A Collateral Attraction (4 page)

“You know what, Blythe, I am done talking with you,” I say.  And for the first time in my life, I hang up first.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but this card’s been declined,” says the woman on the other end of the line. “It’s been reported stolen.”

“Excuse me?” I sputter, Blythe’s Gold card clattering on the kitchen counter. “How can it be stolen? I just used it last night!”

“I’m sorry, miss. I’m only telling you what the screen tells me,” she says. “Do you have another card we can charge the flight to Sacramento to?”

The only credit card I brought with me was in the other clutch, the one that Blythe is now carrying along with my driver’s license and passport. “How long can you hold the reservation?”

“I can’t hold it without a credit card, miss,” she says and I thank her and hang up.

What was I thinking, believing that I could actually reserve a flight bound for Sacramento in Blythe’s name since I have her driver’s license — and use her Gold Card to charge for the flight that same day?  Clearly I’m thinking rationally at all, not when I’m still seething from my phone conversation with Blythe hours earlier.

I want to dial Ethan’s number and say some not-so-nice words to Blythe about her allegedly stolen card, but then what would that achieve? Reporting the card stolen is a message sent loud and clear that I don’t matter to her, just like her telling Ethan that she was talking to no one on the phone.

But how does Blythe expect me to return home? With no money and no driver’s license to prove that I am Billie Delphine and not Blythe Delphine, how does she expect me to get on that plane two weeks from now, much less move my flight to today? It’s the only reason I’m making flight reservations with her name, and using her Gold Card for payment. Yet, even that is impossible now.

I call my shop, Thyme and Lavender, and listen to my own voice stating our store hours and asking the caller to leave a message. But realizing that it’s barely seven in the morning, Pacific-time, I don’t leave any message. I don’t want Mick and Norah, my two part-time employees now running the store full-time while I’m gone, to worry about me the moment they’ll hear my message. I figure I’ll call them when the shop opens at ten, and ask them to wire me money — in Blythe’s name — so I can pay for my airline ticket back home.

Yet while things look bleak, I tell myself that it’s not all bad. After all, since waking up to Blythe’s phone call, I got to watch the gorgeous Manhattan at dawn, and it’s an amazing sight.

After setting the coffee maker on brew, I figure I might as well prepare for my flight home as soon as Mick can wire me some money. I take a shower, taking the time to enjoy the many shower heads that spray water on me with each press of the button, coming at me from above and from the sides. I’d  heard of such shower fixtures, but never really tried them till coming to New York, and I have a feeling that I’m actually going to miss them.

As if to distract myself from my current predicament more than I already am with the various shower nozzles, I amuse myself with the little things — like just how devoid I am of hair everywhere else but my head.  I find myself giggling as I remember the waxing session two days earlier that left my skin feeling as smooth as a baby’s butt, though the experience being nothing to write home about. But I’m definitely more sensitive, and for a few moments, I dare to enjoy the feel of my fingers against bare skin, even slipping them between my thighs, the sensations leaving me gasping for breath.

Maybe this is why the waxing specialist claimed that most women kept up the practice. It does heighten the sensations — so much more than I’ve ever felt before that I’m leaning against the wall with one hand as I catch my breath, letting my release wash over me, the warm water a balm to my already stressful morning.  It doesn’t help that it’s been forever since I’ve been with a man and the realization embarrasses me.  Have I really allowed Blythe’s betrayal with Andrew kill my sex life, too?

By the time I emerge from the shower, I’m feeling quite relaxed as I make my way towards the guest bedroom with just a thick towel wrapped around my torso.  With the only choice of clothing being something of Blythe’s, I make my way towards the master bedroom, and walk past the office.

“Good morning.”

I almost jump a foot from the floor.  Even my shriek doesn’t make it out of my lips, though I don’t need to turn around to see who just scared the crap out of me.  His deep voice is unmistakable.  Slowly, turn to face him, my face burning with embarrassment.

Just how long has Heath been in the penthouse?

“Did you enjoy your shower?” he asks, smiling knowingly as I force myself to look up at him. Leaning against the office desk, he’s wearing a black t-shirt over a pair of jeans, his long legs crossed at the ankles.  I clutch the ends of my towel tightly around me as his gaze moves down my bare legs.

“How dare you think you can just waltz in here like you own the place!” I exclaim angrily. I don’t mean to sound like Blythe, but at that moment, I do.

“Because I do own the place,” he says, “or at least the corporation does.”

It takes me a second to digest his words, and I can feel my throat turn dry.  “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” he replies as my eyes widen, the realization that he must have heard everything earlier making my face turn even redder. “You were enjoying yourself so much I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

I glare at him. “Are you always this crass?”

“What’s so crass about my question?” Heath asks, walking towards me, his hands now inside his pockets. “Ethan really outdid himself when he hand-picked the bathroom fixtures and overall designs with each guest room having different styles, each one ranging between two to three hundred thousand dollars.”

I stare at him. “Did you say
hundred thousand
?”

“I did, yes.  However, the master bedroom has the best bathroom in the building,” he continues, though he pauses, as if for dramatic effect, pinning me with his gaze, “Billie.”

The sound of my name emerging from his lips make my belly tighten. It’s low and deliberate, and I find myself licking my lips though I hate myself for doing it. I’m embarrassed to say that if the mere sound of my name on a man’s lips make my knees go weak, then it really has been a long time since I’ve been with a man.

“How do you know I’m not Blythe?”

“Well, let’s see, Not-Blythe, if you were indeed her, you’d have, a, bitten my head off for startling you — and definitely not blush like you are doing right now.  And b, Blythe would never be caught dead using any of the guest bathrooms, not when her bathroom has way more amazing features. Not my taste personally as I’m more partial to the barest necessities myself.”

“Okay…”

“But Ethan did not spend over a million dollars just to have a simple master bathroom installed,” he continues. “I hear it’s got good-mood lighting, touch-controlled water and temperature controls, and specifically tailored scents to suit every mood. Some architectural magazines have called it an emotional bathroom.”

“Will I need a manual to flush the toilet in this emotional bathroom?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not — unless it’s also programmed to wipe your pretty ass.”

I can’t help but color as he says the last line, his gaze drifting lazily down my legs.  I clear my throat, telling myself that this man hates Blythe with a passion and is really my enemy.

“But how do you really know I’m not Blythe? I could be fooling you right now-“

“Because you’re not,” Heath says, pulling out his phone and tapping on the display. “I may have been completely wrong yesterday, but as of this morning, I know for sure you’re not Blythe.”

“How?”

“Because according to her Instagram, the real Blythe is enjoying a nice breakfast of papaya and orange juice, with a lovely view of the Pitons. And she’s always been known for her captions — though this one seems to be directed to someone in particular,” he says, holding his phone in front of me so I can see the screen.

When someone close to you betrays you, there’s nothing like a little R&R to console you. Wish you were here, Bee, though I’m really glad you’re not.

Her message stings and I fight back the tears, turning away from Heath, so he doesn’t see my reaction.

“I hope she’s enjoying herself,” I say, my throat tightening. I really need to get out of New York as soon as possible, for I know when I’m not wanted. “Anyway, I need to get dressed.”

“A falling-out between sisters?  How unfortunate.”

“No thanks to you!” I say as I spin around to face him, his taunt the last straw. “If you didn’t have your hands all over me yesterday, none of this would have happened.
But no!
You had to drag me into this damn fight between you and your brother over some damn corporation! If this is the kind of life my sister wants, then she can have it. I may not have a million-dollar bathroom back home, but at least people don’t shit on me anytime they want, or use me like some pawn in their sick games for money.”

I start walking towards the master bedroom but Heath grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. “What do you know about this
damn fight over some damn corporation
? What has Ethan told you?”

“I haven’t even met Ethan, and I don’t ever want to.  I just want to go home, and that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I reply, not caring if tears are streaming down my cheeks as I talk. Between the possibility that he really did hear me in the bathroom and Blythe’s passive aggressive message to me, it’s all just a bit too much.

“Oh, and Blythe told me to tell you that, quote,” my voice goes an octave higher, “when you see Heath again, tell him that his days being the president of Kheiron Industries are numbered and as for that thing that he wants returned, he can come and get it himself, end-quote.  There, now let me go.”

Heath lets me go, his face grows distant. He frowns, takes and deep breath and exhales, then dials a number on his phone. He doesn’t even say hello, or introduce himself.

“Tyler, find out who among the board is currently in St. Lucia,” he says, “and let me know as soon as you find out.”

I don’t wait for him to say anything else, I hurry to the master bedroom and slam the door behind me. I need to get dressed, and I need to do it now. No more distractions. I don’t even care if I have to wait at some corner store till Mick or Norah wire me the money, but I will do it. I will be on a plane back home before the day is over.

I’m wiping my tears with the back of my hand when I hear the soft knock on the door. I also see at least three eyelash extensions on my hand, remembering too late that I’m not supposed to rub my eyes or lie face down anywhere because I’d lose the lash extensions quicker. When the knock comes again, I shout.

“What the hell do you want now?”

“Why are you in Blythe’s bedroom if you’re not Blythe?  Are your clothes in there, too?”

“No, it’s because I have nothing to wear,” I reply as I lean my forehead against the door.  How much more difficult should it be just to get out of New York?

“Women always have nothing to wear, so what’s new?”

I fling open the door and face him. “I have nothing to wear.  Like, seriously, alright?  Blythe took away my luggage because it embarrassed her.”

“How could your wardrobe choices possibly embarrass her?”

“Huaraches and patchouli. Put two and two together, Mister Business-Tycoon-Fashion-Plate-whatever,” I mutter as I pick up the phone. “Anyway, the staff should know where my luggage is. I just need their extension so I can get it back and go home.  Do you have it?”

He’s looking at me with a baffled expression. “So you’re just going to leave, just like that?”

“I’m clearly not wanted here.”

“Aren’t you worried about your sister?”

“Why should I? She’s clearly not worried about me if she’s having a nice breakfast of papaya and OJ with a view of the Pistons-”

“Pitons.”

“Pitons, pistons, whatever! I just want to go home,” I exclaim, my arms flailing in exasperation. “What’s the extension?”

But Heath doesn’t tell me the extension.  He just watches me, an amused smile forming on his lips as he studies me.

“What?!” I almost shout at him, all my frustrations from the last 48 hours finally bubbling to the surface.

“You certainly are not Blythe,” he muses. “Blythe’s been in New York so long she’s lost the softness that you still have — an innocence that’s so not New York.“

“Are you making fun of me?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not making fun of you.”

“Then why are you still looking at me like that?”

“Because I can see that you clearly love your sister,” Heath says, as if it’s something that’s a rarity in his life. “Not that she doesn’t love you back, but with you, you wear it on your sleeve. There are no pretenses with you, Not-Blythe, not like some people I know.”

His words completely disarm me now, and realizing that I’m still holding the receiver and return it back on to the bedside table. My shoulders sag forward.

“She’s my only family left,” I say softly,  “and hard as it is to believe, when she’s not distracted by beautiful things, she’s got a good heart.”

“What changed her then — besides all the beautiful things?”

“Our parents…and other things,” I reply, not knowing why I’m telling him this, for he’s cold and calculating.  But just as he’s sensed something different about me, there’s also something different about him — a softness that catches me by surprise.  Heath actually seems compassionate, though I fear that I’m just desperate to find some form of it since arriving in New York.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Blythe hasn’t been home in three years, not since our parents died.  And now that she’s got Ethan and everything he gives her, her Gold Card and this penthouse, what does she need me for?”

“Your help.”

“Why the hell would she need my help? You saw it yourself on her Instagram. She’s having breakfast with full view of the Pitons. Some of us should be so lucky.”

Heath shrugs.  “Well, her luck’s running out, because as of this morning, all company assets under her name have been cancelled.”

“Like her Gold card?”

“And access to this penthouse,” he adds. “And since this is property owned by Kheiron Industries and not Ethan personally, you’re basically trespassing — well, given that you look like Blythe.”