Whitmans always endure, he said.
Broken inside, Amber allowed herself to be taken home. For almost two weeks, she pretended everything was fine, going through her routines like an automaton. Wes watched her like a hawk, at first, certain she would take off again. But when it seemed she had no intention of doing anything of the sort, he backed off, returning to his drinking and carousing. Then, three nights ago, he’d come home and passed out on the couch, swimming in bourbon. Amber took her opportunity by the throat, packed her bags, and ran.
She went to the bank first, but since it was after hours, she could only get a few hundred dollars out. Amber went back the very next morning, only to be told her accounts had been frozen, and that her father had told the bank to call the police if she appeared, looking for money. Terrified they would make her go back to either her father’s or Wes’ house, she took off before the police could arrive.
She’d been on the road ever since, too afraid to rent a motel room or use any of her credit cards, lest they be tracking her by their usage. She was almost out of cash, and completely out of options. If she didn’t find a solution soon, she would have no choice but to go back to them, tail between her legs.
And that she would not do.
Squaring her shoulders, Amber turned toward the front door as it opened, revealing the same security guard who had stopped her earlier. The man bobbed his head apologetically. “Mr. McAlister says he is willing to speak with you, but after the guests leave. Ms. McKenna asked me to show you to the office, where you can wait in a warm place. I don’t know how long they will be, ma’am. You picked a right awful day, if I do say so myself.”
Wincing, Amber nodded. “I understand. Please, if you see Al…Mr. McAlister, tell him thank you. I’ll wait as long as necessary. I didn’t mean to interrupt his happy day.”
The man bobbed his head again, gesturing, not toward the door, but back along the western side of the house. “Ms. McKenna asked me to show you in via the back entrance, miss. She doesn’t want Mr. McAlister upset if he happens to see you.” He sounded mortified, like he was afraid she’d be offended.
Amber pasted on a smile. “Of course. Lead the way.”
She followed the obviously uncomfortable man around the corner of the house, through a gate in the back fence, and finally to a pair of French doors that led to a large, opulently-furnished office. The walls were painted a deep, soothing blue, with dark-stained chair rails on two of the walls. A fireplace roared against the eastern wall, made of hand-crafted river stones and topped with a polished wood mantel. A large cherrywood desk occupied one corner, a deep-blue couch flanked by two stylish wing-backed chairs in the other. The floor was some sort of expensive tile, dark tan, with veins of darker brown running through it. A ceiling fan whooshed quietly overhead, and she could hear people talking on the other side of the door that led to the rest of the house.
The guard gestured toward the sofa. “Ms. McKenna said you should take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Mr. McAlister will join you once the guests have departed. If you’d like a drink, there’s a fridge behind the desk. Ms. McKenna said you are welcome to anything you find in there.”
Amber bobbed her head in acknowledgement, hoping the man would leave her alone soon. The guard stood there, staring at her in silence for a long moment. Then he touched his forehead as if he were tipping his hat, turned on his heels, and marched back out the way they’d come in.
Amber took a deep breath and settled herself on the edge of the couch. The room was pleasantly warm, the décor soothing. What little she’d seen of the house was breathtaking—it had obviously been custom-designed, and by an extremely talented architect. The French doors overlooked Lake Conroe, revealing miles of black water rippling under a blanket of stars. Out here, so far from the hustle and bustle of the main city, she could almost believe the world wasn’t filled with evil, possessive men who lived only to hurt the women who loved them.
Too bad she knew the truth behind that particular fantasy.
Wincing at herself, Amber removed her jacket, rubbing her arms as the heat from the fireplace started thawing her frigid skin. The heater in her car went out yesterday, and other than a few restroom breaks in various fast food places, she’d been stuck out in the freezing cold all day long. Afraid to use her credit cards, she’d had to use what little cash she’d been able to get out of the bank before her father froze her accounts to keep herself fed and her car gassed. But after three days, she was down to the last hundred dollars, with no chance of getting more. If she didn’t figure out something soon, she’d be homeless, starving, and completely without hope.
Maybe Allen would be able to help, she consoled herself silently. Or, at least he might be able to give her some advice. She didn’t know what to do, where to go, now that she couldn’t go home. She’d told her boss she needed a few personal days to take care of some family business, but there was no telling if the man believed her. She’d only been a receptionist at that doctor’s office for a few months, hadn’t had enough time to build up enough of a reputation to make herself indispensable to the company. If she stayed away too long, she’d lose the job, too, and then she really would be screwed.
She had nothing, now. No family. No fiancé. No home. Certainly no money. And maybe no job. Her whole life was falling apart, and she had no idea how to pick up the pieces.
Allen was her only hope. So here she was, sitting on his couch, hoping against hope he’d at least listen to her story before showing her the door. Considering she hadn’t even known where he lived before a few days ago, she knew she had a lot of gall, showing up here out of the blue. All she could hope was that her favorite brother was still the sweet, compassionate boy she used to play with, the same wonderful, protective sibling who let her follow him around and showed her how to ride her bike.
She still had a hard time processing everything she’d learned about Allen over the last couple of weeks. There was still so much she didn’t know about him, so much she didn’t know about what happened to him over the last thirteen years.
She’d thought he was dead, after all.
She still remembered the day he disappeared. Father had called the family into the drawing room—the mansion was built in the early ’30s, so it had things like a drawing room and servants’ staircases—and told them that their adopted brother, Alexander, had been kidnapped during the night. It was assumed his birth parents were behind it, and that he was being taken back to Columbia to be put to work for the drug cartels. He assured them that they were all safe, that the people who took Alex had no reason to come after any of them, and that they should put him out of their minds—unless, of course, someone from the press approached them, in which case they were to act appropriately tearful and worried about their missing sibling.
Amber had been stunned. Alex—whom she’d always called Allen, due to a childhood lisp that prevented her from saying his name correctly—was her favorite, the only sibling who seemed to care about her. She’d burst into tears, only to have her father roll his eyes, sigh, and tell her, “Come, now. I said to save that crap for the press. No need to pretend you care about him when you’re among family. Tears go better on camera, Amber. Remember that.”
She’d hidden her grief, after that, certain her father would punish her if she didn’t. But she never stopped worrying about him, never stopped asking for news. And then, one day about six months after Alex disappeared, her father sat her down and told her he’d been killed, that the drug cartels had taken umbrage to Robert Whitman’s search for his missing son and gotten rid of the boy to prevent further interference from the U.S. Alex was gone, forever, and she needed to get over it, now.
“He was nothing to you, Amber,” Robert scolded her, eyes flashing with ire. “I won’t have you mourning him as if he were truly part of this family. The only time I will tolerate this tearful nonsense is if you happen to be in front a reporter. Do I make myself clear?”
And so, from that day on, she’d
assumed her favorite brother was dead, lost to her forever. It wasn’t until two months ago that she finally learned the truth.
She’d come home for the weekly family dinner, grateful for a night away from her soon-to-be-husband. Wes was getting worse, drinking every night, and she’d just started considering bringing it to her father’s attention. Surely, he didn’t know that the man he wanted his youngest daughter to marry was a drunk. Surely, he wouldn’t want her to stay with him if he did know. She’d been thinking about how best to broach the subject when she heard her father’s outraged cry echo down the hallway.
She and her mother, who had just walked up to welcome Amber home, both took off down the hall, heading for Robert’s study. There they found him, pacing and cursing wildly. “That bastard! That stinking whore! How dare he do this to me! How dare he flout me and everything God has ever taught him?”
He went on like that, his tirade growing louder and more vituperative, while his wife tried to calm him. Amber had crossed the room, searching for the meaning behind her father’s sudden outburst. There on his computer screen was a wedding website, announcing the engagement of Allen Sorensen to Tatum McAlister, to be held in Massachusetts in two months’ time. And right in the center, an enormous photo showed an achingly handsome man with black hair and deep brown eyes, being held in the arms of a huge blond man as they both smiled joyfully for the camera.
Amber had stood there, stunned. Because even though it had been thirteen years since she saw her brother’s face, she knew the moment she laid eyes on that photo that it was him, Alex.
Alex was alive, calling himself Allen Sorensen. And he was getting married to another man.
Stunned beyond belief, beyond comprehension, Amber fled the room before her father’s ire could land on her. But she hadn’t forgotten, and later she’d done a few internet searches on her own. And what she found rocked her to the core.
Allen was not only alive, but living in Houston, and hugely successful to boot. He was a gifted photographer, working for the largest advertising agency in the country, making piles of money. According to her research, he’d been dating Tatum McAlister, one of the owners of the company, for some eight months, and the two of them had just announced their nuptials. There were also rumors of a woman being involved, but no one ever said anything specific, so she wasn’t quite sure what to make of that part. All she knew for absolute certain was her brother was alive and well, living in the same city.
And her father knew it.
That hurt. Almost as much as the realization that she’d lost thirteen years of her brother’s life. Discovering that her father had not only known Allen was alive, but who he was dating and probably where he worked and lived, and yet hidden that knowledge from the rest of the family—that absolutely killed her. What the hell was wrong with the man? Why would he hide something so serious from his family? Here they’d all thought Allen was dead, a victim of the drug wars, only he had been here all along.
What happened to him? Why did her father cover up his disappearance? She wondered, but couldn’t find any answers. Certainly, she couldn’t ask her father—his wrath would be vicious if she let on that she knew Allen was alive, that he’d lied about the whole thing. She’d considered approaching Allen before now, just to let him know that she, at least, had mourned for him when she thought he was dead. But she didn’t know how to go about it, didn’t think her long-lost brother would welcome her presence in his life. So she’d started keeping tabs on him from a distance, using his Facebook and Twitter accounts to try and learn more about this brother she didn’t even know anymore. At the very least, he seemed happy, and that made her feel just a teeny bit better. As long as he was happy, she didn’t want to interfere with him or his life.
That he was also gay didn’t faze her. Unlike her other family members, she’d never had any problem with same-sex couplings. She’d always believed that love could take as many forms as there were stars in the sky, and that people should be allowed to love whomever they chose, without censure or consequence. Her view had never made her popular with her father, who believed that to be gay is to live in defiance of God’s will, but she didn’t care. As long as the people involved were happy, she saw no reason to poke her nose into what happened in their bedroom.
After all, she had her own sexual deviations.
Smiling sardonically at herself, Amber ran her fingers through her pale blonde hair and heaved a sigh. She hoped Allen got here soon. Time was running out for her. She needed to know how he felt, if he’d be willing to help her, so she could make other plans if necessary.
And then, as if the thought had conjured the man, Allen walked in.
Amber rose to her feet, mouth hanging open in shock. Allen was absolutely breathtaking, standing there in his expensive Armani suit with his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. His short black hair was done up in stylishly messy spikes, his warm coffee-with-cream skin glowing with health. He had the face of an angel, achingly beautiful—far, far too perfect to be considered merely handsome. His broad shoulders filled the dark suit jacket nicely, his trim waist and long legs enticingly displayed in fitted gray slacks. If he wasn’t her brother, she’d have wanted him immediately.
Suddenly nervous, Amber clasped her hands at her waist, cleared her throat, and said, “Hi, Allen. It’s been a long time.”
Allen stared at her in total silence, his warm brown eyes studying her from head to toe. She knew what she looked like—a tiny little thing, almost pixie-ish, with skinny arms and boyish hips. She’d been told she had a delicate, waif-like beauty, her big blue eyes her best feature, though full lips and generous breasts ran a close second. Standing no more than five foot two, she was a good head shorter than him, and he had a good seventy pounds on her. Next to him, she felt tiny and insignificant.
Allen cleared his throat. “Are you really Amber Whitman?” he said in a deep, soothing tenor. “Last time I saw you, you were barely ten years old. Womanhood has made you blossom, I see.”
Immediately, heat washed down her neck, her cheeks turning bright pink at his compliment. She licked her lips, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “You’ve grown up quite a bit, too, Allen,” she whispered, unable to get her voice to climb up from her knees. “You look amazing. Really happy.”
He blinked at her, face expressionless. “I am happy,” he told her sincerely. Then his face hardened. “Which is why I’m wondering why you’re here, now, today. I left that part of my life behind a long, long time ago. I don’t understand why you’ve chosen to reappear now, just when I’ve managed to move on. Why are you here?”
She closed her eyes, squared her shoulders, and met his hard brown eyes squarely. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know. I mean, I did know you were getting married—congratulations, by the way—but I didn’t know you’d be here. I mean, I thought you got married a little while ago, and I didn’t know you’d be here today. I mean, I didn’t know about the reception, or that you’d be having it here tonight. Or, well, I knew you’d be here tonight, I just didn’t know…” She stopped, winced, and cleared her throat. “Can I start over?”
She looked up to find Allen regarding her with a silly little smile. “You used to do that when you were little,” he said with a snicker. “Remember what I used to tell you?”
Amber sighed. “Start at the beginning, think before you speak, and remember to, you know, breathe once in a while.” She gave him a sheepish grin.
To her astonishment, Allen’s eyes turned tear-bright. “You remember. It really is you.” Then he was there, hugging her breathless. “My little sister,” he said hoarsely, face buried in her hair.
Amber wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his hot chest as she choked back a sob. This was Allen, her Allen, alive and holding her. She’d never thought to feel his arms around her again, never thought to see him in the flesh. That he was here, not only alive, but happy and successful, made joy spill from her heart. She clutched him desperately
, staining his jacket with her tears, for a long moment.
At last, Allen pulled away. He had tears on his cheeks, but he was smiling. He smoothed her bangs from her forehead, cupped her cheek briefly. Then he pulled back, threaded their fingers together, and gestured toward the couch. “Come on, sit with me. Tell me what brings you here.”
Amber nodded, sniffling self-consciously, and let herself be led to the couch. They sat next to each other, still holding hands, while she gathered her thoughts. After a time, she cleared her throat and started over.
“Before we get to me, there’s something I need you to know, Allen,” she began in a soft voice. She met his brown eyes squarely, putting all the sincerity she possessed in her tone. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were alive. Father told everyone you’d been killed in Columbia. All this time, I thought you were dead. If I’d known you were still here, if I’d known you were alive and still in the city, I would have come looking for you. I swear it. Please, you have to believe me.”
Allen swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I honestly didn’t know what the rest of you thought,” he said in a pained whisper. “I heard what he told the press, but I never thought about what he told you kids.” He paused, took a deep breath. “I wasn’t kidnapped, Amber. I ran away. I couldn’t stand to live in that house anymore. I ran, and I lived on the streets for two years before someone rescued me. Except for a very short period of time back when I was fifteen, I’ve always been here.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. Amber brushed them away impatiently. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would you run away? And why would Father…”
He held up a hand, stopping her cold. “He’s not my father, Amber,” he said in a cold, deadly voice. “That man washed his hands of me thirteen years ago. My name is Allen Sorensen McAlister, now. I was adopted by a man named Buddy Sorensen a little while back, and I took Tatum’s name when I married him. Please, don’t ever refer to Robert Whitman as my father, ever.”
Angel Without Page 2