Yes! It’s fantastic!” I say, then put a hand over my mouth as I realize how ridiculously eager I must sound. But I can’t help it. This is a huge milestone. And a vindication, especially after Sam said it’d be hard for me to find a job.

  She laughs warmly. “I’m glad you’re so excited. We love people with a passion for what we do. Please come to the office by nine fifty-five, then.”

  “I will! Thank you!”

  I wait until she hangs up, then drop my phone on the counter and start hopping like a kid before Christmas, hands clenched and arms bent and pressed tight to my sides. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  “What is it?” Tony asks, laughing.

  “That was the Pryce Family Foundation! They want me! I mean, they want to interview me! I guess they liked my résumé.”

  “Of course they did. It was as awesome as the woman herself. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but what do I do to get ready? I’ve never gone to one before.” It’s embarrassing to admit. “Do I have to prepare something? A short speech on why I want to work there?”

  He laughs again. “No. Just put on something nice and neat, then…relax and talk.”

  “That’s it? Just…talk? About what?”

  “Whatever they ask. Don’t think of it as trying to make them like you. They have to make you like them, too, or you won’t be working there, right?”

  “Well, yeah, if I had a ton of options. I need the job more than they need me.”

  “They don’t know how many options you have. And you won’t tell them.”

  Right. That’s how you negotiate. I know that, but somehow when it’s about me, my mind goes blank. “I wish there was a script or something so I could practice.”

  “How about a mock interview? I’ve done lots of them. On the both side of the table.”

  “You sure? Aren’t you, you know, busy with your own business or…?”

  “I pay my workers a lot of money so I don’t have to be there all time.”

  “Well then, yeah. Yes! Fantastic! Thank you.”

  We do mock interviews that afternoon and a few times over the next couple of days to help me get ready. We don’t talk about the kiss or the nightmare. Or the fact that he called me Ivy.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Anthony

  I call myself a hundred kinds of idiot all through the week. I can’t believe I slipped and called her Ivy. But when she didn’t wake up, even after I called out her name repeatedly and shook her, I panicked. And got stupid.

  The dismay I felt, however, was nothing compared to the crushing disappointment of realizing the name Ivy meant nothing to her. It didn’t trigger anything.

  If it were her real name, wouldn’t she have said something like “That sounds familiar” or “That’s what people used to call me”?

  But it still doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stay away from her. And over the last few days, I’ve come to a decision.

  I don’t care what her name is. I don’t care if she remembers me or not. I don’t care what her past is or who she’s related to. Whether she’s in my life by accident or sent by my enemies.

  The only thing that matters is she’s alive. And that’s enough.

  I know Edgar’s going to freak if he finds out. He’s going to say I’m irrational, making the same mistake I made with Lauren…and that I couldn’t possibly have learned enough about Iris to come to such a decision after only a week together. But I’m tired of fighting my feelings. After a certain point, logic means nothing if your heart is screaming something else.

  A crazy-happy life with the woman I want is better than a sane, miserable life in darkness without her. If the only way I can have the light in my life is through madness, I’ll embrace it with open arms, consequences be damned.

  I look at the clock in my office. It’s ten. She’s doing the interview right now. Unless something goes horribly wrong, Elizabeth is going to hire her.

  A call to my cell phone jerks my gaze away from the clock. It’s Harry.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey, Tony. What do you think about letting me use your jet to fly home?”

  “Commercial beneath you?” Ever since we flew on my jet together once, he’s been trying to get back on it, using whatever flimsy excuse he can come up with.

  “I need to see Mom.”

  I sit up straight. “Why? What happened?” Must be bad if it requires Harry’s presence.

  “I just heard from Edgar, so I don’t know the details. But it sounds like Sam Peacher asked her to put in more money into that new luxury condo he’s building.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “She doesn’t want to. Like, really doesn’t want to.”

  “So what’s the issue? She should just turn him down.”

  “That’s the thing. She’s apparently going to invest anyway.”

  What the hell? From what Edgar says, Mother hasn’t lost any money with Sam’s ventures. But that doesn’t explain why she would feel compelled to invest with him if she doesn’t want to. Father makes plenty, and our family’s old money anyway, with a few billion in the war chest.

  “Anyway, she’s seriously upset, and Edgar thinks it’d be a good idea for me to spend a few days with her. So…what do you say?”

  There aren’t many people Harry can’t cheer up, and it makes sense Edgar wants him to come home if Mother’s that agitated. But it still doesn’t answer my question. “If she hates dealing with Sam that much, why is she doing it? What’s really going on, Harry?”

  He lets out a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. Edgar doesn’t, either. He actually tried to stop Sam from visiting, and Mom told him to butt out. So who the hell knows what’s going on, but I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  I run a hand over my face. I probably shouldn’t give a fuck. I mean, I’ve been disowned. But I still owe a debt to Mother I can never repay. “Fine. I’ll have Wei take care of the flight.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Leaning back in my seat, I steeple my hands. Mother could never be described as sentimental or forgiving. She didn’t think anything of banishing me to Europe for my role in Katherine’s death. And she’s always kept Sam Peacher at arm’s length, like a somewhat dirty rag she needs to throw out. What’s changed?

  Normally I would suspect blackmail. But Edgar said Sam has been aboveboard with Mother, and I trust my brother’s judgment.

  Still…the whole situation stinks worse than a dead fish left out in the sun.

  Chapter Fifty

  Iris

  My feet feel light as I return home from the interview. Elizabeth King is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Sincere and gracious, she didn’t say a word that wasn’t kind or encouraging or inspiring during the hour we were talking. I was in awe the entire time, thinking that I want to be just like her.

  She also said she liked me and offered me the job on the spot.

  And I stared like an idiot for a moment before my brain kicked in. I managed to squeak a yes, then grinned like I just won the lottery.

  Hell, this is better than the lottery! The lottery is pure chance. I got the job because she liked me! Me!

  I text Tony, I got the job!

  Congratulations, he responds. Celebratory dinner?

  Of course! What time?

  I’ll pick you up at seven.

  Perfect, I type, and hit send.

  When I enter the penthouse with a pirouette of victory, I see four pink suitcases with red heart stickers all over them in the foyer. “Julie!” I call out, dashing inside.

  She pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Hey, girlfriend!”
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br />   She comes out, and we hug like it’s been centuries rather than three weeks. She looks a lot like Byron—the same soft brown hair, brilliant blue eyes and finely carved facial bones—except she’s super feminine. And unlike me, she has the most beautifully proportioned hands.

  Right now, she’s in travel clothes—a pink hoodie and soft cotton pants, cropped at the shin.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Like an hour ago.”

  “What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own apartment?”

  “Ah, thought I’d drop by to see you before going home. And I might even stay a night or two, since Byron isn’t here to kick me out.” She grins cheekily, then glances at the piano. “I see you’re working on ‘Mazzepa’ again.”

  “It’s coming along,” I say, leading her to the couch. “Now tell me all about your trip to Moscow.” We sit side by side, my feet tucked under, her legs stretched out.

  “Oh my God, Moscow was amazing!” Julie gushes in that speedy breathless way she speaks when she’s overly excited. “I wish you’d come. You would’ve loved it! All that history and culture and those hot men! And they’re nice, too! I couldn’t believe it.”

  I laugh. “Of course they’re nice to you. Everyone likes you.” Julie’s bright and funny, and guys flock to her.

  She snickers. “They plied me with vodka. Good stuff, but you know I don’t drink more than three.”

  That’s Julie’s hard limit. She says every time she has more, the next morning she feels like a zombie that’s been hit by a semi.

  “But what about you? You okay? Byron, of course, just had to go to Hawaii.” She pouts. “So unfair. I told him to help you get settled in and show you around.”

  “It’s fine. He had a business thing. You told me he’s in an all-out war against Milton for the family business.”

  She heaves a huge sigh, rolling her eyes. “Game of Thrones without the dragons or hot Dothraki or body count. Brother pitted against brother.”