Promise: The Deception Trilogy, Book 3 Read online

  “I know. You’ve said that. A million times.” He hung up on me.

  I cursed in annoyance and threw the phone on my desk. After a thorough search of finding absolutely nothing of any interest in Pete Svenson's office at the club, I'd almost given up unearthing his secrets when the fool made a move. The bloody moron actually thought he could get by the club's high security. He thought because he was the factotum he knew every inch of security we kept at the club (of which there was a hell of a lot considering we had a hazard bank under its roof), but I always kept something to myself. He'd tripped an extra measure trying to break into his own office.

  He'd been escorted off the premises, and I went back to searching his office. He'd given me proof there was something in there. After hours of frantic searching, I tried to think of what Pete brought to the office. It occurred to me, and I couldn't believe it hadn't sooner, that the free-standing bookcase at the end of his office was his addition to the room. I began searching for something out of the ordinary on it. I removed book after book and when I pulled out the copy of Memoirs of Hadrian a drawer popped out of the middle shelf which happened to be the thickest in width. Staring at the notebook laptop that sat perfectly within the drawer I couldn't fucking believe what I was seeing. Without even opening the damn thing I knew this was proof that Svenson had been up to something nefarious in the club.

  What that had to do with interfering in my relationship with Scarlett I had no idea. The constant ache in my chest flared to unbearable any time I thought of her, so I quickly pulled the laptop out and tried to get into it. Unfortunately, I couldn't crack the password, and when I'd given it to Dean, he said there was a sophisticated security program on it.

  Which he was currently trying to hack.

  My curiosity was fucking killing me.

  My phone rang on the desk, vibrating and moving across the wood. Amelia's name flashed on the screen. I hesitated because I knew she was going to see Scarlett this morning to tell her about Bryce.

  Right on schedule, the pain in my chest became excruciating.

  Fuck.

  I snatched the phone up. “I’m in the middle of something,” I said, deliberately curt.

  “Yes, you certainly are.”

  I tensed because it sounded like Amelia had been crying. “Amelia?”

  She sniffled, but her tone was suddenly sharp. And cold. "I let Scarlett know about Bryce. She's not happy, but she said to tell your lawyer that Bryce can take the plea bargain."

  My free hand fisted on my lap at the thought of that fucker getting away with attacking her. “Fine.”

  “She told me about what her sister did to her.”

  I glared unseeingly at the wall.

  “Griffin?”

  “I’m here.”

  “She has nightmares. About being raped. I imagine those are only worsened by the fact that she wakes up from them alone.”

  My throat closed with emotion I couldn’t handle.

  “She asked me to stay away.”

  I pushed through the pain, my words coming out hoarse from the struggle. “Perhaps for the best.”

  Amelia hesitated a second. “You’ve changed her. You and that awful sister of hers. You’ve broken her. I hope you’re well satisfied with yourself.”

  Rage churned in my gut. “Now you listen—”

  “No, you listen. It’s bad enough you left her alone after that little asshole attacked her but to let yourself be photographed with someone else to make a point to Scarlett is just sick, Griffin. And I thought you were better than that.”

  Confusion cut off my next cutting remark. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Would I be asking if I knew?”

  "You're in Elite magazine. Scarlett saw. Whatever your intention was, Scarlett got the message… She's different, Griff," she suddenly whispered, "She's… not Scarlett anymore."

  The idea that I’d crushed Scarlett’s spirit was more than I could handle. “I have to go.” I hung up and threw my phone so hard it skittered off the desk and ended up on the floor on the other side.

  My chest felt tight.

  I dropped my head in my hands trying to catch my breath. Cold sweat collected under my arms and I could feel it beading on my forehead.

  Calm down. Fucking calm down.

  The phone rang from the carpet interrupting whatever bloody awful thing was happening to me. I pulled on my tie, trying to get more air, as I got up and stared down at the phone.

  Dean calling.

  Yes.

  Distraction.

  I scrambled for the phone. “What?”

  “Uh, I got in.”

  “And?” I panted.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. What the fuck did you find?”

  “No need to snap, dude. Anyway, I… uh… well… I um… I think you better see this shit for yourself.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  As I waited for Xavier to have my car brought around to the front of the club, I googled Elite, the online society magazine. "Jesus Christ," I muttered. The tightness in my chest returned when I saw the photo of me with Evangeline Pierce at Menton and the insinuation that I'd cheated on Scarlett. Did Scarlett believe that?

  Fuck.

  As I stared morosely at the article, an email pinged. Well timed, it was from Evangeline.

  I'd met with her because she was on the waitlist for membership at the club and now that Bryce was no longer a member the spot was open. She was a rising star and would only cement the club's reputation for exclusivity to the rich and famous. I wanted her membership. She wanted to have dinner to discuss it, so we did.

  I kept it all business-like, and she flirted a bit.

  As long as I got her membership fee, I didn't give a fuck.

  But Scarlett would give a fuck.

  I rubbed at the dull throb in my temples and clicked on Evangeline’s email.

  From: Evangeline Pierce

  To: Griffin Mandeville

  Subject: Elite

  Griffin, I'm not sure if you're aware of the article on Elite website, but I wanted to assure you I had nothing to do with it. In fact, my people are asking Elite for a retraction. The last thing I need is a reputation as a homewrecker, especially an unfounded one. I hope your wife isn't too upset by the insinuation. The retraction will be posted online tomorrow, but they may call you today for a quote. I assume all they'll get is silence, but I thought I'd give you a head's up. I'm still excited about my membership and hope this doesn't affect it.

  I look forward to seeing you around the club.

  Evangeline x

  I frowned at the sign-off and decided to email my response after I'd visited with Dean.

  Minutes later I found myself in my Aston Martin, but instead of heading straight for Dean I found myself compelled to take an alternative route. One that took me right down East 2nd Street. It was moronic. It was masochistic. Yet I couldn’t seem to goddamn help myself.

  I slowed down as I passed the blue townhouse I knew Scarlett was living in. Bending my head, I gazed out the passenger window up at the top floor, wishing for a second I could get a glimpse of her. Just a look.

  A flicker of movement caught my attention, and I looked at the bay window. An elderly woman peered out at me.

  “Fuck,” I muttered and pulled away quickly.

  The last thing I wanted was Scarlett thinking I was stalking her for Christ sake. It was best for her that she thought I’d moved on.

  “She has nightmares. About being raped. I imagine those are only worsened by the fact that she wakes up from them alone.”

  I flinched, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. I hated the idea that she felt alone. I hated it so fucking much I wanted to whirl around and launch myself inside that house, find her and never let her go again.

  But in the end, that was what was best for me and not what was best for Scarlett.

 
As if I conjured her I suddenly caught sight of copper-red hair.

  I slowed.

  It was her.

  It was Scarlett.

  The cliché seemed so true of a sudden as I watched my wife stroll out of a convenience store with a plastic shopping bag in hand. The sight of her really was like water to a thirsty man.

  That constant gnawing ache in my chest widened until it was a gaping black fucking hole of longing as my wife passed by without looking up. Her cheekbones were more prominent, and her coat was belted extra tightly because it hung loosely on her frame.

  She’d lost weight.

  I had to stop myself from launching out of the car to give her an earful for not taking care of herself.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Because if I did I’d take her face in my hands and I’d kiss her until we both could breathe again.

  A horn sounded behind me, and I cursed, glancing in the rear mirror. I'd created a traffic jam. I looked over my shoulder, but the noise hadn't startled Scarlett. She just continued moving, head down, face blank.

  I could feel her emptiness from here.

  My chest tightened again, my throat closing with emotion, and I let out a garbled huff as I put my foot to the accelerator and peeled out of there.

  This obsession with Scarlett had to end.

  Now.

  ◆◆◆

  “What the hell am I looking at?” My gut churned.

  Could I really have been this blind?

  Dean winced in sympathy. “Looks like he’s pretty obsessed with you, dude.”

  I looked from him to the laptop again and slumped back in the worn armchair in Dean’s apartment. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I took a minute, trying to make sense of everything Dean had found on Pete’s laptop.

  I couldn't decide what was more worrying: the blackmail folder containing information on several of the Patrician's members or the folder on me. There were notes on my life, on the women I'd dated, the business deals I'd made. Thankfully there was nothing on the inheritance issue with my father, so he had no idea I'd married Scarlett to get my mother's estate. More concerning, however, were the photographs. Thousands of pictures taken over the years. Most were just of me. But there were a few of me with women. The most recent of which was a photo of Scarlett kissing my neck outside the door to my club office. I stared at it in anguish, momentarily forgetting the bastard had been spying on me. My eyes were closed, one hand bunched in Scarlett’s thick, soft hair while the other was sliding under her skirt.

  I could almost feel her hair and skin beneath my hands. Smell her perfume. Taste her mouth.

  “This guy is a stalker.”

  I broke from memories of my wife and anguish turned to acid. Pete Svenson was clearly unwell. I didn't know if his obsession with me was sexual, infatuation, or if he just wanted my life. What I did know was that whatever it was had become harmful. Not to mention I now had to find out if the club member's he'd blackmailed had been blackmailed to join the club. I'd have to sift through the folder, but if any of the evidence pertained to serious crimes, I'd need to turn it over to the authorities. Anything else would be burned, and the members would be assured that the blackmail was over.

  The bastard had put my club in jeopardy.

  My hands fisted as I scrolled through the photos and saw one of me kissing Scarlett in the library. He'd spied on my wife and me. He'd blackmailed Bryce to the point of such desperation McKellan had attempted to rape Scarlett.

  Pete had disappeared. There was no trace of him. But my PI was on it, and soon, the police would be too. I was handing over all this shit to them so they could deal with the little prick. I was going to ruin him for fucking with me and what was mine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Scarlett

  November

  There was something familiar and soothing about the scent of books. The smell of books in a library to be more specific. New books smelled of crisp, fresh pages. Most books in a library were musty with age and life spent moving from the library to a temporary home and back.

  When I returned to Mrs. Donovan's back in October, I never intended to stay. I planned to get the hell out of Boston and as far away from the man who had thrown me away and broken my heart. But after Amelia's visit, Mrs. Donovan had called Angela, my old boss at the South Boston branch of the public library. A member of staff had taken a leave of absence to look after a sick loved one, and Angela said I owed her one. So instead of fleeing the city, I let my guilt sway me. After all, I'd left Angela in the lurch last Spring. The least I could do was temp for her.

  It was a much-needed distraction.

  I'd thought I'd be gone by now, but Angela still needed me. And honestly, there was a masochistic part of me that was clinging to the city and the torturous memories it held. Not that I ventured very far from the library or my room at Mrs. Donovan's. I stuck to both places, the library in particular with its musty books and friendly patrons, a refuge from my heartache.

  I did my best not to think about him.

  However, my best was never good enough.

  It was time, I thought. It was time to leave and move on with my life. I just didn’t know how to broach the subject with Angela.

  With those worries percolating I didn't hear the door to the library open. I didn't hear the soft thud of footsteps approaching me, and it took a few seconds for the rose notes of a familiar perfume to hit me.

  I tensed.

  I'd know that perfume anywhere. It was Miss Dior, and there was only one person I knew who'd worn that signature perfume for years.

  Turning my head from the shelf I was reorganizing, my heart sputtered into a race at the sight of my twin standing before me.

  Mel glowered at me.

  I didn’t know what was more shocking: her appearance or her appearance. Gone was the heavy make-up, replaced by a softer, toned down application of pinks and earth tones that made her aquamarine eyes brighter. She wore her hair how I’d worn it married to Griff, long, down and in soft waves. Her Ted Baker trench coat was the black version of my purple-blue one. I could see skinny jeans tucked into knee-high black wedged boots. She accessorized with a dark green snood and dark green leather Tory Burch shoulder bag.

  We’d never looked more alike.

  My hackles raised. “What are you doing here? And dressed like that? Is this a new game?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No, this is how I dress now.”

  I scoffed, “It’s awfully familiar.”

  “Since when do you wear jeans?” she crossed her arms over her chest.

  Okay, so never. Still. "You've done your make up like mine."

  Mel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and huffed. “Tavius doesn’t like it if it looks like I’m wearing a lot of make-up.”

  Rage churned in my gut, and I took a step toward her. “Oh, and of course, you do everything Octavius tells you to do. Even if it means betraying me."

  She looked away, apparently unable to meet my gaze. “I’m not here to fight.”

  "Then why are you here? Because last time we spoke, I thought I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with you." I glanced around to make sure we weren't drawing unwanted attention, but the library was empty of patrons on this side of the building.

  “And I was going to give you that play.” She stepped into my space and lowered her voice. “But you’re in danger, Scar.”

  What was this? More lies? “Oh yeah? What is it this time? You screw over an imaginary client, and his imaginary goons are after you and thus me.”

  Her eyes widened. “Okay, that is eerily close to the truth.”

  I gave a huff of bitter laughter. “Oh my God. There is literally no low you won’t stoop to get attention. Did Octavius break up with you or something and you think you can get money out of me? Because I don’t know if you noticed,” I gestured around the room, “But I’m no longer fucking a millionaire. That money well dried up.”

  Mel’s nostrils flared. “Shit, Scar, you don’t so
und like yourself.”

  “Funny that.” I shot her a hateful look and grabbed my cart with books and started walking away. “You can leave now.”

  "No." She darted around me and put her hands on the cart to stop me. "The fact that you're not with that bastard Mandeville is why I'm here. If you were still with him, I'd know he'd keep you safe…but you're alone. And now you're a target."

  The agony, the resentment I felt toward her was threatening to break through my cold façade. “Last warning, Mel. Get out and leave me alone.”

  “Not before you listen to me.”

  “Scarlett, we got a problem?”

  I sagged with relief as my boss, Angela, came around the corner of the stacks. She stumbled at the sight of Mel, and I remembered I still hadn't told her about the existence of a twin sister.

  “There are… holy…” she gaped.

  Mel smirked. “Two of us. Yeah. I’m Scar’s sister, Mel.”

  “And she was just leaving.”

  “Not before you talk to me.”

  “I’m going to give you to the count of ten to get the hell out of here before I call the cops,” I said, my voice carefully flat.

  My sister stared at me in disbelief. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “There are a lot of things I’d do now that I wouldn’t have done before.”

  “Shit, Scar—”

  “I think your sister asked you to leave.” Angela marched up to Mel. “I won’t give you to the count of ten to get out before I call the cops. I’ll give you to the count of five to get your ass out of here before I whoop it good.”

  Mel sneered and looked at me. “Scar—”

  “One.” Angela stuck a finger aggressively in Mel’s face. “Two.”

  “Fine.” My twin shook her head at me. “This isn’t over. Goddamn pain in my ass!”

  I watched her stomp out of sight and heard the library door shut behind her a few seconds later.

  Angela turned to me. “You have a twin sister?”

  “No.” I shoved the pain back down to the cold depths of my soul. “She’s dead to me.”