The Elliotts: Secret Affairs: The Forbidden Twin

Four

John picked up his office telephone the next day, started to punch in a number, then stopped. His first homework assignment was to ask Scarlet for a date in the way he usually asked a woman out. He had to think about it. When he was seeing Summer they’d talked every day and decided together what they would do. He’d never wooed her, since they’d just sort of fallen into the relationship gradually. It had been a long time since he’d asked out a woman.

He ran a hand down his face, then dialed Scarlet’s work number, feeling like a novice at this dating game instead of a twenty-nine-year-old veteran.

“Scarlet Elliott,” she answered, all businesslike.

Which turned him on. He pictured her as she was last night, leaning against her headboard, her hair tangled, face flushed, the sheet tucked over her chest but drifting bit by bit while they talked, until he’d tugged it away and gathered her close.

“Hel-lo?” she singsonged.

He ignored his body’s stirrings. “Good morning.”

A pause, then, “Who’s calling?”

“The man who heated up your sheets last night.”

“Stop that,” she said in almost a whisper. “You’re supposed to have just met me and are asking for a date.”

Role-playing? He considered that for a moment. It might be fun—for a day or so. “Not my fault. My mentor didn’t give me a syllabus for my first Woo U class.”

He heard her laugh briefly.

“Start over.” She hung up before he had a chance to say a word.

John sat back in surprise then began to laugh. He redialed.

“Scarlet Elliott.”

“Good morning, Ms. Elliott. This is John Harlan of Suskind, Engle and Harlan. We met at the Charisma open house over the holidays.”

She sighed. “If you have to add the name of your firm, you didn’t make much of an impression in the first place. Start over.” She hung up.

He was tempted not to call her back, but after a minute, he did.

“Scarlet Elliott.”

“Good morning, Ms. Elliott. This is John Harlan. We met at the Charisma open house over the holidays.”

“I remember. You defended the existence of Santa Claus quite well.”

He smiled. “Someone told me your name was Virginia.”

“Friend or foe?” she asked.

“Someone who wanted me to embarrass myself, apparently, by calling you by the wrong name.”

“You didn’t. Embarrass yourself.”

Was there double meaning in her remark? “That’s good to hear.” He was aware she wasn’t calling him by name, probably so that no one could overhear her. “I’d like to get to know you better. I was wondering if you would have dinner with me.”

“When?”

“Saturday night.” This was too easy. How long could he draw out the lessons? He’d have to play dumb just to drag it out.

A long pause ensued. “This is Friday,” she said coolly.

“Would you rather go out tonight?”

Dead silence.

He brushed a speck of dust from his slacks. Something told him he’d just messed up his first assignment, big-time. “Scarlet?”

“You don’t think it’s a little insulting to ask me out the day before? You don’t think I would have other plans already?”

“We only started this class today,” he countered. “If we’d started on Monday, I would’ve asked you then.” Although he’d would’ve asked her for Tuesday, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

“Yes, I do.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Should he ask her for the following Saturday?

“Start over,” she said, then hung up.

He decided to make her wait. When he finally redialed fifteen minutes later, he got her voice mail.

“Ms. Elliott,” he said, starting from the beginning. “This is John Harlan. We met at the Charisma open house over the holidays. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me a week from Saturday. Here’s my private line.” He recited his phone number. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

He’d barely hung up when his private line rang.

“It’s a good thing I came into your life,” Scarlet said. “Has that method worked in the past?” She said method as if it were something that stank.

“What method?”

“Leave a message for a woman asking her on a first date?”

She sounded either shocked or disgusted.

“I asked for more than a week from now.”

“You asked her answering machine.”

He massaged the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Which is apparently the wrong thing to do. I’ll start over,” he said, hanging up before she could. Normally he would’ve been frustrated by that kind of game by now, but he found it stimulating. She challenged him. The trick would be to challenge her in return.

He lifted the receiver, then hesitated. She would be expecting him to call back.

“Not this time, Ms. Elliott,” he said as he flipped through his Rolodex. He wanted an A on his first homework assignment.

She’d gotten him thinking outside his normal box. He wanted her to see what he’d already learned.

* * *

“Somebody likes you,” a woman said as she rounded Scarlet’s cubicle.

She smelled the flowers before she even looked up from her computer and spotted the bouquet, not something neat and tidy like a dozen roses, but an exotic bundle of baby orchids in a variety of deep colors. Her heart did a little dance at the sight. She hadn’t been sent flowers in a long, long time. Even so, she resisted the temptation to bury her face in the blossoms as the vase was set down in front of her by Jessie Clayton, the vivacious twenty-three-year-old intern assigned to work with her.

“Shall I read the card?” Jessie asked, green eyes sparkling behind trendy glasses as she snagged the tiny envelope and held it over Scarlet’s head.

“I write your performance reviews.”

Jessie laughed and handed Scarlet the card. “I don’t suppose you’re going to read it out loud.”

“Good guess.”

Alone, Scarlet held the envelope to her lips for several seconds before opening it. Inside was a phone number. No flowery sentiment. No invitation to dinner. Just a phone number.

She smiled, slowly. Score one for John.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

“John Harlan.”

She heard expectation in his voice, maybe because he was trying to cover it. “Nice move.”

“Who’s calling?”

She grinned. “Let me start over.” She hung up and redialed. After he answered, she said, “The flowers are exquisite. Thank you.”

“So you remember me?”

She slipped into the role. “Of course. We met at the Charisma open house over the holidays.”

“You were wearing a green dress the color of your eyes,” he said.

Her breath caught, even though they were talking about an imaginary occasion. He made it sound real, as if he’d seen and admired her in that dress. “You were wearing a suit and tie,” she countered.

“Lucky guess. I hope you’re wondering why I sent the flowers.”

“I’m curious, yes.”

“I’d like to get to know you. Would you have dinner with me? Maybe a week from Saturday?”

“I’d love to.”

“May I pick you up, say, at eight o’clock?”

“That would be perfect.”

“I’ll call you during the week to reconfirm.”

“Okay.”

He said goodbye and hung up, and she was left wondering if he meant they wouldn’t talk to each other or see each other until he picked her up. Was that how far the role-playing would go? Or would they have a separate life, continuing what they’d started?

For now she would let him lead the relationship. She would go to The Tides for the weekend to visit Gram and Granddad, as planned; attend the Spring Fling at the country club; and make herself unavailable to John, letting absence do its work.

Which was crazy, since nothing long-term could come of this relationship, anyway. But for the month that Summer would be out of town, Scarlet would indulge herself with the man who should be most forbidden to her and make herself a memory.

Five

Since the tragic day when Scarlet and Summer were orphaned, Scarlet had never spent an entire weekend at The Tides without her sister. It was strange now to be in her own bedroom and know that Summer wasn’t just a few feet away in hers, or sharing a room as they got ready for a special occasion. The tomblike quiet was eerie.

Scarlet took a final look in the mirror and gave herself the okay sign, something Summer would’ve done. Once upon a time, Gram would have come in to share in the fun, too, but her arthritis prevented her from climbing the stairs easily anymore. She and Granddad had moved downstairs. Why they hadn’t installed an elevator was a mystery to Scarlet.

Her heels tapped softly as she descended the long marble staircase to the first floor. She looked forward to the evening, even though she was dateless. She would know many of the guests, however, and would surely be asked to dance.

She was glad she hadn’t told John where she was going. He might have decided to show up, and she wasn’t sure she could pretend not to notice him.

Scarlet headed toward the back of the house to the living room, beyond which was her grandparents’ suite. As Scarlet neared, her grandmother came out her bedroom door, carrying herself with the grace of a queen, a far cry from the seamstress she’d been when Patrick had first met her in Ireland and swept her off her feet, bringing her to his home in America. Her face barely showed age or tragedy, even at seventy-five and having suffered the loss of several children through miscarriage or death.

“Aren’t you enchanting, colleen,” she said as Scarlet hugged her. “And dressed to stop lungs from pulling in air, I’m thinking. Your own creation?”

“Brand-new.” Scarlet did a quick pirouette, showing off the snug violet-and-fuchsia sheath with the flounce that would swirl just above her knees when she danced. Three-inch heels brought her to six feet in height. She loved the additional height, which gave her a sense of power. “You’re looking beautiful yourself, Gram.”

Maeve wore a simple lavender beaded gown on her petite frame. Her makeup was applied deftly, a few freckles visible on her gorgeous Irish skin. She’d worn her white-and-auburn hair in an elegant updo for as long as Scarlet could remember, and it was no different now. As usual, too, a gold locket hung around her neck, rumored to hold a picture of her daughter Anna, her secondborn, who had died of cancer when she was seven. Scarlet wondered if the locket also contained a picture of her thirdborn, Stephen, Scarlet and Summer’s father.

“Looking to turn a few heads, are you?” Patrick Elliott boomed from behind them.

In her heels Scarlet met her grandfather eye to eye, yet another reason she liked wearing them.

At seventy-seven Patrick was still a sight to behold. His fit body, thick gray hair and blue eyes continued to draw glances from women thirty years younger. “I’m hoping to, yes,” Scarlet said.

“I was talking to your grandmother, missy.” He tempered the comment with a slight smile at Scarlet, which turned tender when he looked at his wife and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely, cushla macree.”

Pulse of my heart. Scarlet had heard him call her grandmother that forever, had always found it hard to believe that this adoring husband was the same dictator who’d raised her and Summer. And as a businessman, he was ruthless—even, or more accurately especially, with his children, who ran four of his various enterprises.

“Are you taking your own car?” Patrick asked Scarlet. “I’m sure you’ll want to stay longer than your grandmother and I.”

“I’ll ride with you. If I’m not ready to come home when you are, I’ll get someone to drop me off.”

“We’ll send Frederick back for you,” Gram said.

“Thanks, but it won’t be necessary.” Scarlet recognized she was being stubborn out of habit. Her grandparents’ driver would be happy to make a second trip to pick her up. Still, she found it hard to alter the long-established adversarial relationship with her grandfather. “I’ll make my own way.”

“Make sure your escort hasn’t been drinking.” He put his hand under Maeve’s arm as they moved toward the door.

Scarlet brought up the rear, irritated that her grandfather assumed a man would bring her home. “I’ll make him take a Breathalyzer.”

Maeve chuckled, which stopped Patrick from countering with something equally sarcastic. “So alike, you two,” Maeve said.

“Alike? Us?” Scarlet wasn’t as stunned as she pretended.

“Yes, colleen. But enough of this. It’s a night to celebrate the arrival of spring. New beginnings. Let’s have no more battles of wit, no matter how clever the words.”

“Fine by me,” Scarlet said.

Patrick said nothing, which was answer enough. He would do whatever Maeve asked of him.

Scarlet stopped short of heaving a sigh. She and Granddad had butted heads forever, with Gram and Summer interceding when possible. Her grandfather had never liked any of her boyfriends, even during her first tender explorations into the dating world, and so she had begun to bring home guys she was sure he would despise—men without much motivation or ambition, men whose main interest in life was having fun, not working. Nothing turned off Patrick Elliott more than a man without a solid work ethic, especially since he had built his own empire from nothing.

Scarlet was tired of the game, though, and tired of being at odds with her grandfather, especially now. He must be feeling less invincible these days or else he wouldn’t have given his children the challenge that the next CEO of Elliott Publication Holdings would be the person who produced for their magazine the biggest individual financial success by year’s end. His surprise announcement at a New Year’s party that he would be retiring, and the game he’d begun by pitting the Elliott children against each other, had turned all their lives upside down—a typical Patrick Elliott move.

During the twenty-minute limo ride to the country club, the conversation turned to safe topics, setting a new, peaceful tone for the evening. The club ballroom was decorated for the Spring Fling as it always was, with spring-flower arrangements and tiny white lights everywhere, nothing overly original or creative. A sumptuous buffet would be laid out, bars set up in convenient places, with dancing to come later, a twenty-piece band providing music. Scarlet loved its predictability.

“You look like an exotic bloom,” Gram said as they waved and nodded to friends and acquaintances. “Your talent for design is staggering.”

“I learned from the best.” Scarlet put an arm around her grandmother, remembering fondly the hours and hours they’d spent sewing.

“That’s a fine compliment, indeed, but I never had the vision, just the practical skill. I always expected you’d go into that field instead of the magazine, especially with your degree in design.” Her sideways glance probed.

“I’ve got time. And the magazine’s a useful place to learn more,” Scarlet said evasively, wondering if Granddad had overheard. He didn’t indicate outwardly that he had; in fact, he seemed focused on something across the room. She followed his gaze, spying the couple she’d most wanted to avoid.

She leaned closer to her grandmother. “Bill and Greta Harlan are here. Have you seen them since Summer called off the engagement?”

“I called Greta. As you know, we weren’t great friends before John and Summer decided to marry. If you’re wondering whether everyone will be civil, the answer is yes. Especially here. Now then, be off and enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll join you for supper later.”

“You’re not to feel obligated. Have fun, colleen. I don’t think you’re having enough fun these days.”

“I miss Summer.”

“And you’re a mite envious, perhaps?”

“Not at all.” Scarlet waited for lightning to strike her at the lie, but the world stayed normal. She did envy that Summer could be public with her relationship—and with a man she could count on and keep, whereas Scarlet was setting herself up for heartbreak, one she could never talk about or get sympathy for when it ended. But she wasn’t jealous of her sister’s happiness.

Scarlet wandered around the festive room, stopping to talk, admiring baby pictures thrust in her face from old friends settling down. She’d attended a record number of weddings in the past few years.

Gram was right. She wasn’t having enough fun. Maybe it was because Summer wasn’t there, and she was Scarlet’s best friend. Maybe because Scarlet lived in Manhattan most of the time, and the country club now seemed too laid-back and … rigid, even though that seemed contradictory. Rules, rules, rules. She’d grown up with them, ignored them, gotten into trouble when she did. There were fewer rules in the city, more action, more options.

After dinner the dancing began. She watched her grandparents take the floor for the first slow dance, their steps perfectly matched after so many years of dancing together. Scarlet smiled as she watched them—until she spotted John walking onto the dance floor.

The lightning she’d expected before struck her, although for entirely different reasons. Everything inside her came feverishly to life. He was the best-looking man in the room. And she’d made love with him. And he’d wanted her, bad.

Okay, so she was glad he’d shown up. Admitting she had a problem was half the battle, she thought, being honest with herself. Then she saw a petite blonde step into his arms. Who was she? They waltzed together like long-time partners, their steps perfectly attuned, his hand resting at the small of her back, his gaze on her. He said something and the blonde laughed. Scarlet hated her.

The music went upbeat, and her grandparents left the dance floor, but John and his partner didn’t. Scarlet tapped her toe. Was he trying to make her jealous?

“Hey, Scarlet.”

She focused on the man who’d approached invisibly through her green haze. “Mitch, hi. Long time.”

Mitchell Devereaux was as handsome as he was shallow, which was a lot.

“Yeah. Wanna dance?”

She certainly didn’t want to sit on the sidelines, watching. She would ignore John and have fun, as Gram had ordered.

Scarlet didn’t leave the dance floor after that, changing partners with each new song, dancing her heart out and keeping a casual eye on John, who also didn’t sit out a dance until the music slowed again, although he finally changed partners. Over her own dancing partner’s shoulder she watched John stroll away, get a drink from the bar then prop a shoulder against a pillar and scan the dance floor, stopping on her, catching her looking at him.

He lifted his glass slightly, his gaze intense. She could hardly believe she knew what he looked like naked, what his skin felt like, tasted like. How he kissed as if he were being sent to war, and how he made love as if she were the only woman on earth.

The song ended. She made an excuse to leave the dance floor and headed toward him, pulled by a force stronger than her own willpower. Discreetly she pointed to a side door. He pushed away from the pillar and headed there. She followed at a distance, but as she passed through the door she saw her grandfather, apparently already on the patio, approach him.

Almost caught, Scarlet darted behind a pillar topped by a plant large enough to hide her.

“I never expected it from you, John,” Patrick said.

“Expected what?”

“Retaliation.”

“It’s business, Patrick. Nothing more.”

Scarlet wished she could see them, analyze their body language. All she could do was listen. Granddad’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and lethal. John seemed unaffected.

“Gills and Marsh have bought ad space in Charisma since the magazine debuted,” Patrick said. “Crystal Crème soda has been with The Buzz for five years.”

“A lot of my clients have decided to experiment with other forms of advertising, to see what gets them the most bang for their buck. Product placement in movies and on television guarantees a bigger, wider audience, not only in initial viewing but in DVDs and reruns.”

“With the target demographics?”

“We’re choosing each situation carefully.”

The sound of crickets filled a long silence.

“You must be angry with my granddaughter,” Patrick finally said.

“I’m over it.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Scarlet leaned closer, as her grandfather’s voice had gone low and cool.

“What makes you say that?” John asked.

“The way you were watching Scarlet a few minutes ago …. That wasn’t the expression of someone who was ‘over it.’”

“You’re wrong. But even if I hadn’t stopped caring about Summer, I wouldn’t take it out on my clients—or Scarlet. Or you.”

Another silence ensued. John didn’t take the bait. Scarlet was grateful her grandfather hadn’t realized John’s expression was one of lust, not anger.

“Don’t know what got into that girl,” Patrick said at last. “She always had such a good head on her shoulders. Now she’s run off with that … that singer. Left her job.”

Exasperation coated the words. John still said nothing.

“I’m going to keep a close eye on all your accounts, John. Might have to do a little wooing of my own.”

Scarlet smiled at the word and figured John had, too.

“They pay me for sound advice,” John said.

“We’ll see how sound it is.”

“It’s a new day in advertising, Patrick. Time for changes.”

“Maybe.” He took a couple of steps then stopped.

Scarlet had to duck a little.

“I should’ve called you and apologized,” Patrick said. “Thought about it. Just didn’t do it.”

“No need to, but thanks. It was between Summer and me.”

“So it was. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Scarlet eased farther around the pillar so her grandfather wouldn’t see her as he passed by.

“You can come out,” John said after a few seconds. “He’s inside.”

She moseyed over. “That was close.”

“I’m surprised you risked being seen with me in the first place, Scarlet.”

“That wouldn’t be a scandal, just a reason for people to talk a little. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Not particularly.”

“You could’ve asked me to dance, you know.”

He straightened. “You had a partner for every dance. I shouldn’t cut in, should I?”

“Maybe.”

His gaze intensified. “Consider this tonight’s Woo U lesson. Yes or no?”

“Each situation has to be judged individually.”

“I judged. I chose not to.”

“Okay.” Because he was right and there was nothing more to say, she changed the subject, twining her fingers so that she wouldn’t touch him, though she really wanted to. “Was it strictly business, John? What my grandfather asked you about?”

“Yes.”

“You would’ve done the same thing, switched the business, if you and Summer were still engaged?”

He hesitated no longer than a breath, and his gaze never wavered. “Yes.”

She wondered if he’d paused because he had to justify his answer to himself first.

“Wanna blow this joint?” he asked, surprising her.

“More than I can tell you. But impossible, as you know, at least together. I’d better go.” She started to turn.

“Scarlet?”

His husky voice would’ve stopped her, no matter what he said next. “What?”

“I was jealous of every guy you danced with tonight, every guy who touched you and got to be so close to you.”

Desire flooded her body … rushing … pounding … pulsating. His gaze drifted down her. Her nipples drew taut. She wasn’t used to having a man want her so passionately, so … violently. It fascinated her, both that he wanted her that much and that she liked his Neanderthal reaction. She’d never tolerated jealousy before, but the flare of heat low in her body told her his jealousy meant something.