This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Katherine St. John, Inc.
Reading group guide copyright © 2020 by Katherine St. John, Inc., and Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Cover design by Lynn Buckley
Cover illustrations by Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: St. John, Katherine, 1979– author.
Title: The lion’s den / Katherine St. John.
Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019049268 | ISBN 9781538733639 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9781538733646 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.T2484 L56 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019049268
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3363-9 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-5287-6 (Canadian edition), 978-1-5387-3364-6 (ebook)
E3-20200311-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Day 1
(ten years ago)
Day 2
(two years ago)
Day 3
(two years ago)
Day 4
(one year ago)
Day 5
(nine months ago)
Day 5
(seven months ago)
Day 6
(twenty-six days ago)
Day 6
(twenty-two days ago)
Day 6
(twenty-one days ago)
Day 7
(twenty days ago)
Day 7
(twenty days ago)
Day 7
(twenty days ago)
Day 7
(nineteen to twelve days ago)
Day 7
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Reading Group Guide
For my girls
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The only known predators of lions are humans.
Day 1
Saturday afternoon—Los Angeles
I’ve always thought myself immune to the dizzying effects of fabulous wealth, but the sight of sleek jets lined up on the tarmac ignites an unexpected giddiness in me. How liberating to be able to move about the world so easily, without the inconveniences of mass transportation. No lines at the ticketing counter, no taking off shoes and disassembling carry-on bags, no body scans, no cramped leg space or short connections, no luggage belts or lost bags.
Yeah, I could get used to that. Summer certainly has.
I’m reminded of when I was first introduced to caviar at a swanky dinner party many years ago. My date was a pretentious bore, but I’ll never forget his voice in my ear as I stared with wonder (and perhaps a shade of apprehension) into the little glass bowl of tiny black eggs carefully balanced on a bed of ice before me.
“It’s easy not to crave caviar if you haven’t tasted it,” he said.
He went on to warn me as I put the opalescent spoon to my lips that once sampled, the delicate taste is not so easily forgotten. He was right. I could see how if the opportunity arose to make it a regular part of my diet, I might come to require it. I suppose the trappings of wealth that seem indulgent at first soon become necessities.
But I’m only a guest in this world, and I figure a week is not enough to develop a dependency on grandeur, so: I will not be turning down any caviar.
Nor will I be turning down any bread, cheese, butter, chocolate, or gelato. Or, for that matter, any of the other delicious foods I’ve been denying myself for an entire month. I’ve kicked and punched and crunched and starved myself into the best shape of my life in anticipation of a full week in a bikini, and I am ready to indulge.
I rip my eyes away from the spectacle on the runway to rummage through my bag one last time. Passport, check. Wallet, check. Phone, check. Watch. Shit.
“What is it?” my sister asks as I dump the contents of my purse into my lap.
“My watch,” I moan. “I swear I had it this morning, and now I can’t find it.”
“Do you really need a watch on a yacht trip to the Riviera?”
“Just help me find it,” I beg.
She tucks a wisp of blond hair behind her ear and paws through the junk in the center console. Lauren is the spitting image of our mother, petite and blond, while I’m our father, lanky and brunette. And yet our faces are similar enough that she could always get away with using my ID in the four years before she turned twenty-one. Not that she needed it—my little sis spent even more time in the college library than I did. All that studying paid off, because she’s starting law school in the fall, and I couldn’t be prouder.
Finally, I unzip the side pocket of the little round crossbody Gucci insignia bag Summer gifted me and wrap my hand around the watch, right where it should be. “Oh.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Got it.”
Lauren studies me. “You’re kinda wired this morning. You have too much coffee?”
I fasten the watch on my wrist. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about this trip,” I confess. “I’m not totally sure why I’m still invited. I’ve hardly seen Summer recently.”
“But you guys have been BFFs forever,” she says, surprised. “Didn’t she just give you that ridiculously expensive bag a few weeks ago?”
I nod, fingering the red-and-green stripe down the middle. It’s the most expensive bag I’ve ever owned, and despite myself, I love it.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
But I do.
I unload my roller suitcase from the trunk of my beat-up Prius and give Lauren a hug through the open window. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car,” she says with a smile. “Have fun. And please don’t come back with a boyfriend twice your age.”
“Haha,” I return. “I’m not Summer.”
She gives me a wry smile. “I’ve never understood what you see in her. But the most exotic place a friend has ever taken me is Lake Michigan, so I guess you win.”
“Okay, now get out of here before anybody sees me with this beater.” I slap the roof o
f the car for emphasis. “Ow!” I jerk my hand away from the blazing-hot metal.
“Keep me posted!” She blows me a kiss.
“Give Grannie my love!” I shout after her.
As she drives away, I feel a twinge of regret I won’t be road-tripping with her to see Grannie perform the title role in Mame for the community theater at her new retirement condo in Lake Havasu. I blame Grannie for passing on to me the acting bug and always relish an opportunity to see her in her element. But as sad as I am to miss her in the part she was born to play, sometimes life demands that you sacrifice senior dramatics for a week on a yacht in the Mediterranean.
I roll my bag past the rows of expensive cars baking in the summer sun to the two-story stucco building that serves as the waiting room for the small private airport and ring the buzzer. The woman on the other end politely informs me that the crew for my plane has not yet arrived and the passenger list has not yet been published, so she can’t yet let me in. “I’m sorry,” she says. “New security measures. Check back shortly.”
Fantastic. I’m three minutes early and clearly the first to arrive, already sweating in the impractical vintage sundress I was so excited to find at a garage sale in Beverly Hills last week. The fabric is too thick for this weather, the bodice too tight. I wish I’d worn something loose and cotton, but I was doing my best approximation of stylish on a shoestring budget, so here we are. At least I have the purse.
Desperate for shade, I haul my suitcase over to the curb and stand in the strip of shadow cast by a lone palm tree, watching the activity on the airfield through the chain-link fence. Shimmering waves of heat rise from the tarmac, distorting the horizon. Past the line of jets, a yellow twin-engine Cessna takes off. Helicopters come and go from a couple of helipads in the distance.
Out on the runway, I count twelve men in suits descending the steps of one of the jets, holding their jackets closed against the wind, and watch an NBA player I recognize but can’t name board another with what must be his wife, three kids, two people who look to be assistants, and four big dogs.
I wonder if that woman is happy. She surely must be comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than I am, melting here in my stupid dress. Money has never been a part of the dating equation for me, but suddenly I have to wonder: What if I’m wrong? What if love doesn’t conquer all and money can in fact solve all your problems? Summer’s clearly placed all her chips on that bet.
My not-so-illustrious acting career has been studded with bit parts and waitressing jobs that have sometimes put me in the path of hunky celebrities, and on occasion I’ve been the recipient of their passing attention. But I’ve never followed through, always horrified by the thought of becoming a witless flavor-of-the-week dangling from the arm of some star until he dumps me for the next famous model. I can almost hear Summer’s voice whispering in my ear, suggesting that this sentiment is only my lack of confidence hampering my Hollywood ending.
I laugh out loud, realizing I must look like a madwoman if anyone’s watching. Surely the heat is going to my head. Or maybe it’s the jets. I’m not Summer. I would never go as far as she has in the pursuit of gold.
Before I can totally lose my mind, a silver BMW SUV pulls into the spot beside me and a voice chirps, “Hey, lady, what are you doing out here?”
I wave and drag my suitcase over to the car as Wendy emerges from the driver’s side, glancing at her dainty gold watch. “Lemme guess, Summer’s late.”
“We’re the first ones here,” I confirm. “And they wouldn’t let me in yet.”
“No wonder you’re melting,” she says as we air-kiss.
Wendy’s black with Disney princess dark eyes complemented by perfectly arched brows and a flawless complexion. Always stylish, today her petite frame is draped in the quintessential flying-on-a-private-jet-to-the-South-of-France outfit: freshly pressed white linen pants paired with tan wedges and a billowy golden top, her signature long wavy raven extensions covered by a floppy white sun hat.
My uncomfortable vintage dress suddenly just feels old. I am never as aware of my appearance as when I’m around Wendy and Summer. It’s not their fault; they’re just effortlessly chic. If I am ever chic, there is definitely full effort involved. My brain simply doesn’t work that way. I see a dress and think it’s an outfit. They put together a whole look.
Wendy’s roommate, Claire, gets out of the passenger side and joins us at the back of the car, where we repeat the air-kiss ritual. I notice she’s cut her usually long dark hair into a flattering lob, accented with beachy waves and caramel highlights that bring out her blue eyes. “Love your hair,” I say.
“Thanks!” Her dimples twinkle as she smiles. “Have I not seen you since I cut it?”
“Not since Wendy’s birthday dinner back in June, I think.”
“Claire’s never around since she started dating Mr. Major League,” Wendy teases.
“My boyfriend’s in Chicago, so I’m there a lot now,” Claire explains. “He’s a baseball player.”
“That’s great,” I enthuse.
Claire’s an incredibly sweet elementary school teacher originally from Miami who’s soft-spoken when she speaks, which isn’t much, and…well, I’m not sure what else, to be honest. We’ve known each other probably four years, and I’m ashamed to admit I don’t think we’ve had a meaningful conversation in that entire time––probably because she’s always overshadowed by Wendy, who is hands-down the most outgoing, energetic, popular person I’ve ever met. When we first became friends at UCLA, Wendy was president of her sorority as well as head of the Greek Society, somehow balancing maintenance of a 4.0 GPA with planning fundraisers and beautification projects for the school grounds. These days she’s an event coordinator turned publicist, and knows—I’m not kidding—everyone in Los Angeles. Well, everyone from a certain social set, anyway. The social set that would go to fancy events and need publicity. But trust me, that’s a lot of people. Like a politician, she has that gift of making you feel like she actually cares when she’s talking to you. Which makes sense, because her father’s a state senator in Ohio.
I asked her about her overwhelming charm once, thinking it was just a natural part of being Wendy, but it turns out it’s a technique. She told me it was all about light touch and eye contact. She tried to show me how to do it, but I just came off as creepy. You’d think that because I’m an actress, manipulation would come easily to me, but I’ve always just tried to be a decent human—and foolishly expected everyone else to as well. Unrealistic, I know. I’m working on it.
“I had dinner at Cove last night and stopped by the bar after, but I didn’t see you,” Wendy says.
“I took the night off so I could pack,” I fib. A casting director I’ve auditioned for numerous times yet never quite booked through was having a party there, and I didn’t want her to see me bartending. But Wendy got me the job (for which I am grateful), so I can’t tell her that. It’s not that I’m embarrassed to be a bartender per se. It’s just that after a year of being able to pay all my bills acting, I feel…Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed that things haven’t turned out quite the way I imagined. I’ve hit a slump, as it were. A speed bump. That’s all it’s going to be, because things are going to be different when I get back from this trip, I swear it.
Wendy opens her liftgate, revealing a completely stuffed trunk. “Overpack much?” I tease.
“The big one’s for clothes, the medium for shoes and bags, and the small for hair products,” Wendy says, indicating a matching set of maroon luggage. “You know me and my weave.”
“I was gonna say, it’s looking especially gorgeous today,” I laugh.
She gently sweeps her hair over one shoulder with a smile. “Thanks, it’s fresh for the trip.”
“I swear I had a regular-size bag until Wendy got involved,” Claire says as the three of us lift her gargantuan suitcase onto the pavement.
“Sounds familiar.” I give her a meaningful smile.
A chauffeured bl
ack Suburban rolls up as we’re unloading Wendy’s trio of bags, and Summer’s mom, Rhonda, her sister, Brittani, and another girl I don’t recognize spill out, juggling coffee cups, cell phones, hats, and purses.
Here we go.
“Had to stop at the outlet stores on our way into town,” Rhonda announces with a flourish. As if to punctuate her declaration, a shopping bag tumbles out of the car before the driver can catch it, spilling three boxes of shoes onto the pavement. “Wouldn’t wanna be underdressed in the South of France!”
Brittani gives her mom a high five, and they make spirit fingers like cheerleaders.
Besides a few extra pounds and some unfortunate cosmetic tweaks that have left her looking persistently surprised and curiously puffy, Rhonda hasn’t changed much in the ten years since I last saw her: blond-streaked hair piled on top of her head, makeup just a little too done, leopard-print top stretched taut across her ample chest.
I haven’t laid eyes on Brittani in as long, either, and I’m immediately surprised that despite their different fathers she’s grown up to look exactly like her sister—leggy, blond, and beautiful, with enviable cheekbones and a perfect bow of a mouth. Only, where Summer is always dressed as though she’s just come from brunch on the Upper East Side, Brittani looks like she’s headed to spring break in Cancun. She’s wearing a tight pink T-shirt with WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS…spelled out in rhinestones over cutoff jean shorts, and her hair is brassy from peroxide. Which is to say she’s clearly inherited her mother’s sense of style.
“Girls’ trip!” Brittani whoops as she gallops over.
I flash a bright smile. “Brittani! Rhonda! So good to see you guys!”
“Listen to you! ‘You guys’! You can say ‘y’all’ with us. We all know you’re from the South!” Brittani exclaims, putting on a Southern drawl. She hip-checks me, sending me stumbling into a Porsche.
I regain my balance, managing a good-natured, “Wow, you look great. I think you were twelve the last time I saw you.”
“Well, I’m twenty-two now! Whooooo!” Spirit fingers again. “Are you still trying to be an actress?”
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