Enchanted Heart (32 page)

She shook her head. “No, you're not. You're the same. The only thing different is that you feel some sort of responsibility for this,” she said, touching her stomach. “You don't have to. It's not your problem. It's mine.”

“That's where you're wrong, Viv. It's
our
issue. The only thing your being pregnant has changed is the timetable. I've had that for a while now,” he said with a nod toward the jeweler's box that sat before them like a time bomb awaiting the appointed moment of detonation. “I was waiting for the right time.”

“Well, this isn't it, Lance. I don't want it.”

She didn't move to touch the ring box. Neither did he.

He walked to the door and opened it. “We make a great team, Vivienne. I think you know that.”

The door closed behind him, and Vivienne let out the pent-up breath that she'd been holding.

She stared at the ring box equally curious and horrified. Coming around her desk, she sat down and stared at the box. She reached for it, then drew her hand back.

Reaching for it again, she pulled the box to her and stared at it for a long time. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened it.

Inside, nestled in the curve of velvet, lay not at all what she'd expected to find.

27

L
ater that evening, after the last customer had carried an overflowing bag out of the door, after the remnants of cake and empty champagne bottles had been tucked away, and long after the salesclerks finished rhapsodizing about what they'd do with the outstanding commissions they'd earned that night, Vivienne la Fontaine sat alone in her office at Guilty Pleasures, staring at the key Lance had given her.

The key to my heart is locked away tighter than the U.S. Treasury at Fort Knox,
Viv thought.
Nobody's getting there. Ever.

But she knew that to be a lie. Lance had somehow tunneled his way in, around the blockades, past the restraining walls.

And, tonight, he'd given her more than an invitation to marriage, much more than a fancy diamond to shove on her finger and display for the world to see. In the simplicity of his gift, he'd revealed the truth. And only Vivienne, who was like Lance in so many ways, could understand just how significant a declaration it had been for him.

He loved her.

He had fallen in love with her.

It wasn't just a physical expression of emotion. And it went beyond the mere desire to legitimize a child. They didn't have to marry to do either of those things.

Lance had laid himself bare before her.

She picked up the miniature key from its velvet case. The solid gold piece dangled from a delicate chain. Vivienne stared at it, at the workmanship that had gone into making the treasure. And then at the tiny words, carefully inscribed on the back.

For a man like Lance to surrender that completely and with such simplicity took Viv's breath away. Lance was the kind of man to make splashy declarations, big displays of affection. The kind that would sweep a woman off her feet.

But this, this was different.

She closed her eyes and the box, willing the future image of them together out of her head, shooing away the picture of children surrounding them. That one hurt the most. On a purely intellectual level, Vivienne understood that what had happened to Vicki had been an accident, a one-time mistake created by an incompetent doctor and an ill-trained staff, compounded by parents who believed that the will of God, rather than the fallibility of man had permanently injured their infant daughter.

Between them, she and Lance had all the financial resources they'd need to raise healthy, happy children.

Viv knew all of those things.

And yet, outstripping the intellectual knowledge, the basic fear haunted her.

Viv cursed herself and her lack of control. Always, above everything she'd always maintained control—even in the midst of the nightmare she'd found herself in in Providence all those years ago. In all the years since she'd nearly lost her freedom, Viv had tried to live a life of careful, quiet control. Sometimes she managed the facade, and sometimes she didn't. But mostly she knew when to say when. And every step in her career, every date in her personal life had been undertaken in a calculated deception of studied spontaneity. Not merely a pro at it, Viv had achieved grand master status. Each step and scenario carried the look of unprompted frivolity, but in truth had been carefully researched, with all of the subsequent possible moves plotted and the consequences measured.

Then came Lance.

He messed up her plan and her game.

Where Lance was concerned, she thought with her body and her heart, not her head. And look at the trouble that had landed her in.

She shook her head. Denying the possibilities of a future with him. Denying the truth that stared her in the face.

He professed to love her. She couldn't know if that was really true. But she did know that she'd returned to him time and again, not because he gave good love or made her laugh, or even that they made a striking pair. She turned to Lance again and again because
she'd
fallen for him.

For a woman who'd skated through life for twenty-seven years and had never, ever been in love, that was a truly scary thing.

 

 

Though at one time he would have denied it, Lance's future lay in someone else's hands. He'd given all of his control to Vivienne. And he didn't know what she'd do with it. She owned the most vital part of him: his heart.

Yeah, he had issues. He had a wife and a kid that Vivienne knew nothing about. But the existence of Gayla and Tarique paled when put up against what he wanted with Viv.

Getting rid of Gayla might cost a lot of money, but losing Viv would cost him his soul. She completed him in ways he hadn't even realized he was lacking.

The measure of Lance's dedication was that he'd waited for her. After they talked and he gave her the box, he went to his car and worked on his business plan that was coming together quite nicely.

When the constant stream of customers trickled to just a few, and then the scantily clad salesclerks made their own departures, Lance waited for Viv to leave. Then he followed her home.

 

 

The doorbell rang at Vivienne and Vicki's house. “I'll get it,” Vicki called out.

“Who's ringing this late?”

“I ordered some pizza.” With a twenty-dollar bill in her hand, Vicki made her way to the door. “It's about time,” she said, talking through the screen. “What took you so long?”

“I wanted to give you enough time to think about what I said.”

Vicki opened the door wider. “Huh?”

Lance got a look at her and reared back. “Viv, that's got to be the ugliest beauty mask I've ever seen. So that's your secret, huh?”

In less time that it had taken for the words to come out of his mouth, Lance realized he'd made a mistake, a terrible mistake. All of his glibness faded away.

The woman's face contorted and Lance reached for her. “Oh, God. I'm sorry. I . . .”

A wail sounded, and for a moment, Lance thought that it reflected just how he felt. “Miss, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . shit. Vivienne!”

“What's all the racket?” Viv said. She appeared behind Vicki who stood frozen at the door. Lance's face held an expression of abject dismay.

Viv put the pieces together. Vicki's worst nightmare had just come true. A stranger, caught unaware, had seen her. And judging from both their faces, something awful had been said or done.

The night had taken its toll though. And for once, Viv, drained of energy after smiling all evening, being the perfect hostess, and then being emotionally drained after the conversation with Lance, she didn't give a damn about the fallout. Fuzzy-mouthed from the champagne she'd imbibed with abandon, she sighed.

“Lance Heart Smith, meet my sister Vicki. Vicki, this is Lance.”

Vicki stared up at him, jaw slack, eyes wide in an expression Viv couldn't name.

“Hey, hey, Miss Vicki. Here's your pizza,” a younger voice said behind Lance. On a wail, Vicki turned and hurried away.

Lance turned to the delivery driver and stared at him. “Vicki?”

Popping gum, the driver held out the pizza box. “That'll be $14.95,” he said. “And I brought change.”

Lance dug in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed the kid a bill. He took the box and stepped into the house.

“You're not welcome here,” Vivienne said.

“Tough. I need to apologize to your sister.”

“Uh, dude. This is a fifty. I ain't got change for that.”

“Keep it,” Lance called back.

“Coolio,” he heard the driver reply. “Thanks, Miss Vicki,” he hollered into the house.

“Where'd she go?”

“Lance, just let it go, please.”

Depositing the pizza box on a coffee table, Lance glanced around the comfortable living room. His gaze took in the wide spaces that would allow for a wheelchair, the other smaller touches that indicated a person with a disability lived there. A brace propped against a chair.

“I can't,” he said. “I hurt her.”

Viv snorted. “You've hurt me, too. That's never stopped you.”

He faced her then. “I thought you said you were identical twins? What happened to you two?”

Vivienne closed her eyes. “This is not the time or the place for this, Lance.”

“Like hell it isn't.” He turned again, then took a step toward the area that shunted off the main room and probably led to bedrooms.

Viv, guessing his plan, shifted so she barred his way, her hands on his chest halting his steps.

“Well, isn't this a charming little scene.”

They both turned at the man's voice. He stood in the arch opening that led from the foyer into the living room. Though a warm night, he wore a black leather jacket over a T-shirt and khaki pants. The shoes were Salvatore Ferragamo; Lance knew because an identical pair were in his closet. He took in the details, noting that the man had the classic looks of a Ralph Lauren model, even as he felt the ripple of awareness run through Vivienne. Feeling overly protective of Viv, Lance looked to her for direction and a clue about the newcomer's intention. Was he friend or foe?

Vivienne's expression, as stunned as Vicki's had been moments ago, gave Lance his answer. “I take it this isn't your brother.”

The man got a laugh out of that.

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

The man, still chuckling, advanced on them. “Brother? Is that what you told him?” He just shook his head, the chuckle drifting into a lazy half-smile at his mouth. Lance stepped in front of Viv.

“Look here, pal . . .”

The man spared Lance barely a glance.

“It's good to see you, Rachel. Did you miss me?”

Lance's gaze shot to Viv's. “Rachel?”

Viv stood as if she'd been turned to stone or a pillar of salt. The color had drained from her face and she swayed. In an instant, he was next to her, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist.

“You always said I made you weak in the knees,” the man said. “It's good to see some things haven't changed.”

“Vivienne?”

She looked at Lance, but no words came out of her mouth. Lance released her and took a step away, his gaze shooting between Viv and the man.

“Vivian,” the man said, wrapping the name around his tongue and releasing it on a soft sigh. “That's nice. I like it. Elegant. It suits you better than Rachel.” He pressed a kiss to Viv's cheek and slowly trailed a finger from her temple to the edge of her mouth that trembled.

Lance didn't miss a moment of the sultry welcome. The first licks of anger lashed through him. “Who the hell are you?”

The man smiled even as he tugged Viv closer. His hand splayed at her side in a clearly proprietary gesture. He held his free hand out to Lance for a shake. “I'm her man, Dean Khan. And you are?”

Lance didn't take the man's hand. On a shrug, Khan dropped it.

“I see,” Lance said. His hands fisted at his side. Slowly, he counted to ten. Then he nodded. “I see now.”

Viv tried to reach for him, but Khan kept a hand firmly clamped around her.

“Lance, it's not . . .”

“I was a fool.” He held up both hands as if in surrender. “But no more.”

“Lance, please.”

The look on Vivienne's face was one he'd seen before, the one women used when they didn't get their way and wanted something from him. But his eyes were now open, wide open.

She tried to twist away from Khan. “Let me go.”

Dean Khan just chuckled and leaned in to steal a kiss.

Realization hit Lance then and there. He'd been double the fool. If Viv was pregnant, which he now doubted, chances were the father was this man who clearly had more than an intimate relationship with Vivienne. Or rather, make that Rachel.

“I should have known,” he said. He advanced on her. “How much,
Rachel,”
he asked, stressing the name. “How much was this going to cost me?”

She shook her head and managed to wrench free of Khan's embrace. He rested a thigh on the arm of the sofa and watched them. “Lance, it's not like that. I need your . . .”

“Yeah, you needed me all right. What were you doing, playing us off each other? Or was he a part of this all along?”

That reality filtered through Lance's brain. “Goddammit! What a fool I've been.” He sent a scathing glance Khan's way. “Well, guess what Vivienne or Rachel or whatever the hell your real name is? You can kiss this trust-fund baby good-bye.”

Lance stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Vivienne tried to run after him, but Khan caught the edge of her duster and dragged her back. Flailing, Viv knocked over a lamp that crashed to the floor.

Vivienne faced Khan. “How did you find me?”

“The Internet is an amazing tool.” He smiled. “Who's your boyfriend?”

“You're supposed to be in prison.”

He held out his arms, as if in supplication. “A model prisoner.” He winked at her. “Good behavior and that sort of thing, you know.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, that's right. You don't know.
You
didn't do any time.”

In a flash, before she could move, he grabbed her. A knife appeared from nowhere and was pressed to her neck, the sharp blade bearing down into her skin. The slightest movement would draw blood.

Vivienne's eyes locked with his.

“Listen good now, honey,” he said, the words spoken low and clear. “I've seen your little setup over on Colley Avenue. A little research shows you're doing quite well. I'll expect a cut, Rachel. Let's say, sixty percent. That sounds fair, don't you think? Just compensation and all that. Otherwise, the IRS and a few other state and federal agencies might get some, shall we say”—the knife edge twirled—“incriminating documents.”