A Just Deception (7 page)

At three-fifteen Saturday afternoon Isabelle heard a knock on her front door.
Damn.
Peter was early. She’d just finished slipping into her dress and hadn’t put her shoes or lipstick on. Of course, she’d been late getting home from her hair appointment and spent way too much time worrying about what to wear or she’d have been ready by now.

She’d opted for the black halter dress with a long braid of silk down the middle of her back connecting the top of the dress to the waist. She spun, faced herself in the mirror and adjusted the neckline, which went clear up to her collarbone. No cleavage tonight. Not for meeting Peter’s blue-blooded mother.

He knocked again. Harder this time. Mr. Impatient.

“I’m coming!” She rushed to the door, flung it open and held her arms out to show him the dress.

Kendrick stood in the doorway.

No.

A frigid chill penetrated her limbs and she shoved the door closed, pressing her body against it.

“Leave, Kendrick. I’m expecting someone.”

He pushed on the door, and she put her weight into it. She couldn’t hold him off long. The cordless sat on the entry table not six feet away, but she wouldn’t be able to reach it without letting go of the door.

“Isabelle, please. I’m sorry about the other night.”

“Just leave. We can forget about the other night, but you need to leave me alone.”

“Can I talk to you a minute?”

He leaned into the door from the other side and her bare feet desperately dug into the floor. No chance. Kendrick outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. She could fight him off though. Even in a cocktail dress.

The distinctive growl of an engine sounded. Peter.

A car door slammed and then, seconds later, an
umph.

The opposing weight on the door vanished and, with her weight against it, the door slammed shut, throwing Isabelle off balance.
Whew.
Her blood pressure plummeted.

“Peter?” She closed her eyes and wished it to be so.

“Yeah. You’re good. Open the door.”

She yanked the door open, sent it flying into the wall. Peter stood on the porch, his hands on his tuxedo-clad hips while Kendrick, face battered from the beating she gave him earlier in the week, lay slumped at his feet. With Peter in a tuxedo, it looked like a scene out of a James Bond film. At some other time, the sight would be amusing.

“What’s he doing here?” Peter asked, his voice a little harsh.

But was that anger aimed at Kendrick for showing up or her for being stupid and opening the door without checking it first?

“I don’t know. I thought he was you. He said he needed to talk to me. What’d you do to him?”

“I tapped him. He’ll wake up in a while.”

“Dammit.” She punched her fist into her other palm. “I should have been the one to knock him on his ass.”

Peter shook his head, but laughed. “Sorry, babe. I got there first.”

Which was just too bad.

She stared down at Kendrick in his preppy clothes.
Bastard.
“Why won’t he leave me alone?”

Peter shrugged. “He wants something, and he’s not giving up. Call the cops. Get a restraining order.”

Not something she wanted to deal with, but if she had to she would. She reached for the phone. “I’ll call my uncle. He can come get him. I’m not letting this ruin my night. I’ll call the police later and see what we can do about him.”

She started dialing and turned back to Peter. Sweat from the oppressive heat beaded on his forehead, and his hair fell around his face in a riot of waves. “You look very handsome. Of course, Kendrick had to spoil my first sight of you.”

“Get your uncle on the phone and let’s get out of here. We still have to pick up my grandmother and get over to the church for pictures. My mother is barking orders and driving everyone batshit.”

Look who’s talking.
When Peter was on a mission, nothing got in his way. Even an unconscious man on the porch.

Kendrick groaned.

“My uncle isn’t answering.” She hung up.

Peter nudged Kendrick with his foot and squatted in front of him. “Hey, asshole, you awake?”

Her cousin’s eyes shot open.

“Listen up,” Peter said with brutal control. “This is fairly simple. You come here again, you’re toast. Got it?”

“Yuh,” Kendrick said.

Peter lifted the unwelcome guest over his shoulder. “I’ll get him in his car and he can sleep it off. Get your stuff and let’s get out of here.”

Fucking people.

That was all Peter could think when he pulled in front of Beach Haven, the assisted living facility where his grandmother resided. All he wanted was to have a good time at Steve’s wedding, and his mother was stroking out while Izzy had her asshole cousin stalking her.

He glanced over at Izzy applying bright red lipstick. Nice. She wore little eye makeup and the red lipstick was hotter than melting asphalt. Her hair was different too. Poker straight. A low moan caught in his throat.

“By the way,” he said. “You’re stunning. I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the house.”

“Thanks. I worked on it. How do you like the hair?” She swung her head back and forth and her hair fanned out. “I had my stylist straighten it.”

After throwing the Challenger into park, he leaned over and nuzzled her neck. “I love it.”

Her hand brushed over his hair and he started counting backward from a hundred to get his mind on anything but a hard-on. He pulled away. Far away.

“I’m sorry about Kendrick,” she said. “I won’t let him ruin our evening.”

“No sweat. He’ll be gone by the time you get back.”

“I’m worried about the house.”

“Nah. The worst he can do is some property damage. In which case, the alarm will go off and the cops will be there in minutes.”

He shot a look at the dashboard clock. Three-fifty. He had to get their asses moving.

“Come in with me. I’ll introduce you to Gran.”

They hustled to the lobby door and he pulled it open for her. Hellooo to the back of that dress. Jeez Louise. All that tanned, bare skin showing off her sculpted back and he had to try and keep his hands off her? The dress fell over her lean hips and clung to every tight little curve.
Yow.
He couldn’t think about the four-inch stilettos. The guys called them fuck-me heels and he suddenly understood why.

He made a mental note to add the shoes to his Izzy list. Night after night she’d been invading his dreams and he couldn’t risk forgetting any of what she’d done to him in those dreams so he started keeping a list on his nightstand. His sexual to-do list. Sick, yes, but at least he’d remember everything.

“Izzy.”

She glanced over her shoulder as they went through the lobby door. “Yes?”

“You are smoking in that dress.”

After flashing those green eyes at him, she blew him a kiss. “I’m glad you like it.”

What’s not to like? A grin found its way to his face. He couldn’t help it.

At least until he spotted his grandmother in front of the lobby desk in her bathrobe.

Crying.

A blazing throb began inside his skull. “Gran, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Peter! Thank goodness. Tell them they have to fix my air-conditioning. I can’t even shower in there it’s so hot. The windows don’t open and there’s no air.”

He spun to face the man standing in front of Gran. “Why is my grandmother crying?”

The asshole held up his hands. “Just a problem with her air-conditioning. We’re working on it.”

“For two days,” his grandmother shrieked. “I got no sleep last night.”

His eighty-five-year-old grandmother stayed in a sweltering hot room all night? She’s lucky she didn’t have a heat stroke.

Someone was going to die.

“Hi,” Izzy said, stepping up and holding her hand out to the prick in front of him. “You are?”

The prick eyed Izzy. “Daniel Richards, the manager.”

She flashed a smile and the man-killer eyes. What the hell was she doing? She slid him her business card. Could she possibly be hitting on this overweight, fifty-year-old schmuck in order to get the damned AC fixed?

“I’m Isabelle DeRosa.” She gestured to the card. “Attorney-at-law.”

Ah, yes. Attorney-at-law. Peter wanted to kiss her. Well, he usually wanted to kiss her, but this was extra special.

“I’m sure this is just an oversight,” Izzy said, “but I’m hoping that by the time we return this evening Mr. Jessup’s grandmother will be much more comfortable in her room. Am I correct?”

She laid her hand on the prick’s shoulder as an added bonus. Peter hadn’t noticed it before, but she could amp up the sex when necessary. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“Uh, of course,” the manager said, slipping the card in his pocket.

“It better be fixed,” Peter added. “For what this place costs, you need to get on it.” He turned back to Gran. “Let’s get your stuff. We’ll run you back to the house so you can get ready. Mom’s gonna blow a gasket, but I’ll take care of it.”

The manager hustled over to the lobby desk. “We’ll get this straightened out in no time, Mr. Jessup.”

That Izzy. She knew how to work a man.

Isabelle sucked in air and held it as Peter drove through the gates of his parents’ home. Estate. Something this big couldn’t be called a home. The lush blues, yellows and reds of the landscaping sailed by her, and she marveled at the beauty of the property. She’d never experienced this kind of wealth. Her family had always been middle class. Except for her uncle. His wealth had grown over the years, but didn’t come close to this. When Isabelle’s lungs started to protest she unleashed the breath she’d been holding.

The house loomed tall and imposing as they pulled in front. A woman that had to be Mrs. Jessup stood on the stone porch in a floor-length sky-blue gown with a diamond-encrusted belt at her waist. They couldn’t be real diamonds—could they? Either way, this woman, with her shoulder-length blond hair and perfect posture, appeared every bit the queen guarding her castle.

Peter, still in mission mode, parked behind a limousine, jumped out of the car, pushed the seat up for Isabelle to get out and offered his hand as she crawled from the backseat. He really needed a four-door car for special occasions.

“Sorry you got crammed in,” he said before turning to the woman coming down the steps to greet them. “Hi, Mom.”

“What happened?” Mrs. Jessup asked.

“She’s got no air-conditioning,” Peter said, helping his grandmother out of the car. “No air-conditioning. In this heat. We’re lucky she didn’t get sick.”

“There’s no reason to yell,” his mother said.

Isabelle stepped back. The lady ran a tight ship.

“Ma,” Peter waved his arms. “I’m not yelling, but let me tell you, I was about to start if Izzy hadn’t jumped in and threatened to sue their ass.” He stopped said yelling. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went on ahead. We’ll meet him at church.” Mrs. Jessup motioned to Peter’s grandmother. “Mother, are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I feel awful about this.”

“Don’t sweat it, Gran.”

Mrs. Jessup turned to her left, gave Isabelle a welcoming smile. “Since my son has forgotten his manners, I’m guessing you’re Izzy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Isabelle stepped up, held out her hand. “I’m Isabelle. DeRosa.”

“Sorry, Iz. This is my mother, Lorraine Jessup. Mom, this is Izzy. I think she might be the love of my life.”

Mrs. Jessup laughed. “I did a good job with you, Peter.”

Isabelle’s mouth slid open before she could stop it, but Peter, already on to the next task, pulled his phone from his pocket. Probably an incoming text because he immediately put his thumbs to work.

“He
can
be charming.” Mrs. Jessup said. “He also gets emotional about his grandmother.”

“Nobody messes with Gran,” Peter cut in.

Mrs. Jessup’s blue eyes twinkled. “Did you really threaten to sue them?”

Isabelle snorted a laugh to ward off the heat rising in her cheeks. “Not in so many words. I showed him my business card. I’m an attorney. The manager got the message.”

“Don’t be shy, Iz.” Peter continued working that phone like a madman. “She threatened to sue. His.
Ass
. It was aces, Mom.”

A wry grin quirked the corners of Mrs. Jessup’s mouth and Isabelle suddenly felt nine feet tall. Amazing how a mother’s approval, even when it’s someone else’s mother, could do that.

“Well, thank you for handling the situation,” Mrs. Jessup turned to Peter. “Where are we, Peter?”

He slid the phone into his jacket pocket. “That was Steve. We’ll do pictures after the ceremony. He’s not gonna let anything start without us.”

Mrs. Jessup nodded. The cool-under-fire presence Peter
usually
had must have been inherited from his mother. The woman could lead an army into battle.

“All right,” Mrs. Jessup said. “Let’s get organized.” She turned to Gran, still in her bathrobe. “Mother, I’ll help you upstairs so you can get dressed. Peter, you and Isabelle go on. We’ll meet you at church. Maybe they can get the pictures of the bridal party out of the way and it’ll be less we need to do after.” She finally sighed. “It’s always something.”

Something told Isabelle this woman would never be convinced to do something she didn’t want to do. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to have had Mrs. Jessup as a mother eleven years ago, when her own mother had been convinced to let a child molester go free?

Things would have been so different. Isabelle blew out a breath and stepped over to Peter, who was staring at a potted bush with narrowed eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“See this plant?”

“What about it?”

A moment passed, but Peter didn’t respond. She turned to him and the menacing hatred carved into his face stung her. “Peter?”

“I hate it.” The strength faded from his voice, leaving only slaughtered remnants of the confidence normally found there. Something was very, very wrong.

“Peter, it’s a plant. A fiddle-leaf fig bush actually.”

Nose-scrunching bafflement took over his face. “I’m scared that you know that.” He waved the thought away and gestured toward the bush. “It irritates me.”

Okay then. Peter going crazy. What an interesting concept. She rested her hand on the back of his neck and gently squeezed. “It’s been a stressful hour. Are you okay?”

Another moment passed and he closed his eyes. She imagined him sorting his thoughts into nice little compact drawers. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, threw his shoulders back, rolled his head around and gave it shake. Peter had just glued the broken pieces of himself back together.

“I’m good,” he said.

Such a liar.