The Forbidden Twin(4)

"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 waddedup 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


A t 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.