by Tara Leigh
38
Tripp
Of course Lance would have to ring at the exact moment Jolie was staring directly at my phone. I declined the call and swung around to face her, but she’d already walked away. “I’m going to get changed,” she called over her shoulder in a voice that sounded strangled.
“Jolie—”
“See you tonight.” Her door closed with a soft click, a benign echo I never knew I could hate until Jolie kept closing doors between us.
I glanced back at Romy, who had just popped the last of a donut in her mouth, her lips coated with sugar and cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. I sipped at my coffee, deliberately ignoring Lance’s repeated calls as I chatted with her.
“You should really take that,” she finally said.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
She looked sheepish. “Not if you’ll let me have another donut.”
I nudged the box toward her with my elbow and stood up. “Have at it. Just make sure you save room for dinner tonight.”
She nabbed a frosted, sprinkled confection and glanced at the digital clock on the stove. “That’s in like, eight hours.”
Ruffling Romy’s hair, I let myself out of the apartment and finally accepted his call.
“What the fuck, dude? I go away for a few weeks, you take over my identity, and now you’re playing hard to get?”
Lance always had a flair for the dramatic. I sighed. “You caught me at a bad time. What’s going on?”
“Well, lucky for you, one of the people I met on the Kilimanjaro climb is the former mistress of a Russian oligarch.”
The sidewalks weren’t yet crowded at this time of the morning, and I turned north onto Broadway, lips twitching. “Lucky for me, or lucky for you?”
“I wish. She was fucking gorgeous but I don’t think I could have gotten it up if I tried. You can barely even shit up there. I’m telling you, your whole bowel—”
“Jesus. Add your bowels to the list of things we don’t need to discuss. Ever.”
“It’s a short list. Just balls and bowels so far, anything else you want to add?”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t get all snippy, it’s a genuine question.”
“I mean, cut the bullshit. Tell me why I’m lucky you got blue balls over a hot Russian.”
“Oh, so you can talk about balls, but I can’t?”
“Lance—”
“Fine. There’s a lot of down time up there, and you learn some crazy shit about people when there’s nothing to do but wait for clouds to get out of the fucking way. Expeditions aren’t cheap, and a popular topic was how we all financed our climbs. Kira said she did it by doing what all mistresses do—trading her jewelry into cash and squirrelling it away.”
“The Russian didn’t mind that she was dumping all her baubles?”
“That’s the thing—first they have their jeweler make a copy, but with cubic and paste. Boyfriend has no idea she’s building up her rainy day fund with every velvet box.”
“Fascinating. Tell me why I need to know this?”
Lance gave a low chuckle. “I called the attorney charged with recovering assets for victims of Montgomery’s fraud, Nathan Vale, and asked how much they got by auctioning off Nina Chapman’s jewelry.”
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. James Chapman might not have been involved in the fraud itself, but as a partner of the firm, his assets were considered the profit of a criminal act and therefore owed to the victims. “Nothing?”
“Just about. Even her wedding ring was fake. Vale is a pit bull and he’s furious about it.”
“How does he know they were real to begin with?”
“Chapman was meticulous with his receipts. He spent millions at Harry Winston, Cartier, Bulgari, you name it, and insured everything at full value.”
“So you’re thinking Nina Chapman and your new Russian friend have something in common?”
“Aren’t you?”
I had to admit, it made sense. If Nina had a prenup—and I would be shocked if she didn’t—hiding assets was a way of padding her settlement if the marriage failed. And knowing she’d been the general behind Operation: Keep Jolie and Tripp the Fuck Apart, Nina obviously wasn’t above scheming to get her way. “But why is Jolie funding Nina’s lifestyle if she was able to keep millions from being seized?” I asked.
“Well, no one’s been able to prove that Nina sold her jewelry and hid the cash. So far it’s just speculation.”
Understanding finally dawned. “Francis Hughes. Nina’s using him to launder her stolen money.”
“I’ll do you one better, my friend. Nina Chapman is Francis Hughes.”
39
Jolie
Romy and I spent much of the day at Pottery Barn Teen, where she chose bedroom furniture with classic lines and whimsical hardware, the stark white lacquer finish offset by colorful artwork and a brightly woven rug. By the time we left the enormous store, loaded down with whatever could be carried—pillows and linens and baskets—it was nearly time to freshen up for our date with Tripp.
Once the distraction of shopping was behind us, my nerves about spending the evening with the two loves of my life hit me again, flooding my veins like a swarm of fire ants.
How much longer could we keep the truth of Romy’s paternity a secret? I still had to iron things out with Nina, and loop in a child psychologist to make sure we weren’t compounding the damage I’d already caused . . . but it was obvious that Tripp was busting at the seams to tell her he was her father. I just hoped he recognized that Romy’s emotional wellbeing had to come first.
“What do you think about this?” Romy came out of her room in a pair of maroon leggings and a coordinating top, her feet encased in suede booties. She looked like a tweenaged fashionista.
“Absolutely fabulous. How about me?” I asked, giving a small twirl for effect. I was wearing tailored black cigarette pants, an ivory cowl-neck blouse, and classic ballet flats.
“Like a supermodel who’s off the clock.”
I scrunched my nose. “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s good. You look like you’re going to the kind of party where kids are allowed, too.”
I leaned down to draw her into a hug, resting my chin on the top of her hair. “Are all nine-year-olds this insightful?”
“Nope. Just me. Aren’t you lucky I’m your sister?” Romy broke away, her impish smile sliding off her face when she spotted the tear I wasn’t fast enough to hide. “Jolie, what’s wrong?”
I swiped at my cheek with the back of my hand, quickly retreating to my bathroom. “Just got some mascara in my eye. Be right back.” Closing the door behind me, I turned on the water and dropped to the edge of the tub, my head in my hands. Jesus. The lying had to end. Soon. I couldn’t take it anymore.
After a few deep breaths, I patted my face with cold water and fixed my makeup, using waterproof mascara this time in case I had any other teary moments. I’d never been much of a crier—at least not since my father’s death—but lately I was a regular waterworks show. I needed to pull myself together, immediately.
When I got out, Romy was chatting with Tripp in the living room, their dark heads bent toward each other, the shade of their hair nearly identical. “Oh, hi.” I pulled up short, my pulse spiking at his proximity. “I didn’t realize you were picking us up here.”
They both looked up, staring at me with the same gray eyes. It was eerie. “Of course. Romy should know that a guy always picks his girl up at her front door for their date.”
His girl? I snapped my sagging jaw closed, rubbing at the ache in my chest.
The first time Tripp called me his girl was the night of the Debutante Ball, as he swept me into his arms and carried me over the threshold of our hotel room. The night I truly did become his.
But the feeling went deeper than mere words. Deeper than the physical act of giving my virginity to Tripp.
Our bodies became one that night, but it was our he
arts that had truly adhered. Our souls that had fused together.
And now, the living proof was standing right between us—our daughter.
Except that so much had happened since that night. Most of it bad.
The tension between Tripp and me gave another dimension to his words, turning them into a three-pronged accusation that cut deep.
“Is your eye okay?” Romy asked, her head tilted to the side, looking at me as if she knew I was just covering up something, but couldn’t yet figure out what.
Tripp cleared his throat. “What happened to her eye?”
“She was crying.” Romy’s answer was another indictment.
His gaze flicked from Romy to me and then back again, scrutinizing me intently.
“Will you two stop talking about me like I’m not right here?” Somehow I managed to keep from stomping my foot like a petulant toddler. “I was not crying. I had something in my eye, that’s all.”
Now I had two of them staring at me. And they both knew I was lying.
40
Jolie
“How did you manage this?” I asked, whispering furtively over Romy’s head as the curtain went up.
Tripp smiled. That sweet, soft, gentle smile he’d worn as he plaited a tiara of branches for me in Central Park. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Like he remembered I didn’t deserve it. “I’ve got friends in high places, too.”
“I’d say so.” We were in the fifth row, center orchestra of Frozen at the St. James Theater. The best seats in the house. Romy sat between us, on the jackets Tripp had carefully folded—his idea—so that she had the best view possible.
The musical was everything you would expect of a Disney movie brought to life on Broadway: over-the-top, brilliant, bursting with color and song and magic. But it was only a sideshow to the real action going on in the two seats to my left. We were having our first family date. Me, Tripp, and Romy. The three of us. Together. A family.
It was insane. Completely insane.
Comedy and tragedy all at once.
Not even Shakespeare could have dreamed it up.
I could barely focus on what was happening on the stage in front of us because my heart was throbbing from the potent mix of joy and sadness, my breath catching in my throat every time I caught the slightest movement out of the corner of my eye. All they had to do was shift in their seats for a shot of adrenaline to hit me dead center in my chest, radiating through my veins until I was practically vibrating.
A family date. With my family.
My gaze tangled with Tripp’s over Romy’s head. I blinked first, turning back to the stage. To my surprise, he reached an arm over the back of her chair, his fingertips threading through my hair, skating along my scalp and leaving goosebumps in their wake. A touch of tenderness that tore at my heart.
I held my breath, shards of shame and desire slicing at my veins and leaving me dizzy with want.
I wanted forgiveness for the unforgivable.
I wanted this man, this girl. This life.
I wanted this fairy tale so badly I could almost reach out and touch it, this fantasy that was starting to feel real.
Flickers of guilt scratched at the back of my neck, like a rough tag sewn into the softest cashmere. Had I ever shared times like these with my own mother? Because if I did, I didn’t remember it. I barely remembered her at all. Sometimes I thought I imagined the ghost of her smile. Or heard an echo of her laughter. But I had no way of knowing if I was right, if my memories were accurate. All the pictures I had of her were packed away in boxes in Nina’s attic, whatever hadn’t been lost or tossed during the chaos surrounding my father’s death.
His suicide.
Dissolving into my chair, I tried to imagine Tripp choosing death rather than staying the course, no matter what trials he had to face, to take care of Romy. It was impossible to predict the future, but I could feel the strength and vitality flowing off his skin, infusing the air around us like a protective bubble. Tripp would never choose the easy way out. A ruined reputation would never mean more to him than his own daughter. Ever. Tripp would do whatever it took to keep our family together. I knew that with certainty.
Of course, my father didn’t kill himself until he believed he’d lost me, too.
By the time the curtain came down, I felt like I’d fought a war.
“So, what did you think?” Tripp asked, his focus on Romy.
Her eyes were alive with excitement, her cheeks flushed. “It’s even better than the movie!” she chirped.
Tripp and I broke into laughter. “Definitely better than the movie,” I agreed.
We joined the crowd spilling out of the theater, stopping briefly in the lobby for Tripp to buy Romy whatever she pointed at—t-shirts, a light-up snow wand, a commemorative poster. “You’re going to spoil her,” I scolded, my tone light.
A streak of raw hurt flashed across his face. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” Tripp’s voice was carefully modulated, and still cheerful, but I knew what I saw. And he was right. It was long past time for him to spoil his daughter. Our daughter.
We just had to find the right moment to tell her that we were her parents.
“Want to walk for a bit, or are you too tired?” Tripp asked.
Romy shook her head vehemently. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet.”
He glanced at me. “Have you shown her—”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet.”
He turned to Romy with a wide grin. “Want to see something really cool?” At her eager nod, we headed west and entered the lobby of Tripp’s building a few blocks later.
Romy took in the sleek atrium with widened eyes as we breezed toward the elevators. “Do you live here?”
“Yes, but that’s not what’s so great about it.” The metal car shot us up nearly thirty stories with barely a quiver. “I think you’re really going to like the view.”
As Romy raced to the edge of the terrace, her excited squeal carrying away on the wind, we each grabbed a shoulder, instinct kicking in even though the ledge was nearly as tall as she was.
She barely noticed, yelling— “Jolie, you’re famous.” Apparently a New York City billboard trumped catwalks or magazine covers. She wrestled her phone out of her coat pocket and handed it to Tripp. “Can you take a picture of us with that in the background? I want to send it to Mom.”
I had made a fortune posing for cameras. But right then, I couldn’t have smiled for all the money in the world.
41
Tripp
“You don’t have to take us back to my apartment.” Jolie’s voice, soft and lyrical, slid down my ear canal like a soothing balm. “We can grab a cab.”
I grunted. I didn’t want to be soothed. “Maybe, but this time you have precious cargo.”
“Is that like calling me a piece of luggage?” Romy piped up as I opened the back door for her and watched as she put on her seat belt.
One of my employees back in San Jose had a kid not too long ago, and I’d overheard him saying that he had nightmares about installing the car seat correctly, and couldn’t rest easy until he’d hired a professional baby-proofer to check it. At the time, I hadn’t understood his fears, but I did now. Romy was too old for a car seat, but the thought of entrusting my daughter’s safety to some cabbie made me shudder.
“Yes, and we’ll be rolling you into bed if your eyelids get any heavier,” I teased before closing the door and rounding the hood to get into the driver’s seat. When I checked my rearview mirror, Romy’s head was already tilted back, her eyes closed.
I glanced over at Jolie, her face a breathtaking arrangement of planes and angles, mysterious in the uneven light of the parking garage. So damn temping.
Infuriatingly tempting.
I looked away and started the engine.
There were a million things I wanted to say to Jolie as I navigated through red lights and late night traffic. The tension in the car was practically crackling, and every breath s
ent electricity racing across my nerves. I may have been staring straight ahead, my hands at ten and two, but my mind was on the woman beside me.
Wondering how this would feel if there was no tension thrashing between us. If we were just another family heading home together. Mom and Dad and daughter.
The family we should have been.
I would have liked that.
I would have liked that very much.
Too soon, I pulled to the curb in front of Jolie’s apartment. A quick check of the backseat showed Romy was fast asleep, her shoulder wedged against the door, chin lolling on her chest. I jumped out of my seat, shoving cash and my keys at the doorman. “Park this nearby for me.” It wasn’t a question, although he nodded anyway. Truthfully, I didn’t care what he did with the damn thing. But nothing was going to keep me from walking Jolie to her door with my daughter in my arms.
Striding through the lobby, I felt like DiCaprio in Titanic.
King of the Fucking World.
An imposter wanting the impossible, hoping all wasn’t hopeless.
Imposter or not, impossible or not—it didn’t matter. The girl in my arms and the woman at my side were all that mattered.
For the past ten years I’d been battling criminals like my father. Con artists and frauds who stole enormous sums of money.
And now I was about to fight a war much closer to home, with stakes so high I couldn’t afford to lose.
Would Jolie be my ally. . . or my enemy?
Would we come out of this war unscathed and united? Or would we be decimated and divided?
We rode the elevator in silence, Romy softly snoring against my shoulder. Jolie scooted ahead of me to unlock the door and I followed her through the apartment, into a room filled with shopping bags and a mattress on the floor, piled high with blankets and pillows. Jolie swept the tangle aside and I settled Romy on a colorful sheet. “Her furniture is coming next week,” she whispered. “The only thing she would let me buy without her was a mattress.”