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 past the indoor pool and up the staircase to Scarlet’s floor.
Nerves played havoc with his equilibrium. The thought caught him by surprise, keeping him from ringing her bell immediately. Maybe he should’ve worn a suit, shown her—and himself—that he meant business. Instead he’d pulled on a sweater, khakis and loafers, as casual as he owned. At the last minute he’d slapped on some aftershave, something with a citrus base that reminded him of Scarlet’s perfume, which had lingered on his skin for days, it seemed, showers not ridding his memory of the fragrance. He’d gotten hard every night in bed just thinking about it, about her, about the way she’d admired and touched him, about the way she kissed, and moved, and—
Hell, things were stirring now.
He rang the bell, needing to get the conversation over with so that he could move on with his life. After a few seconds, a shadow darkened the peephole, then came a few long, dragged-out seconds of anticipation. Maybe she wouldn’t even open the door, or acknowledge she was home ….
The doorknob turned; the door opened slowly.
The living room lights were off. Behind her the open door to her bedroom spilled enough light to cast her in silhouette. He saw only her outline, her hair around her shoulders, a floor-length robe. Her perfume reached his nose, drifted through him, arousing him the rest of the way.
“John?”
How he’d ever confused her voice with her sister’s the other time was beyond him. Scarlet’s was silky, sultry … sexy.
“Are you alone, Scarlet?”
“Yes.” She gestured toward the living room. “Come in.”
He looked around, as if seeing it for the first time. He’d been there often with Summer, yet everything seemed different. He saw Scarlet’s modern influence now instead of Summer’s more homey leanings, the eclectic mix of antiques and minimalist furnishings effective and dramatic.
“Have a seat,” she said, indicating the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the street. She pulled her robe around her a little more, tightened the sash, switched on a lamp, then sat at the opposite end of the couch.
Her breasts were unrestrained; her nipples jutted against the fabric. He could hardly keep his eyes off her. He knew she was waiting for him to start the conversation, to let her know why he’d come. He wasn’t sure of his reasons anymore.
“How have you been?” he asked finally, starting slowly, gauging her reaction to him being there without an invitation.
“Fine. And you?”
“Okay.” Inane. Say something important, something honest.
She smoothed the fabric along her thighs. He wanted to do that, too, then lay his head in her lap.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“L.A. My partners and I are expanding the markets for some new clients, growing the firm. It seemed like a good time to go.”
“So your decision was because of business, not because of—”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Would she have said “Summer” or herself?
She angled toward him a little, which created a gap in the robe, allowing him a glimpse of the upper swell of her lush breast. He really needed to stop fixating on her body.
“Business,” he said. Which was not entirely true. He’d manufactured some business that needed one of the partners’ attention, then had volunteered to go. His ad agency was already hugely successful, but there was always room to expand.
“I see.”
A long silence followed.
“Why are you here, John?”
He finally remembered the reason. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with … what happened. I don’t want things to be awkward between us, since we’re bound to run into each other now and then.”
“I think picturing you naked