Legacy of Lies

by Tara Leigh

  That heat reversed course, making its way up my chest, wrapping around my ribs like a vice.

  Jesus Fucking Christ. I was jealous.

  Jealous of Lance, who was right now trekking up a mountain, completely oblivious to this entirely ridiculous email exchange.

  Well, fuck him.

  I dragged my shirt over my head and snapped a selfie, torso only. If Jolie was going to look at anyone, it was damn well going to be me. Even if it was me pretending to be Lance.

  11

  Jolie, is that another way of saying, don't hate me because I'm beautiful? Well, don't underestimate me for being a computer geek.

  Jolie

  Attached to his email was a file. I opened it . . . and nearly dropped my phone. The image showed a man leaning casually against a white wall. His skin sported a golden tan, his abs so chiseled they had be fake. Except they weren't. I should know, I've worked with the best male models in the business—and, more often than not, their six-packs came from a make-up kit.

  Enlarging the photo, I looked closely just to be sure. But no. Not the case here. For shading to work well, models had to be waxed bare. This guy had a thin trail of hair running beneath his low slung jeans, pointing toward a bulge that cut off just at the bottom of the frame. This guy's eight-pack was not a product of expert shading. And something told me he hadn’t shoved a sock down his pants, either.

  Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. I swallowed heavily, licking my lips as I tore my eyes away from the finest example of an eight-pack I'd ever seen to dig through my browsing history for Lance’s photo.

  Finding it, it was obvious I'd remembered right. Sandy blond hair, warm brown gaze, rugged features.

  Handsome. But thin, almost skinny.

  No way was hot headless guy the same as Lance from RiskTaker. The photo was fake. Well, not fake. Just not him.

  How stupid did he think I was?

  I sent Lance an email back, sharing my opinion of his originality. A minute later, he responded with another image.

  This time, hot headless guy had used a yellow highlighter to make two triangles over his pecs, drawing yellow dots inside them, connected by lines that went across his chest and around his neck.

  I blinked, doubting my eyesight. But the photo didn't change. Hot headless guy was now sporting a yellow polka dot bikini.

  Okay, this asshole has a sense of humor.

  I let out a snort-laugh so loud, Gail broke off her conversation. “Is everything okay, dear?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, still looking at my screen. “It's all good.”

  On second thought, I might just like granola.

  12

  Jolie

  “Ouch. Jesus, Lucian. What the hell are you doing back there?”

  Lucian didn’t respond. His mouth was stuffed with pins, not that I expected an explanation or an apology. The occasional sharp prick was merely an occupational hazard.

  Today’s shoot had run long and this ball gown was the final look. The male model Lucian had booked was a no-show, and I was exhausted and ready to go home. However, the white gown he was sewing me into was probably stained with red by now.

  “Eva, can you hand me my phone?” I needed a distraction.

  Lately, Eva had become more than just a good friend. When we met for drinks the other night, I shared my plans for my jewelry company. She’d perked up with so many great ideas, I asked her to work with me.

  So far, it had been a win-win for both of us. I now had social media accounts on every platform, a new website, and a gorgeous logo. And Eva had a part time job that allowed her to work around her kids’ schedule.

  I accepted the device with an appreciative smile and logged into the RiskTaker app. After emailing back and forth several times over the past few days, not all of them about Francis Hughes, Lance had sent me a link to RiskTaker’s messaging platform, which seemed less formal than emailing, but not quite as casual as texting.

  I’d even told him about my father. Lance had been genuinely interested in the details, but not in a salacious way. As an expert in financial fraud, he’d been an empathetic sounding board for my concerns about getting into business with someone. Anyone, actually.

  Lance: Good luck today. Think warm thoughts.

  Jolie: Thanks, although the snowball concept has been tossed—thank god! We’re shooting at a studio on Wall Street. BTW, what are you doing up? 6am here means 3am your time, right? Is designing your line of man-kinis keeping you up at night?

  As I waited for him to respond, I pulled up the first photo he’d sent me. Broad shoulders, tanned muscles, and that damned treasure trail leading below the band of his jeans. A flare of warmth ignited deep within my core, tentative flames extending outward.

  Fully dressed, surrounded by the small crowd of people required for a photo shoot—hair dresser, stylist, makeup artist, photographer, the photographer’s assistants, and of course Lucian—it felt almost illicit. I pressed my thighs together, biting down on a groan at the spark of pleasure.

  A spark that was quickly doused by the prick of a pin. “Damn it, Lucian.”

  13

  Tripp

  If there was one thing heavy-hitters enjoyed more than making money, it was publicly outbidding their fellow tycoons. And tonight’s incarnation of the Predator’s Ball was the ultimate dick-measuring contest. I had bought a ticket to the ten thousand-dollar a plate event for the sole purpose of observing who was bidding on what, and how much they were spending.

  But after Jolie’s message appeared on my screen, I blew past the door of Cipriani’s.

  Fuck.

  Wall Street?

  Jolie may as well have ambushed me with a five-gallon drum of ice water. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it, then stared at my phone as if the letters would magically rearrange themselves into a different combination.

  But they didn’t.

  Lance: A photography studio on Wall Street?

  Jolie: Yes. In the former headquarters of J.P. Morgan. It’s a great space, really raw and industrial. It’s used all the time for photo shoots, fashion shows, and events.

  When it came to my career, my dedication was ironclad. An impenetrable, immoveable force.

  Except that right now, I was a two-year-old in a toy store. All want and no willpower.

  I’d spent nearly a decade convincing myself that Jolie Chapman's beauty only ran skin deep, but I was beginning to realize I’d been lying to myself.

  The Jolie I'd gotten to know through her emails was sarcastic and irreverent, hardworking and driven. Sexy as fuck.

  That sweet, playful side of her was still there, too.

  She may have screwed me over ten years ago. But she’d been all of seventeen and her entire world had just collapsed, as had mine. We went from the top of the world to the bottom of the barrel.

  When Jolie opened up about her father the other day, my blackened heart had shriveled even further. The crimes she believed he’d committed had left her terrified of trusting anyone.

  And I was screwing with her, too. Hiding behind a false online identity, parrying and feinting, still pretending that Jolie was just another holier-than-thou snob who’d turned her back on me when I was at my lowest.

  Still pretending that she didn’t deserve the information I’d withheld from her. Was still withholding from her.

  Not about Francis Hughes—he remained a work-in-progress.

  Years ago, I’d discovered the truth.

  The truth about the fraud that turned our families into bitter rivals and destroyed our relationship.

  The truth about my father and hers.

  Information Jolie would desperately want to know, but I’d kept to myself, holding onto it out of spite. Convincing myself that she didn’t deserve to know the truth. Not from me, anyway.

  I’d been wrong about that.

  I needed to tell her. Now, tonight. And not from behind a goddamn screen.

  The harsh wind clawed at my exposed skin, my shoes sla
pping the frozen cement sidewalk.

  I wasn’t within sight of Jolie’s electric blue gaze, but I could feel it tracking my every step.

  Jesus Christ. Maybe I should take a long, cold walk. To the Cloisters, or to the East River. Maybe over the bridge and all the way back to California. I should plot a strategy, make a plan..

  Except that I didn’t get very far.

  My feet took me right to the deceased magnate’s iconic headquarters where Jolie was being photographed, as if she was a magnet and I was wearing metal shoes. I was pulled to her, tethered by our past. That same impulse that had brought me here, back to New York.

  Jolie and I had inherited a legacy of lies.

  Tonight, it would go up in flames.

  14

  Jolie

  “The guy still isn’t here. We need to wrap this up, whether he shows or not.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I was relieved. Working with other models always required more frames, more time. I was tired and hungry, and was looking forward to a hot shower and a warm bed. Handing Eva my phone, I followed Nick to where his assistants had created a bedroom vignette. The space had a raw, warehouse-like feel. We were on the second floor, which was open to the lower level.

  “Just be careful, there’s no railing over here.”

  I nodded, staying several feet away from the edge. A fall from this height onto the cement slab below would be a deadly mistake.

  The music was turned up, Nick shouting instructions as his camera began clicking. “Good. Great. Dip your shoulder. Lower your chin. New angle. Keep ‘em coming, keep ‘em coming,” Nick muttered as I transitioned from pose to pose.

  I only vaguely registered movement behind Nick when one of his assistants shouted, “He’s here!”

  Nick dropped his camera and I fought to smother the groan of irritation rising up my throat. Damn it. The male model had arrived. I was never getting out of here.

  I looked around for whoever the agency had sent, hoping that it was someone I’d worked well with before . . . straight into a silver stare that was all too familiar.

  Tripp Montgomery.

  No. That pull between us was still there, still strong, but I would be damned if I gave in to it. Not now. Not ever again.

  The years had clearly been good to the man who had once held my heart in his hands.

  My mistake.

  The man who promised to hurt me once, and only once, on the night he claimed me as his own.

  His lie.

  Tripp was taller and broader than I remembered, his muscular frame more pronounced. And just like the last time I saw him, Tripp was wearing a tuxedo. Although back then, it had been rumpled from spending most of the night on the floor of a hotel room. Not a single wrinkle dared to crease his tuxedo tonight. The jet black fabric had been perfectly tailored, accentuating the width of his shoulders that led to narrow hips and strong thighs.

  He looked as good as any model, but he exuded something they wouldn’t have.

  Power.

  And something else, too.

  Something that didn’t make sense.

  Fury.

  Reading the emotion simmering inside his molten gaze, every bit of oxygen in my lungs was hijacked. Taken hostage by the man who wielded his stare like a weapon.

  Not a gun or a knife or a vial of tasteless, odorless poison.

  No, his stare was a Taser, sending an undulating electric current surging through my veins, igniting a distorted kaleidoscope of shock and horror inside my mind.

  And a whisper, a shiver, really, of elation.

  He’s here. He’s finally here.

  My eyes were lying to me, seeing things. They had to be.

  I backed up, needing to put space between me and—

  Too late, I felt a heel dip off the edge of the floor, momentum sending me past it. I screamed a name I’d barely dared to breathe in nearly a decade.

  My hands reached out, catching only air.

  15

  Tripp

  Time sharpened to a fine, double-edged blade that pressed against my neck as I watched Jolie’s colt-like legs stumble backwards. Deep blue eyes that still haunted my dreams latched onto mine. Wide and round, they swirled with a mixture of shock and fear as a cry catapulted from her glossed lips, the blood draining from her face.

  No. My heart threw itself against my ribcage like a demented inmate, every nerve ending sparking to life, quaking and throbbing. I caught her wrist with not a second to spare, my hand closing around the delicate network of bones and pulling her back.

  And then time stopped altogether.

  Jolie was tall, but wisp thin. She slammed into my chest, my hands instinctively wrapping around her narrow waist as I walked back several steps. There was a hissing sound in my ears, a crackling, like the whoosh of a fire just before it bursts into flame. Holding her close, my chest caved open from sternum to pelvis, or maybe it split apart entirely. Making just enough room for Jolie to slip inside.

  And Jesus god, she felt so fucking right in my arms. Like she was finally back where she belonged.

  Like I was finally whole again.

  The connection between us that had always been there.

  Potent.

  Passionate.

  Powerful.

  Inevitable, as if it had been written in the stars, whispered on the crash of the tides. An echo in the suspended moments between our breaths.

  My resistance was crumbling faster than I could fortify it. A hastily assembled pile of sandbags that were falling, one by one, into the deep ocean blue of Jolie’s eyes.

  But I needed a barrier between us, something—anything—to give me a prayer of resisting her.

  Because our connection, this gravitation pull . . . it was a chain. A rope. A hangman’s noose.

  I wasn’t just tethered to Jolie.

  I was trapped.

  When I arrived at the door, the kid in jeans and a beanie acted like he’d been expecting me, practically shoooing me to the second floor. I hadn’t expected to see Jolie in a white gown, her hair twisted into a complicated mass of gold and platinum, an ethereal princess looking so much like the fresh-faced debutante who’d stolen my heart.

  Claimed it.

  Then crushed it.

  Which was why I would say what I needed to, and then I would leave. Confess my truth. Then try to forget about her once and for all.

  My breath snagged as I fought the maddening temptation of the only woman who had ever owned my heart. When we first met, I’d felt only freedom in Jolie’s embrace. Only hope in her gaze. Back then, I believed we had a future.

  Back then, I believed she was my future.

  Talking and emailing was bad enough, but seeing Jolie face-to-face, holding her body in my arms—it was fucking torture. Reminding me of a time in my life that was brighter, happier, than any other time—before or since. Of a heart that beat one name, in steady, sonorous thumps, over and over and over. Jo-lie. Jo-lie. Jo-lie.

  Shit. I had to let go. Now. For good.

  Reluctantly, I loosened my hold, the beginnings of a goodbye jamming in the back of my throat as I glanced down to be sure Jolie’s feet were on solid ground before letting go.

  Except that I dipped my chin at the same moment Jolie lifted hers. And damn it, she was even more beautiful than I remembered. Heartbreakingly so. The rounded curves and malleable shapes of her youth had been sculpted into elegant lines and striking angles. Innocence transformed into graceful sophistication.

  Our eyes met in an electrified clash, the air between us sizzling with unspent energy. I sucked in a quick inhale, sending those words back into the churning pit of my stomach as the taste of her rushed into my mouth. It filled my lungs, buzzed inside my brain.

  There was an inch between our faces, maybe two. And then there was none. It melted away, leaving only the plush softness of Jolie’s lips beneath mine, the wet slide of our tongues tangling together, the vibration of her moan filling my mouth.

  And that vibration
. Fucking hell. It traveled through my joints and muscles and sinews, its rapid pulse echoing inside my bones, swelling beneath my skin.

  Lust was a live wire, firing synapses in my brain that had lain dormant for a decade. All the cravings I’d managed to shove aside and ignore for years liquefied, leaching from the marrow of my bones into my bloodstream, making me want to devour this girl whole. Greedily, I plunged my tongue into her mouth, exploring the delicious cavern and staking my claim.

  As we kissed, time and hurt and shame fell away. There was only Jolie. Only us.

  This didn’t feel like revenge.

  This just felt… right.

  Jolie’s palms slid up my chest to curve around my shoulders, her hands kneading the muscles cording my neck. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was so much more—a case of one plus one equals fucking infinity. Every lick of our tongues wiped at a slate I’d long thought stained forever. Each low moan pulling us backwards through time to the couple we’d once been, sloughing off layers of remorse and regret, replacing them with longing and need.

  The air in the studio was cool but Jolie’s skin was hot beneath my touch, searing at every point of contact. I cupped one hand around the curve of Jolie’s skull, the other pressing against her corseted waist, our bodies a two-piece puzzle that had finally been rejoined.

  In the back of my mind, I knew we weren’t alone, that we were surrounded by people, but every sense was so filled with the woman in my arms we could have been stranded at the edge of the world.

  It was the flash of a camera that finally brought me back to my senses. I pulled away, waited as Jolie blinked her eyes into focus. “Tripp,” she breathed.

  “Hey, Jolie.” I hesitated, not sure how to sum up the explosion that had rocked our worlds. “Long time, no see.”