self-control. Except for having her coat delivered to her office the next day, without a note, they hadn’t existed for each other.
Except that her body hungered in a way it never had.
“Can we spend the evening together?” Scarlet asked, changing the subject altogether, then noting the hurt in her sister’s eyes. But Scarlet couldn’t confide. Nothing would ever change that. Some secrets would be taken to the grave.
“You’ll help me pack?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know what time I’ll be home. I’m taking the helicopter to The Tides to tell the Grands.”
“I’ll wait up. We’ll have margaritas. You’ll need one.” Scarlet added teasingly, “Better you than me this time.”
Summer grinned. “I know. The shoe’s finally on the other foot. For years you’ve made it your goal to irritate Granddad with your men of choice, and I’ve always tried to get you to stop doing that. The Grands have taken their role as guardians seriously since Mom and Dad died. I guess after fifteen years in that role it’s hard to change. And of course, Granddad still cares about image.”
“He cares too much about image.” And Scarlet thought, they hadn’t really been her “men of choice,” but men she’d chosen specifically to irritate her overbearing grandfather. Men came and went. Very few had been lovers. Most were just friends.
Then there was John. She missed him. How had that happened? But she couldn’t reach out to him—she, who’d never been known for her patience, had controlled her impulse to contact him, made easier by the fact that he’d left town, or so the rumor went. In mourning for losing Summer?
“I need to get going,” Summer said. “I’ll call you when I’m headed home, as long as Granddad lets me take the copter back. If not, it’s a long ride from the Hamptons.”
“I’ll go up the elevator with you,” Scarlet said, not wanting to stay in the booth alone.
They waited at the doors. Scarlet would get off at the seventeenth floor, Summer one higher.
Scarlet swept her into a big hug as the elevator rose with silent speed. “Promise you won’t change.”
“Can’t.”
Scarlet pulled back and brushed her sister’s hair from her face. “Is it wonderful, being in love?”
“Zeke is an amazing man.”
The simple statement, layered with tenderness, almost made Scarlet cry. She wanted that for herself—a partner, an amazing partner. One who cared for her more than anyone, who thought she was amazing. Someone who was hers, and hers alone, as she would be his alone.
“I love you,” Scarlet said as the elevator door opened.
“Me, too, you.”
Scarlet stepped out of the elevator and headed for her cubicle, past the dazzling sign with the company slogan—Charisma, Fashion for the Body. The bright turquoise color scheme and edgy, bold patterns seemed to shout at her. Everything was topsy-turvy. She needed a little peace.
She would find none in her cubicle, which was filled with photos and swatches and drawings—colorful and eye-catching, not soothing. She grabbed her sketch pad and flipped to a blank page. She drew almost without thought—a wedding gown for Summer, with a long veil and train, something fairy-tale princesslike, a fantasy dress, layered with organza, scattered with a few pearls and crystals, but nothing flashy, just enough to catch the light. Elegant, like Summer.
Scarlet turned the page and sketched another wedding dress—strapless, formfitting, no train, no veil, just a few flowers threaded in the bride’s long, light auburn hair—hers.
She stared at it, her pencil poised over the pad, then tore off the page, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash can. Turning to her computer, she opened a work file. She wasn’t the Cinderella type. She would skip the grand ceremony, the stress of the spectacle and have something simple instead, if she ever married. Married was married. It didn’t matter how it happened.
Her phone rang. Her one o’clock appointment had arrived. She stood, hesitated, then pulled the wadded-up design from her trash can. Her hands shaking slightly, she smoothed out the wrinkles and tucked it back into the pad behind Summer’s design.
It was a good design, she thought, something she should redo and put in her portfolio—that was the reason she’d retrieved it. She didn’t throw away good work.
Liar. The word bounced in her head, as much in accusation as relief, but above all, honest, a trait that seemed in short supply these days.
Three
At 9:00 p.m., two days later, John stood in front of the Elliott town house near 90th and Amsterdam. The gray stone building sported stately white trim and a playful red front door. He put his hand on the ivy-covered, black wrought-iron gate meant to keep out passersby. He knew of another entrance, however, a private entrance that would take him to the third, and top, floor—Summer and Scarlet’s living quarters, comprised of a bedroom suite for each and a communal living room.
The home’s owners, Patrick and Maeve Elliott, patriarch and matriarch of the Elliott clan, spent most of their time these days at The Tides, their estate in the Hamptons. Summer and Scarlet were raised there by their grandparents after their parents’ deaths in a plane crash. Now the girls lived mostly in the city, occasionally going home to The Tides on weekends.
John’s family owned an estate neighboring the Elliotts’ in the Hamptons, yet they’d had little contact through the years. John was four years older than the twins. He’d headed to college when they were just entering high school. A couple of years after Summer and Scarlet graduated from college, he’d met them as adults and became an occasional companion to Summer, their relationship escalating from there. No big romance, just an increasing presence and steadily growing relationship.
This last month away from New York had given him perspective. He and Summer had never been suited for each other. They were too much alike, both with their five-year plans, career focuses and even-keeled personalities.
She’d changed, apparently. He’d read in some Hollywood gossip column that she’d accompanied Zeke Woodlow on tour to Europe. Amazing. Who would’ve guessed that such an adventurous spirit lived inside her?
Over and done, he reminded himself. Now he needed to see Scarlet. The month’s separation had allowed him to acknowledge the absurdity of anything happening beyond their one stolen night, but he knew they would run into each other now and then, so they needed to settle things between them.
He hadn’t called her, although many times he’d picked up to the phone to do so. Nor had she called him. And as bold and direct as she was, the fact that she hadn’t made contact spoke volumes. It had been a one-night stand for both of them.
He reached for his cell phone to alert her he was there, then didn’t make the call. He knew he should— it was unlike him not to be courteous. He had no idea if she was even at home, or alone, but he wanted to catch her off guard and see her real reaction to him, not something manufactured while waiting for him to climb the stairs, so he punched in the security code to enter the half-underground four-car garage, slipped inside the door and strode
