Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)

by Nicole French

  His nose and mouth unerringly found that sensitive spot just below my ear, and I arched against him while Janette continued her chatter.

  "So what do you think, darling?" Janette was asking.

  "Hmm? What’s that?" I murmured, closing my eyes as Brandon's tongue touched my earlobe.

  "In two weeks. The Cape. I'd love for you to meet Annabelle and Christoph."

  "Um, yeah. I'll think about it," I said, half-dreaming as Brandon pushed my hair off my other shoulder and resumed his work on the other side. Honestly, I should have known better than to have any conversation while under the spell of Brandon's deft touch.

  "And tomorrow sounds good for dinner?"

  "I can't," I said, with minimal coherence. "I have an event. I'm going to a benefit with my––"

  The sudden absence of Brandon's mouth interrupted my train of thought. I turned to him, and the tight shake of his head informed me I shouldn't tell anyone about him.

  I frowned. "My roommate. I'm going with my roommate."

  Brandon gave me a contrite smile. I slipped off my stool, wandering in the direction of my bedroom, ignoring the frown behind me.

  "A benefit? It wouldn't be the NECA gala, would it?" Janette was asking.

  I paused with my arm braced on the doorframe. No one could say Janette didn't have intuition––just in the wrong way. She could track fancy events like a bloodhound, but had no ability to gauge the moods of her daughter.

  "Yeah, that's the one," I said. "Why?"

  "Well, we were invited to that by one of Maurice's business associates. So, I suppose we will see you there. What fun!"

  Before I could answer, I was swept off my feet, suddenly hostage in Brandon's strong arms.

  "Don't run away from me," he murmured into my ear, and then bit my earlobe with an intensity that shot right to my center. He took my mouth with a kiss that was at once tender and insistent.

  "Oh! I've just had the best idea!" Janette was saying in my other ear, loud enough that Brandon could hear her. "Let's go shopping tomorrow. We'll make a girl's day of it. Get something fabulous to wear and have our hair done before the benefit. What time do you say? I'll have a car pick you up."

  "Get rid of her," Brandon growled as we collapsed on my bed together, he on his back, me now sprawled over him. He kissed me again, hard and fast. "Now."

  "What?"

  My breath was shallow, and I could barely hear Janette's jabbering as I was once again smothered in a kiss.

  With a devilish grin, Brandon snatched the phone out of my grasp. "She'll be ready at ten," he barked without breaking his gaze, and before I could say anything, had ended the call and tossed my phone onto my bedside table.

  "Come here," he ordered.

  And, of course, I did.

  ~

  About twenty after ten in the morning on Saturday, a town car dropped me off in front of Swish, one of the many stores on Newbury Street that catered to Boston's elite. It was one of those stores I'd never had any reason to enter, since most things inside cost more than my rent.

  Brandon had left early that morning to meet with his trainer after we had spent the night making out instead of having sex. It wasn't for lack of wanting, but I didn't press the issue, and neither did he. It was like we were content just be together, yearning somehow for a closeness that still wouldn't come.

  So in the morning, Brandon left, but not before we had a minor argument about the wad of cash he'd tried to shove into my purse.

  "I'm the one who wants you to come," he'd insisted over and over again. "Let me pay for your damn dress!"

  "No one is going to pay for anything but me!" I'd yelled back, at one point literally throwing the bills at him in a confetti of green and white that scattered all over the living room.

  Eric, of course, had walked out of his bedroom right at that moment. He had gone right back in. Brandon finally left, cash and all, muttering something about a "gorgeous, stubborn ass" that I'd chosen not to hear.

  So here I was, already having decided that no matter what happened this morning, I'd go to Macy's for a reasonably priced knockoff. It was hard not to be irritated. I needed to be studying instead of playing Pretty Woman with my estranged mother.

  "Courage," I muttered to myself, and walked up the steps of the brownstone building.

  Swish was the kind of shop that demonstrated its affluence by having as few items of clothing as possible on display. Its merchandise was treated like art, presented one piece at a time against a minimalist decor. I stood in the entrance of the store, a bland white space that was bigger than it looked from the outside, and immediately found my mother at the far end, gabbing with the saleswoman like they were best friends.

  Janette looked the same as she always had: tall and willowy, with light brown hair tied up into a tasteful chignon at the base of her neck, dressed in deceptively simple clothing made of the best possible fabrics. Today she wore a pair of white summer slacks, a navy silk tunic that had just enough design quirks to make her look more like an artist than a socialite, and enough tasteful gold jewelry at her wrists and ears to demonstrate her wealth without being gauche about it.

  Despite being raised in New York (albeit on the Upper East Side), Janette looked very French. And very rich. She looked up and spotted me, raising her hand and causing the gold bangles at her wrist to fall downward with an audible clink.

  "Skylar! Darling! Come here and let me see you! How long has it been, my love? Three years? Four years?"

  It had been five, actually. But who was counting?

  As I crossed the nearly empty shop, Janette turned to the saleswoman, placing a hand on her shoulder familiarly. I recognized it as a common tactic of Janette's. Within five minutes, she'd be on a first-name basis with a Saudi prince.

  "Just look at her, Denise," she said. "Isn't she absolutely stunning?"

  I rolled my eyes, but smiled politely once I reached them. It was hard to take that kind of compliment from my mother. Considering how alike we looked, she was really complimenting herself more than anything. Although we had the striking difference of height and coloring (I had inherited my father's diminutive stature and his father's freckles and flaming red hair), looking at Janette's face was like looking at my own: the same slanted green eyes, the same heart-shaped mouth, the same button nose that was slightly rounded at the end.

  "Hi, Mom," I greeted her with air kisses she usually offered.

  "Janette, darling, Janette. You know the rules. This is my daughter, Denise, but you can't tell a soul. I'm not old enough to have a daughter this age, am I?"

  Denise smiled conspiratorially as she looked me over. "Definitely not, Janette. I would have guessed sisters. Maybe even twins."

  It was physically impossible not to roll my eyes again.

  "Have you found a dress already?" I asked hopefully, looking past her at the rack of clothes. Maybe this wouldn't take very long.

  "Oh, no, darling, we're just getting started. Now, I had Denise pull these ones for you, although it's been so long that I don't really know what your taste is. I guessed on your size, of course."

  Janette scanned me up and down as if to gather my taste in formalwear from the cropped black pants and black T-shirt I was wearing. When she got to my slightly scuffed ballerina flats, she raised a plucked brow.

  "How charmingly...down-to-earth you look. But perhaps we should pick out some other clothes too. We can't have you entering society looking like the Audrey Hepburn before she got her makeover."

  "You don't need to worry about that," I said as I followed her across the shop. "I'm a twenty-six-year-old lawyer, not a teenager getting ready for cotillion."

  Janette sighed as she examined the fabric of a beige summer sweater. "I do regret that," she admitted. "That we never had you formally announced in society. You would have made a lovely debutante."

  I remained quiet. It didn't seem worth the effort to point out that the reason I had never "come out" in society (if I'd even wanted to) was because
she had skipped town again and the Chambers family had never actually recognized me. I couldn't even remember which husband she'd been on at that point. Third or fourth, it didn't matter. All of them had long been more important to Janette than her own child. Until, it seemed, she had new ones with her current and most long-lasting husband.

  "Anyway," she said. "It's not about coming out, my love. It's about fitting in. You've got the pedigree––you're my daughter, after all. But you can't show up places looking like a ragamuffin. I know that's the style these days with young people, but I don't care what people say. Appearances do matter."

  I looked down at my simple outfit. It wasn't Gucci or anything, but I didn't think my clothes were anything to be sneered at. One plus of the study-abroad year I'd spent in Paris (ironically seeking a relationship with my mother, who'd never shown interest in reciprocating at that point either) was that I'd paid attention to the basic tenets of French style: simple, classic silhouettes and good material.

  "And really, you'll need to get used to it, won't you?" Janette remarked as she paged through a few other shirts.

  I frowned as I trailed behind her. "What do you mean?"

  Janette smiled at me, brilliant and white, the kind of smile that only comes from cosmetically enhanced dental work. "Well, I just assumed, you know. Brandon Sterling is one of the biggest donors on the East Coast. Excellent choice, by the way. He's still married, of course, but that's not a real obstacle. Miranda––horrible woman––can't hold on forever."

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. "How did you know about us?"

  There was no use in denying it; she was a stranger, but she was, after all, my mother. I was more concerned that Brandon and I hadn't been as discreet as we'd thought.

  Janette waved my concern away as she pulled a diaphanous white silk blouse off a rack and held it up to my body. "Oh, a mother has her ways. You don't need to worry, dearest, your secret is safe with me." She returned the blouse and winked. "That was him on the phone last night, wasn't it?" Janette asked, her big green eyes suddenly sharp with interest.

  I frowned. "Um..."

  "Let's dish. How long has it been serious? Men don't get territorial like that if it's not, you know. I'm impressed, darling. He really is such a catch!"

  "Um..."

  "You know, if we play our cards right, I could help you get a proposal by the end of the summer. Miranda used to be pretty, but she can't compete with you." Janette sighed and tapped my chin wistfully. "Effervescence of youth. Can't be replaced, much as we might try."

  "What are you talking about?" I asked, shaking off her finger as I finally found my voice. How did she know about this? Where was she getting her information? "Proposal? Marriage? I'm nowhere near thinking about––"

  "Pish, don't fret," Janette cut me off. "You'll get frown lines. Do you always take everything so seriously? Now, it's your grandmother you should be talking to about marriage. She's more excited about it than I am."

  I huffed. Of course Bubbe was the culprit. She was so over the moon about Brandon, and she loved sticking it to Janette. When Janette had called for my number, Bubbe likely couldn't resist telling her that Danny's daughter, the garbage collector's daughter, was dating a billionaire. I considered what would happen if Brandon decided to get into politics as well. I was going to have to have a serious talk with my grandmother.

  Denise approached.

  "Janette," she said as if she was my mother's friend from school. "Everything in the dressing rooms is ready now. We've got mimosas this morning too."

  Janette clapped her hands like a school girl. "Fun!" she said and grasped my hands. "Let's try some things on, shall we?"

  And hour later, I was half drunk on champagne at eleven in the morning, wearing a dress that would easily cost more than two months' rent, and standing on a small platform in front of a three-sided mirror at the back of the shop. There was a small mountain of dresses still hanging on our rack, not to mention the various separates Janette had already made me try on. I'd vetoed everything on account of cost.

  I felt ridiculous. Janette sat on the couch in front of me, champagne glass in hand as she gabbed with Denise. She'd made a quick choice of a blush-colored dress that was now hanging from a rack by the cash register, waiting to be sent to the in-house tailor for rushed alterations. I, on the other hand, suffered from no such luck under my mother's scrutiny.

  "This is insane," I insisted for what felt like the thousandth time. "I am not paying three-thousand dollars for a dress I will wear exactly once."

  Janette waved her hand at me, although her nostrils flared slightly. "It doesn't matter, I keep telling you." She cocked her head at me. "What do you think, Denise? I feel like that color washes her out."

  Standing beside Janette, Denise nodded in agreement. "She needs a softer green with that skin and hair. The chartreuse isn't doing her any favors."

  Janette nodded. "Get the Grecian one, then. The sage color?"

  Denise nodded and disappeared into the back of the store. Janette stood up and walked to me, then turned me to face the mirrors, where she looked at me through their reflection.

  "Darling," she said evenly. "Please stop."

  "Stop what?" I asked petulantly. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  "Stop protesting every time you try something on. You sound dreadfully poor, and you're embarrassing yourself."

  "I am poor, Janette."

  "Well, that's not what the trust fund I gave you would indicate. Wasn't it enough to pay for school, and then some? Besides, you're not paying for this; I am."

  I stared at the ground, then finally looked back at her through the mirror.

  "I'm uncomfortable with this," I said as plainly as I could. "To be frank, Janette, it feels really inappropriate to accept such extravagant gifts from you. We barely know each other."

  Janette stood still for a moment, the turned to look at me directly. She set a delicate hand on my shoulder.

  "Please let me," she said quietly. "I think we both know it's the very least I can do, considering..." she trailed off, unwilling to finish. We could both easily fill in the blanks.

  I'd seen that look before––the one where remorse for all the wrongs she'd done over the years seeped through her normally buoyant face. She had deployed it more than once over the years, usually in order to assuage a sudden burden of guilt. My mother acted like she was full of air, but in reality, she knew just how to manipulate people to ease her own weak moral compass. I was really no better than Dad, who couldn't ever quite say no to her. Not until the very end.

  "Okay," I finally relented. "You can buy me a dress. But no matching separates. I'm twenty-six, not seventy-six. Bubbe wears sweater sets, for crying out loud."

  Janette blinked, then burst out laughing. "Of course, of course!" she agreed with glee. "But you'll let me pay for the salon too, all right? Oh, darling, we are going to have such fun!"

  ~

  Chapter 20

  Eric and I arrived at the gala with Janette and Maurice, whose driver had picked us up so we could all travel together. Eric was decked out in a tuxedo that he actually owned. I shouldn't have been surprised. I often forgot about it, but his family was part of the same Upper East Side set that Janette came from.

  "I just love Beth, your mother," Janette said once we were on our way. "She's a bit older than me, of course, but what a darling."

  "I'll tell her you said hello," Eric replied with the subtle, practiced politeness of someone who had been having these kinds of conversations his entire life.

  I listened curiously; it was possible I could learn something from Eric. Maurice, who hadn't stopped speaking on his cell phone once, ignored the rest of us as he prattled on in French. He had a typical Parisian accent and spoke very quickly; even with my mostly fluent French, I found him difficult to understand.

  "Now, let's get a look at my gorgeous girl," Janette said, turning to me. "Well, I can't see a thing with that shawl on. Wherever did you get it, the Goo
d Will?"

  She tugged off the light, gold-threaded scarf I used to cover my shoulders. I sniffed. It was a hand-me-down from Bubbe, who had bought plenty of my clothes growing up from secondhand stores. The scarf fell around my hips, and Janette nodded in approval as she looked me over.

  The Grecian-style, moss-green gown did fit perfectly. The satin fabric draped over one shoulder and left the other bare, while the gold-corded bodice cinched my waist smaller than it already was. A hidden slit in the skirt would tease my leg every now and then, but the dress's sex appeal came mostly from the way it made me look like I'd been wrapped in luxurious green sheets, leaving most of my body to the imagination.

  Janette had insisted on a beaded gold clutch and strappy gold sandals to go with the dress, and we had spent several more hours that afternoon having our hair and makeup done. Janette had instructed the hairdresser to create barrel rolls out of my masses of red, which had then been pinned at the crown of my head and set with two thin, gold headbands, much like a Greek statue. The makeup artist had drawn subtle gold tints around my eyes, complemented by otherwise natural makeup. I felt a bit like a dress-up doll, but I couldn't deny the effects.

  "Yes, I'm glad we went with that one," Janette said. "But something is missing, isn't it?" She reached down and fingered the pounded silver cuff on my wrist. "This is nice, but it doesn't really go with the dress, does it? The accents aren't silver."

  Self-consciously, I looked at the sturdy silver piece Brandon had given me. The bracelet felt like an anchor against a pending storm.

  "Luckily, I came prepared," Janette said as she reached into her small purse and pulled out a pair of thin gold cuffs and a set of diamond-drop earrings. "Put these on. They'll show off your darling little wrists. I'll keep your bracelet in my purse."

  "That's all right," I murmured, reluctantly sliding it off my wrist and putting it in my own clutch.

  Eric snorted. Janette had worn me down throughout the day. She watched with pride as I put on her jewelry.

  "There," she said once I was finished. "Now you're perfect."

  Beside me, Eric gave my hand a compatriotic squeeze. Obviously, he understood this weirdly superficial praise that seemed nested in tacit critique; if his mother was anything like Janette, he had dealt with it his entire life.