Deceptive Innocence, Part Two

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star eBook.

  * * *

  Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  Don’t forget to order Deceptive Innocence, Part Three now—available March 17, 2014

  chapter one

  I’m sitting on the floor of Lander’s office. My hair hangs heavily over my shoulders as I hold his drawing of me in one hand and the solution to his anagram in the other. He had titled the drawing Kind, Witty Heroine. But the anagram for K.I.N.D. W.I.T.T.Y. H.E.R.O.I.N.E. relayed something entirely different:

  I KNOW HER IDENTITY.

  Twenty minutes ago he had kissed my cheek, breathed in my scent.

  I know her identity.

  Twenty minutes before that he had been inside me, pressed against me, my sweat mingled with his.

  I know her identity.

  I had told myself that I was pretending. I had told myself I didn’t care about Lander at all. I just needed to get him to care about me for the sake of my plan, a plan designed to make his family pay for setting my mother up for a crime she didn’t commit. That’s it.

  But that’s not entirely true.

  I thought that Lander was taken with me. I thought he saw me as someone who was true and kind.

  But that’s not right. He sees me as Mata Hari, the enemy. And that’s what I am.

  I’m Mata Hari.

  A seductress.

  A whore.

  A traitor.

  And what we’re doing . . . it’s nothing more than a game of poker. We place our bets. We bluff, we hide our cards . . . We’re opponents. One of us will win and the other will lose everything. Just a high-stakes game of poker, nothing more tender or sentimental than that.

  But when he holds me in his arms, it feels like something else. I wanted, just for a moment, for it to be something else.

  I keep trying to pretend that the only thing on my mind is revenge and how I can overcome Lander’s suspicions in order to achieve that goal . . .

  But that’s simply not the case.

  And now, as scary as it is, I might have to stop lying to myself.

  And if I do I’ll have to admit that I want at least one person to see me as good, even though it’s not true. My mother saw me as someone good when I was a child, but that changed. By the time she killed herself she had seen me for what I am: rotten, ruined, hateful . . . stupid. I don’t like to think about it, but when my mother was alive I had been stupid. After she passed, I had hoped that in honor of her memory I could at least overcome that one shortcoming. I had tried to be smart . . . even clever.

  But I failed. I’m just as stupid as ever.

  I’ve bet everything I have. He saw through my bluff and now he’s about to lay down his winning hand.

  I’m about to lose everything.

  That can’t happen.

  In an instant I’m on my feet, the drawing clutched in one hand, the solution to the anagram crumpled in the other. With a jerk of my arm I throw the latter into the wastebasket.

  I do have a contingency plan. I know what needs to be done if one of the Gables learns who I am.

  But it involves violence.

  And I don’t want to hurt him.

  I just want to keep pretending.

  I walk into the living room and gaze out his floor-to-ceiling windows to the city below. It’s a beautiful view. Manhattan looks like a carpet of lights, the windows of the skyscrapers glowing gold. They look like low-hanging stars.

  I’m about to lose everything.

  I put my hand to my head. Press the drawing to my heart. I feel sick.

  And I wonder . . . how strong is the glass? I had leaned against it as Lander touched me. It had felt as if his touch was the one thing that kept me from falling.

  But he’s not touching me now.

  What would it take to break this glass? What would it feel like to really fall? What kind of relief can really be found in death?

  “Bell?”

  I don’t move. The drawing is still pressed against my chest. I won’t be able to hide it.

  And suddenly I realize I don’t want to hide it. If the hellhounds are going to be unleashed I’d rather fight them now than cower in the corner waiting for their attack.

  I whirl around and there he is, looking almost guileless in his untucked pin-striped shirt and faded jeans. The natural highlights in his brown hair almost match the glow of the city lights.

  But this is not a guileless man.

  I swallow hard and slam the picture onto the coffee table.

  He pauses a moment, staring down at the drawing. “How did you—”

  “I saw it last night while we were having sex,” I snap, cutting him off.

  I can see his mind working quickly. He’s still thinking about how I got my hands on the picture, but now it hardly matters. If he knows I’m a spy, clearly he knows I’m capable of rifling through a desk or two.

  “What does it mean, Lander?” I ask, my voice icy.

  “Kind, Witty Heroine,” he says slowly. “Isn’t it self-explanatory?”

  “Right.” I cross behind the armchair, putting one more piece of furniture between him and me.

  “I would think you would be flattered,” Lander adds.

  “I was . . . until Jessica started telling me all about your love of anagrams. And then I started thinking about how you came up with the title of the picture you drew of the biker.”

  “The biker?” he repeats. He’s studying me now with a cold curiosity. He doesn’t look confused and he certainly doesn’t look worried. He may not have been expecting this confrontation, but now that it’s here he’s ready for it. I can just tell.

  “Yes, you know,” I say sarcastically, “the guy who Cries in Rebuke. The way you came up with the title . . . It was like you were working out a puzzle. And you were.”

  “Was I?”

  His voice is so steady, so utterly emotionless, I find myself a little unnerved. This is not the passionate man I made love to less than an hour ago. This is not the man I’ve been studying over the years.

  This is a stranger.

  “Insecure biker,” I say, trying to keep my tone confident. “It’s an anagram. And so it makes sense that the other drawing you made that night would be titled with an anagram too. I mean . . . it makes sense for you. Normal people don’t turn random thoughts into anagrams. But there’s nothing normal about you, is there, Lander?”

  “No, I suppose that’s something we have in common. You and I are two of a kind.”

  I inhale sharply. It’s not his words that scare me. It’s his calm.

  Right now I’m afraid of Lander.

  I walk around the chair and slowly lower myself into it, keeping my eyes on his . . . just like I do when we make love. But the chemistry, while still intense, is totally different now.

  “Kind, witty, heroine.” I say the words slowly. I gesture to the picture. “I was so flattered. I didn’t even recognize that you had me dressed up to look like Mata Hari.”

  “Ah, you know your history.”

  I don’t answer. My jaw is so tight it aches.

  He sits oppo
site me, reaches for a pen, then pulls the drawing toward him. Below Kind, Witty Heroine he writes the words I Know Her Identity.

  Seeing him write it out like that makes me think about his window. It makes me think about how easy it would be to fall.

  He turns the paper around so the words are facing me. I read them over and over again, using them as an excuse to avoid his eyes.

  “You’re not who you say you are, Bell.”

  I hold my silence, reading and rereading those words and thinking about what they mean.

  They mean it’s over.

  I’ve failed, Mom. I didn’t get you your justice. I am as stupid as I’ve ever been.

  “You act like you’re this carefree party girl, but that’s just a façade. You’re calculating, ambitious, determined . . . and you’re very manipulative, aren’t you?”

  “Just more things we have in common,” I snap. But only my words are brave. Inside I’m trembling.

  “That’s true. I’ve manipulated enough people to know what it looks like.” He leans back into the sofa. “You knew who I was when I walked into that bar, didn’t you?”

  I swallow hard before whispering, “How could I have known that?

  “Come now, your Miss Innocent role’s played out. You have to be a more versatile actor.”

  I lift my chin defiantly, hold in my fear.

  “You thought I was going to change your life, didn’t you?” he presses.

  No, I thought I was going to destroy yours. But I don’t say it out loud. Instead I wait for his accusations to become a little more specific.

  “You knew how much money I had. You knew who my family was. And you sure as hell knew who my brother was. That whole thing about your not wanting my help, that’s bullshit, isn’t it? You were hoping that if you slept with me I would get you an in. Maybe, with my help, you could get a job at HGVB or a job working for the Gable family that paid—probably one that pays a little bit more than the one my brother just gave you. Fucking me for career opportunities . . . it’s just another form of prostitution. At least Mata Hari was honest about being a courtesan.”

  For a second I don’t move. I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to start laughing. Waiting for him to admit that this bizarrely mundane accusation is just his way of giving me a false sense of security before he pulls the rug out from under me. Any moment now he’s going to tell me that he really and truly does know my identity.

  “Tell me, Bell, what’s the real reason you don’t want me talking to Travis?”

  It takes a moment for me to find my voice. “Why don’t you tell me?” I finally say. “You seem to have this whole thing figured out.”

  “I think you’ve come to realize that Travis isn’t faithful to his wife. I think you’re beginning to wonder if he’s the brother you should be sleeping with. As you once pointed out to me, I’m neither as rich nor as influential as he is.”

  “Wait, are . . . are you serious? Who in their right mind would—”

  “I’m convinced you’re a lot of things,” he interrupts, “but I’m not sure that being in your right mind is one of them.”

  I feel dizzy. Sitting across from Lander, being accused of something so ridiculously idiotic . . . I’m almost indignant. The man rides around the city in a limo, his last name is Gable, and he has a multimillion-dollar penthouse with a Degas hanging in his hallway. There are literally tens of thousands of women who would love to use Lander for his money, and I’m sure hundreds have tried. And all of those gold diggers would happily ditch Lander for his richer brother if Travis showed them even an iota of kindness.

  But can Lander really not see the difference between those women and me? Do I really seem that common? That pathetic? Really?

  Still, as incensed as I am, I’m also incredibly relieved. Part of me wants to fall to my knees and praise God for making Lander such a moron.

  But as he sits there glaring at me, a completely different emotion takes hold: confusion. He’s so angry. Have I hurt him? In the short period of time we’ve been dating has he come to care so much about me that I have the power to do that? Have I disappointed him?

  I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out new and creative ways to screw up this man’s life . . . and yet right now the very thought that I might have inadvertently caused him pain cuts into my lungs and makes each breath a little painful.

  “I didn’t know who you were when we first met,” I say carefully, but as Lander rolls his eyes I quickly add, “but of course I knew you had money. You reek of it, Lander. And there aren’t a lot of Bill Gates types who walk into that particular bar, so maybe . . . maybe I saw an opportunity there.”

  “Maybe?”

  “I looked you up online just a few hours after we first met,” I continue. “I figured out who your family is and . . . Okay, it took some digging, but I eventually discovered that your sister-in-law was looking for a personal assistant. I got my last PA job through a personal connection. It was sort of my first real job and it was a good one. But then the guy I worked for dropped off the face of the earth. You can’t even talk to him to check a reference. You have to talk to someone else who worked for him—and half of those people are currently under indictment. I was screwed, Lander.”

  “A heartbreaking story.”

  “You’re right to be angry.” I lower my head, as if abashed. As if. “I was going to use you. I wanted to use you . . . and that was wrong. But, Lander, I didn’t do it. I got the PA job all on my own. In the space of twenty-four hours I had started dating a truly amazing man and I landed a killer job without any help from anyone. And for a brief moment I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to play games anymore. Maybe the manipulations could stop.”

  Lander shifts his position. He’s staring past me, but his expression isn’t as hard as it was minutes ago.

  “I initially didn’t want you to tell your brother about us because I have something to prove . . . to myself. I got this job on my own merits. And I was afraid that if he knew that we were dating—”

  “You said initially,” Lander interrupts. “What’s your reason for not wanting me to tell him now?”

  I get up from my seat and then perch myself on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of him. I reach forward and put my hand gently over his. He looks past me, staring out the window, completely unmoved by the intimacy I’m trying to infuse into our exchange.

  “You think your brother’s up to something, don’t you?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, but I can see I have his attention.

  “I don’t know if you’re right, or what you think is going on,” I say softly, “but if you are, I’ll find out for you.”

  For a moment he doesn’t move. And then, slowly, he turns his gaze back to me. “What are you suggesting?”

  I take a deep breath—what I’m about to say is a gamble. If I’ve misread Lander’s feelings about his brother, I’ll be making a huge mistake.

  But poker is a game of skill. It’s all about reading your opponent and spotting his tells.

  I’m a good poker player.

  “I already said I’d keep my ears open,” I say, pressing forward, “but now . . . If you tell me where to look, I’ll look. Lander, please let me do this for you. Let me make up for making you not trust me. Please.”

  “Do you know what Travis would do to you if he thought you were spying on him for me?”

  “Fire me?” I ask. “Give me a bad reference? What?”

  It’s not an idle question. I want to see Lander’s reaction. I need to gauge how dangerous he thinks Travis is.

  He answers me with a look that tells me he thinks I’ve grossly underestimated his brother. Without saying the words, he’s telling me that I might be putting myself in harm’s way.

  “Will he hurt me, Lander?” I ask softly.

  Lander hesitates a moment and then shakes his head, releasing an uneasy laugh. “He’s not a gangster,” he says. “He’s not going to throw you off the Brooklyn Bridge. But his reach is l
ong. If he doesn’t want you to work again . . . well, it’ll be difficult for you, Bell.”

  He’s underselling it. Blackballing me would only be the beginning. But I simply smile and shrug my shoulders, pretending I can’t see the truth behind the words. “So we won’t let him find out,” I say. “Later, when I’ve had time to do a little digging, we’ll act like we just met. We’ll start dating in the open. We’ll let Travis think that he saw you ask me out for the first time. If it turns out he’s not hiding anything . . . well, no harm, no foul. And if there is something . . .” My voice fades, letting him mentally fill in the blanks.

  Lander smiles. “You are a good manipulator, Bell.” He impatiently brushes a piece of lint from his jeans. “And I feel like you know me a little better than I’m comfortable with.”

  “I know your dark side,” I say gently. “I’ve seen it . . . and it doesn’t bother me.” I scoot in a little closer. “I like it, Lander.”

  It’s a risky angle. I’m not so much explaining my behavior as I am trying to distract him by offering him something he truly wants. But he’s buying into it. I can feel it as he spreads his fingers wide under mine.

  “I should kick you out of here,” he says quietly.

  “I know,” I whisper and lace my fingers into his.

  “You had to go through my stuff to get that drawing.”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I was just thinking about what Jessica had said about you and anagrams and then thought about the doodle you were making. I just had to see it.”

  “You shouldn’t go through my stuff.”

  I nod. “It won’t happen again.”

  Again he scoffs, and this time it’s for good reason.

  “I need to ask you something,” I add.

  He meets my eyes, and I see something there, a dare, a spark of confidence . . . and maybe . . . maybe a bit of mischief?

  But it all disappears in an instant as his face hardens and his voice turns gruff. “Let me guess. You want to know why I acted like everything was fine before if I didn’t think it was. You’re wondering why I’ve been bothering with you at all.”