His eyebrows shot up and his eyes got big. Then his lips pressed together and he ran his hand through his hair. “My God. Now I really do have to kill him.” Creases formed across his forehead. “Oh wait—when you said, your ‘honor such as it was’—Lana, was that . . . your first . . . ah—”
He was unexpectedly perceptive. And he listened closely. I had to be more careful.
I answered him with silence and willed myself not to cry. There were no more tears to cry over that.
He said nothing for a long beat. “Did he know you were a virgin at the time?”
I could barely bring myself to nod. Alexander’s body went rigid in his seat. His hands formed into fists on his knees.
“What happened after?”
“I went looking for him when I woke up. I found him in Cressida’s bedroom. With Cressida.”
“And then?”
“I went home.”
“Did you report it?”
“Yeah. To you, just now.”
“You never told anyone? Your dad even?”
I shook my head. “Are you kidding?”
He let out a long, low breath. “If I ever see this person again, he’s in extreme danger.”
I screamed.
An SUV had overturned ahead of us. It was upside down and split in two, straddling the center divider. Ripped, jagged pieces of metal littered the ground. Next to the wreckage, plastic yellow sheets covered two lumps on the asphalt.
The sheets were slick with rain and stained with blood.
A highway patrol officer holding a flare directed traffic into the center lane. I carefully steered away from the scene.
Just before we passed it, I got a clear view through the scrum of paramedics and cops.
A tiny foot in a pink shoe stuck out from under the sheet.
“Oh my God, do you see that!?”
“Look straight ahead. Just keep driving.”
I screwed my fists into my eyes to erase the images and wipe the tears but I couldn’t stop shaking.
“I think I need to stop.”
He nodded. “Take the next exit.”
#
For once he didn’t say a word about mattress quality or five-star hotels. I was crashing from the caffeine and the driving and the adrenaline and the weight of the memories. I staggered blindly in the dark room and fell on the stiff bed at the no-name motel we’d found just north of the Florida border.
Because of the storm, we had to share a room with two beds, but I was too delirious to care.
While Alexander washed up in the bathroom, I kicked off my shoes and peeled off my jeans. I had just enough energy to crawl between scratchy motel sheets that smelled like bleach. You are still alive. You survived Ramona and Caleb and Cressida and Victor and Arkady and Nastia.
But would I survive Alexander?
#
I am sitting on the hood of the Vanquish in a long, silky gray gown. The diaphanous fabric billows in the breeze. Alexander sits next to me. We’re parked in the middle of a red desert. The red spires of the Valley of Fire rise in the distance. It’s sunset and the golden light bathes his skin. He glows like something supernatural. “I’d like to kiss you until I die,” he says. He sinks his hands into my hair, which is long and beautiful again and spills down my back. He tilts my head back. His hands slide down my face to my shoulders, and then he slips the straps of the dress down and kisses my bare shoulder. He leans me back against the warm hood and we kiss. My body is on fire as his hand slides down and I arch my back off the hood and into him.
“Until we both die,” I say in a whisper.
#
A door slammed somewhere in the motel. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to fall back to sleep, desperate to turn the magnificent dream back on.
But the shreds wafted away. I punched my pillow in frustration. That’s as close as you’ll ever come to kissing him. I tiptoed through our dark motel room into the bathroom. I could hear him breathing in the other bed, still asleep. I soaked the cheap washcloth in hot water and scrubbed my arms and neck and cheeks until I didn’t feel his touch from the dream anymore. Then I stood in front of the mirror scowling at myself.
On the outside, I looked better than I had at the Amangiri—there was some color in my face, my freckles were under control, and the bruises and cuts were fading away. Even my stitches were dissolving, leaving behind just a thin, red scar on my shoulder.
On the inside, I was sick. Alexander Ambrose filled my thoughts and my dreams.
He was beautiful poison, and every day I took another sip.
#
“You might be driving all the way to Manhattan.” It was Saturday morning. The plan was to get as far as we could by dinnertime, spend one last night on the road, and get to New York City late Sunday night. We’d have a chance to rest and get ready before meeting Georgette’s trustee.
Who held the keys to my magical, mythical, mystery fortune.
Alexander sat on the bed rewrapping his right hand. The swelling was worse than the day before.
“I might be driving us all the way back to California, too,” I said.
He laughed. “We’re taking the family jet home, my dear. I eventually do have to make an appearance at the office.” The family jet!
I suddenly remembered how out of my depth I was. It was easy to forget Alexander was also the heir to his own large family fortune. I was still just Lana from the last non-millionaire part of Glen Ellen, heir to a burned out two-bedroom shack and a mossy cemetery plot.
I was used to feeling like the poorest person in the room. An outsider looking in, but never in. Would that change once I was firmly on the inside? Or like my mother, would I flee back to the normal world?
#
A different storm was heading for the coast north of us—straight into the I-95, which was my yellow brick road straight to NYC. A reporter on the radio mentioned gas shortages and people evacuating inland. Near Savannah, I pulled over to fill up, but they were already rationing gas and I was only allowed half a tank.
We weren’t going to make it.
The air smelled like ocean. I ran into the minimart to grab some snacks while Alexander pumped gas, but the shelves had already been cleaned out. When we got back on the highway, we inched north under skies that were dark gray and ominous. I’d need more gas before we stopped for the night or we’d have to start walking.
“This is bullshit. Get off the highway.” Alexander pulled out his phone and started checking out maps.
“But this is the only route, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Nope. Take the next exit.”
The sign over the exit said TO CHARLESTON, SC. I reluctantly got off and headed east on a two-lane highway, where the road was suspiciously empty of cars.
“See? No traffic this way.”
“For good reason.”
“Trust me.”
Cars streamed past us heading away from the coast. I stopped at the first gas station we passed, but they were closed. A big sign hung on one of the pumps: “NO GAS.”
By the time we made it to Charleston, the gas light was on again. The wind whipped through the streets. Trees bent crazily in the strong winds. The wipers could barely keep up with the deluge of water coming down on us. The center of town was deserted except for a few emergency vehicles with lights flashing at intersections, since the traffic lights were all out. I drove through a wide street flooded with a foot of water. A giant spray flew out either side of the car and the tires struggled to maintain their grip on the road.
“We’re going to be stuck here for days with no gas!”
Alexander was calm. “If we’d stayed on the highway, we’d be spending the night on the side of the road. I need my beauty sleep, as you know. We’ll get back on the highway when the storm passes in the morning. Turn left up there.”
#
After lugging our bags up the tall front steps of the elegant Southern mansion, we were soaked.
Alexander rang the bell.
Despite the humid air, I shivered in my wet jacket.
“Just pray they have room at the inn.”
Lucky for us, Wendell, the manager, let us in and gave us good news. He was a trim, tanned older man with a bow tie and a perfectly groomed mustache.
“We’re totally full except for one room, but it’s a suite. Will that do?”
Alexander shot me a look. “That okay, Lana?”
The world was conspiring to get me to spend another night sharing a room with him.
The Grand Mansion Suite at the Wentworth Mansion was like a luxury apartment, with high ceilings and a huge stone fireplace in the living room. Carved wood panels lined the walls. Plush green velvet curtains framed the windows and fell to the floor. The living area and the bedroom were open to each other and crystal chandeliers hung in both rooms. There was a huge sofa facing a fireplace in the living room area, and a massive canopied bed just beyond it.
Wendell set our bags down on an ornate bench. “Will this do?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, looking around. “It’s gorgeous.”
He chuckled. “Well it is the honeymoon suite.”
I turned my face away so Wendell wouldn’t see me blushing red. Alexander handed Wendell a folded bill.
“It’ll definitely do. Thank you.”
“Oh, no tips tonight! We’re not through this storm yet, folks. If the roof holds, tip me in the morning. Should I send up some dinner?”
After Wendell left with our dinner order, Alexander turned to me. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
#
After we dried off and cleaned up, Wendell brought up trays from the kitchen, complete with candles in silver candleholders. Alexander poured himself a glass of something brown he’d found in the fully stocked bar. We ate at a low coffee table. He sat on the curvy velvet sofa and I curled up on an overstuffed chair across from him in my latest hotel robe acquisition.
He tried to cut a piece of grilled steak with his bandaged right hand and the knife clattered to the floor.
“Let me do it.” I sliced the meat into manageable pieces for him.
“Thank you,” he said. “For Driving. Cutting my food. Tolerating.”
“It’s my fault you’re on this stupid road trip. Do not thank me.”
“Stupid? Aw, I thought we were having fun.” He harpooned a chunk of steak with his fork and grinned.
“I just meant, if not for me, you’d be home, not stranded in a storm with me.”
Our eyes locked. His hazel eyes were lighter, almost green against the sage walls.
“What if I like being stranded with you?”
I finished my food without saying another word. When we were both done, I stood up. “I’ll put the trays in the hallway. Wendell said someone would come get them.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, and started to stand.
“Sit!” He obeyed and sat back down. I bent down and piled all our plates and forks and napkins onto one tray, then slid the empty tray underneath the full one. When I stepped out into the hall, the storm echoed in the dark hallway, and the entire building vibrated from the force of the wind.
Back inside, lightning flashed through the window. The chandelier flickered and went out, leaving us in the dark. Alexander found a lighter on the mantle and lit the candles on the coffee table. Flickering golden light filled the air.
He walked over to the fireplace and tossed a last log onto the fire. “When this fire goes out it’s going to get chilly in here. You’re gonna be cold in that.”
“This robe? It’s cozy.” I asked.
“In what you have on underneath.”
“The word you’re looking for, Alexander, is pajamas.”
“You need new pajamas.”
I pulled the robe tight around my legs. “That’s true, but this nightgown happens to be my only remaining clean item of clothing.”
“Just keep your robe on,” he growled. “So you stay warm.”
Indignant, I crossed my arms and scowled. “Oh really? Why should I? You’re my cousin, I could sleep naked if I wanted to!” The words fell out before I could stop them.
He didn’t say a word. He plucked the wine out of the ice bucket Wendell had sent up and twisted off the cork. It popped dramatically.
“You can do whatever you want, Lana. But first, try this. It’s Prosecco, it’s light.” He handed me a glass.
“Aren’t you having any?”
“Nope. Sticking to whiskey.”
“Is that a good idea after New Orleans?”
“No, it’s a great idea. And in approximately one minute you’ll understand why.”
He stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid.
A log dropped in the fireplace and fell with a dramatic burst of sparks.
I jumped. “What is it?” He had a strange expression on his face. I sensed that something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. There is no lawyer meeting. There is no fortune. There is no heiress. This is all a dream and you’re about to wake up in your old bed and your ratty old Snoopy nightgown.
He took a sip of his drink and examined me as if he was sizing up a target for shooting practice.
“So, there’s something I need you to know. I’ve actually been trying to tell you for a while.”
You’re married. You have a kid. You’re not into girls. You are into girls but you’re in love with a supermodel. You’re a serial killer and I’m your next victim. You’re a figment of my imagination.
“What?” I asked in a strangled whisper. He ran both hands through his hair. I’d never seen him look this nervous before.
“Before I tell you, I want you to know it doesn’t change anything, okay?”
My heart thudded in my chest. The wind bashed into the windows and the glass panes rattled like someone outside was trying desperately to get in.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I’m sort of . . . adopted.”
Chapter 12
Lacus Aestatis ~ Lake of Summer
A sledgehammer to the skull would have been less shocking. He watched me carefully with a bashful expression.
“You’re . . . what did you say?”
“Adopted. Half-adopted to be precise.”
Synapses in my brain snapped like ropes pulled too tight. My thoughts raced. A bemused smile played on his lips. “Plot twist, I know.”
I shook my head to clear out the paralysis. “I’m gonna need a few more details.”
He laughed. “Elijah Ambrose is my mother’s second husband. Which makes him my stepfather, even though he legally adopted me when I was little.”
A tremendous gust of wind rattled the windows.
I did my best to hide the shrieking inside my brain.
He wasn’t an Ambrose by birth.
He wasn’t an Ambrose by blood.
WE WERE NOT BIOLOGICALLY RELATED.
I could stop feeling sick every time I ogled him.
I could stop hating myself for liking him.
“Wow. Okay.”
He drained his glass and plunked it down on the side table. “Obviously you and I are still cousins, since legally I’m Elijah’s son, but we’re not blood-related. I don’t know if it matters to you. It probably doesn’t. But I didn’t like you not knowing.” He shrugged. “Sorry for not telling you earlier.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Thanks for telling me now.” Don’t get any ideas. Doesn’t change anything. Stop thinking it does.
I sipped my Prosecco to buy myself time to think. “Is it a secret? Who else knows?”
He smirked. “Semi-secret. My parents didn’t want people to treat me differently from the other kids. Oh—that’s the other thing. Gretchen and Soren are my step-siblings. They grew up with their hippie mother on a yoga commune in upstate New York. I only saw them on vacations once a year, if that.”
“How old were you?”
“My mom married Elijah when I was four. They got full custody when I was seven. I was ten
when he officially adopted me.”
“What about your biological dad?”
“Haven’t talked to him in almost five years. My mother hates him. He had a pretty serious drinking problem, but he’s a good guy. I forgive him.”
His origin story didn’t fit neatly into Ambrose family lore.
Just like mine.
“Where is he now?”
“Virginia, near Chesapeake Bay. He builds custom boats for rich people. Which I suspect is how my mom met Elijah.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Yeah. I also used to visit him there after their divorce.” I would have loved him if he had been born to wolves and raised by monkeys.
“Why did he lose custody?”
He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “He used to take me sailing when I was little. One day, I fell overboard at the marina and he was too drunk to notice. A stranger jumped in to save me. That was the last full day I spent with him. Supposedly he got sober after that.”
The fire was almost out and I shivered. His father had failed him, too. I didn’t dare utter the other words quietly ticker-taping around my brain on a loop. You’re not related you’re not related you’re not related.
Or were we? Adoptive siblings are siblings. So are step-siblings. But what about distant step-cousins? Was it socially acceptable to be in love with your step-third-cousin thrice removed?
Did I even care what was socially acceptable anymore?
“You and Elijah get along better than me and Ramona, I hope.”
He regarded me coolly. “We’re good now. He wasn’t too thrilled with how I left West Point.” The flawless Ambrose veneer crumbled a little more. “I was trying to tell you this all week. I wanted to tell you in New Orleans.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not used to talking about it. My mother thinks it’s disloyal to Elijah if I call him my ‘stepfather.’ Mostly we don’t talk about it. He adopted me to help perfect the illusion, I guess. Most of my friends don’t even know.”
“Bardo?”
“He knew.”
I bit my lip and winced in pain. The cut was still healing. He stood up, stretched, and walked over to the window. He pushed the velvet curtains aside and peered out.
Valley of Fire (Valley of the Moon Book 2) Page 11