All That Sparkles: The Texan Quartet (6 page)

In Kate’s room she changed the sheets and tidied up the things strewn over her floor. Then she entered the male side of the house.

George had slept in the spare bedroom at this end and Libby and Adrian’s room needed straightening up as well.

Imogen didn’t mind housework. She’d not had to do a thing except keep her room tidy in all the years she’d lived at home, so she liked feeling useful, liked the mindlessness of tidying while she thought about other things.

The only problem was today her mind wanted to think about Christian and about her father’s explanation.

She didn’t know how to get to the truth.

If Christian was lying, then she didn’t want to start any kind of relationship with him. She needed to be able to trust her friends fully and if she couldn’t, then it wasn’t worth it.

But if it was her father …  She wasn’t sure how she would deal with that betrayal.

They had always been close. When she was a child, he made a point of coming home from work not long after she finished school. He helped her with her homework, taught her how to draw and design clothing. She used to love sitting in the library, sketching dresses and having her father exclaim how beautiful they were. On wintry nights they would build a sheet fort and camp underneath or watch movies in the theater room. He’d been her best friend and constant companion.

She remade the beds, tidied the rooms and carried the sheets through to the laundry. Outside Christian and George had almost finished turning the yard back to normal and George’s dad, Hank, had arrived with his truck. Piper was inside cleaning up the few dishes they’d used.

Imogen grabbed a dish towel and started drying.

“What’s up with you today?” Piper asked.

Imogen looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Honey, I know you’re trying to be your usual cheerful self but you don’t fool me. What’s happened?”

She checked outside to see if the guys were still out there. They were heading back in. “Later,” she said.

“We’re done,” George announced as he came through the door.

“Great. We’re almost finished in here, just waiting on some washing. Why don’t you guys head off and we’ll lock up when we’re through?” Piper said.

“Sounds good to me,” George replied, yawning.

Christian hesitated. “You sure you don’t need a hand?” he asked Imogen.

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I left your bag by the door.” Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? The quicker he was gone, the faster she could talk to Piper about her troubles.

“You packed for me?” He sounded surprised, and frowned.

“You and George,” she answered.

“Thanks,” George said, and turned to Christian. “The Rockets are playing later. Want to watch the game at my place?”

“Sure.” He turned to Imogen. “If you need a hand with your business plan, give me a call.” He handed her a card.

Imogen took it automatically. “Thanks.”

Piper waited until both men had left and then turned to Imogen. “So what gives?”

Imogen hesitated, wondering how crazy it was going to sound that she’d been pining after a boy she’d met so long ago. “Do you remember that summer you went back to Australia when we were fifteen? I met a guy …”

Piper nodded. “The one you compared every boy to – Summer Boy.”

Imogen smiled at the nickname Piper had given him. “Yeah, well, Christian is Summer Boy.”

Piper’s eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit! You never mentioned he was the gardener’s son.”

Imogen laughed. It wasn’t often she surprised her friend.

“Have you spoken to him about it? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner!” She dragged Imogen to a chair. “Sit and tell me everything.”

So Imogen did. It was such a relief to tell Piper about what Christian and his father had said and her father’s response. She needed to get her confusion articulated.

As usual Piper got right to the crux of the problem. “Someone’s lying.”

Imogen nodded.

“How are you going to work out whom?”

She shrugged. That was the million-dollar question. Her father had already given her an answer and he wasn’t likely to defend himself again, but she doubted Christian would react favorably if she asked for proof.

“Did Chris keep the letter your father gave him?”

“I can’t ask him that,” Imogen said. Not without implying he was lying.

“Sure you can. Tell him you want to get to the bottom of what happened and say you might recognize the handwriting on the letter if he still has it.”

She made it sound so easy.

“That is, if you want to see him again,” her friend added.

Did she? She barely needed to think about it. Of course she did. She’d had Christian as her happy thought for over half of her life; she wanted to discover if she’d imagined what was there between them or if there was more to it. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then you should call him up during the week, get together for a drink. He offered to review your business plan. That was definitely a hint he wants to see you again.”

Imogen loved how her friend was so confident about everything. It
wouldn’t
be so easy: there were emotions involved, and long-held beliefs.

Was she brave enough to take the risk?

“Chris, we need you to go back to Australia.”

Chris glanced up from his computer to the doorway, where his manager, Samuel, was standing. He resisted the urge to groan. “What’s happened?”

“A disagreement with our partners on the Glaucus Project. We need a representative from head office at the talks and John can’t go.”

He didn’t bother arguing that he’d just returned from three months abroad and needed a break; he simply asked, “When do I leave?”

“Got you booked on a flight tomorrow morning. Finish what you’re doing. There’ll be a briefing in an hour.” Samuel left.

Chris closed his eyes for a moment and then ran a hand through his hair. It was the closest he could get to the curse he really wanted to release. He was tired of racing all around the world in order to make his employer, the oil and gas company Dionysus, richer. For all their talk about their work for the environment or the communities they were enriching, he knew the truth. All they wanted to do was make more and more money. The community stuff they did was to keep people happy and comply with any minimum standards set in the country they were operating in.

And if they could pay to get their own way, they would.

Just like Remy Fontaine had.

Chris stopped that train of thought. Remy was the least of his concerns at the moment.

When he went into law he’d wanted three things: to make a difference, to climb to the top of his field and to have a secure income.

He was well on his way to achieving the last two goals. He’d bought an apartment, had money saved and was working his way up through the ranks at Dionysus. He could hold his head high and say to people he had made something of his life.

It hadn’t been easy. He clearly remembered the days of eating canned soup while his father tried to find enough work to support them. It was why Chris needed more security, why he had to prove to his company that he was invaluable. There were always people who were happy to step up into his place if he failed.

But his first goal felt like it was a long way off. Pro bono and humanitarian work didn’t pay well enough. Even if it did make him feel good.

The only difference he made at his company was making shareholders happy. Sure, he did pro bono work once a month, which his company sanctioned, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to really help people.

If only being a good person paid as well as being an asshole.

He didn’t want to think about it now. He wrapped up what he was working on and got together the things he would need for his trip to Australia. As he was leaving for his meeting, the phone rang. He cursed and grabbed the receiver.

“Are you free for a drink tomorrow?” It was Imogen. Chris smiled and sat back down. The meeting could wait. The sound of her voice soothed his irritation at his company.

“Sure.” Then he remembered he was flying out. “Shoot, no, I can’t. I’m flying to Australia in the morning.”

“Oh, never mind. We’ll catch up when you get back. How long are you going for?”

Chris hoped it was disappointment he could hear in her tone. He wanted to see her. “I’m not sure yet. How about tonight? Are you free?”

“Should be by seven.”

“Great. How about I meet you at Grechos? It’s a wine bar here in town.”

“I know it. I’ll see you then.”

Chris hung up. He closed his eyes and smiled. This had to mean she was interested. Checking the time, he grabbed his laptop and notes and hurried to the meeting.

*

Chris wanted to swear, rant and rave. Again. From the discussions in the meeting, the project partners had a fair case against the company. Dionysus had not fulfilled the terms of the contract and were now trying to wiggle out of it. It wouldn’t work, but Chris had to try. He hated this.

He checked the time and this time he did swear. Ten past seven. He was supposed to be at Grechos meeting Imogen. He dialed her number and when she answered he heard the noise of the bar in the background.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve been held up at work. I’ll be there shortly.”

“If it’s not a good time we can meet up when you get back,” she said.

“No, no, I’ll be there soon.” He could always come back later if there was anything else he needed. As he packed up, he checked all his notes, transferred everything he would need to the cloud storage his company used and sighed. He was ready as he’d ever be.

Grabbing his briefcase he locked his office door and hurried to the elevator. He was only twenty minutes late – what a way to make a good impression.

When he entered the wine bar five minutes later he scanned around for Imogen. She was sitting at the bar, chatting to one of the bartenders, who was ignoring customers in order to talk to her. Chris couldn’t blame him.

He hustled over and slid onto the empty stool next to Imogen. “Sorry I’m late.”

Imogen’s smile was like a balm. “Rough day?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Can I have a beer?” he asked the bartender.

The man scowled at him but poured his order.

“Do you want to grab something to eat as well?” he asked, indicating an empty table in the corner.

“Sure.”

They ordered food and went to sit at the table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Imogen asked, continuing their conversation.

To his surprise, he found he did. He told her about how he had to go to Australia to sort out the mess his company had got themselves in to.

“Must be hard when you don’t agree with them.”

“It is. I’d much rather be doing something else.”

“Like the labor rights work George spoke of?”

“Like that.”

“So why don’t you?”

“It doesn’t pay.” As soon as he said it he realized how materialistic and selfish he sounded.

Imogen didn’t judge him though, she just said, “You need to earn a living.”

Chris shifted in his seat and thanked the waiter delivering their salt and pepper squid. He was tired of talking about himself. “How’s your business planning going?”

Imogen hesitated, taking some food. “I haven’t had a lot of time for it lately. It’s been busy at work with the next collection and making sure the spring sales are going well.”

“Do you do all of that yourself?” It sounded like a lot.

“Not all of it, but I get called in for opinions a lot.” She didn’t seem very happy about it.

Intrigued, he asked, “Don’t you like your job?”

She sighed. “Papa is really particular about the designs and clothing. I know what he likes and so if he isn’t around everyone asks me.”

Sounded rather controlling, but that was Chris’s experience of Remy Fontaine. “Is that why you want to go out on your own?”

“No.” She was silent for a long moment before she added, “Papa doesn’t like my designs.”

Chris sat back. That was a surprise. He would have expected Fontaine to say whatever his daughter wanted to hear. “Really?”

Imogen shrugged. “They’re too mainstream, not quirky enough. It doesn’t fit the Tour de Force brand.”

“Yet he’s not even supporting you to set up your own label?” Imogen had mentioned she had money saved.

“No.” It was flat, didn’t invite additional questions, but there was a sadness in her face. Chris wanted to take it away.

“When I get back I’m happy to help you with anything you need.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“As long as it takes.” At Imogen’s look he added, “Probably a couple of weeks.”

“Have you been to Australia before?” she asked.

“Yeah. Perth’s a nice place, especially if there’s time to get out of the CBD.”

“That’s where Libby’s from,” Imogen said.

“Kate told me all about the beach Libby took her to – all white sand, clear blue water and few people. I’m going to find it if I get a day spare.”

“Sounds nice.”

They fell silent as they ate some more food.

Imogen opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again.

He waited while she appeared to deliberate with herself. “What is it?”

She sighed. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t know how to without offending you.”

Was she going to tell him what had been bothering her yesterday? “I promise I won’t get offended.”

“You can’t promise, but I’ll say it anyway.” She paused. “When you told me Papa sent you away, you said he gave you a letter from me. Have you still got it?”

He did. He had screwed it up into a ball but hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw it out. He even knew exactly where it was. “Why?”

“I wanted to read what it said, check if I could recognize the handwriting.”

“Did you ask your father about it?”

She hesitated and he knew the answer. “What did he say?”

“He said he loaned your father money to settle your uncle’s gambling debts and you disappeared.”

Always the good guy. It rankled but he understood the position she was in, stuck between him and a father she loved.

“I’ve still got it. Do you want to come and see it?” They’d finished eating anyway.

“Now?”

“Sure. I live a couple of blocks down. We can walk there.”

“Yes, please.”

They got to their feet and left the bar. The evening was crisp and the tap, tap of Imogen’s high heels against the pavement was loud.

“Do you have a car nearby?” he asked.

She pointed in the direction they were walking. “It’s parked at work. I’ll leave it there unless there’s parking near your place.”

He shook his head. “You going to be all right walking in those heels?”

She grinned. “I’m used to it.”

They reached his apartment building and entered the elevator. He was ridiculously nervous about taking Imogen up to his place and he couldn’t figure out why. He’d brought women up before, but it had never felt like such a big deal.

He opened the door to his apartment, hoping he’d remembered to clean up the dishes that morning. As he turned on the light he scanned the room, checking. It was tidy enough; there were a couple of magazines on the glass coffee table but that was it. Actually when he looked around his apartment, trying to view it through Imogen’s eyes, he realized it was probably too neat. He spent most of his time in his home office working, or watching sport on television. Aside from one photo of him and his dad sitting on the breakfast bar, there was nothing showing his personality, unless you counted the sixty-inch television. He had no pictures on the walls, no throw cushions, no color. Everything was charcoal, black or glass.

It kind of depressed him.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked as he moved through the room to the kitchen.

“A glass of water would be great.”

He poured the drink and put the coffee machine on for himself. Taking the glass into the lounge area he said, “I’ll go find the letter.”

He walked into his office and went to the wooden box he kept it in. Though he’d read it a thousand times, he read it again, trying to figure out how she would interpret it. In the end he gave up. She would take it how she took it. Chris gave himself a minute more to brace himself and walked back into the living room. “Here.”

She paused before taking it and stood holding it for a moment. He went to make himself a coffee and to give her some space to read.

*

Imogen held the letter in her hand, her heart beating rapidly. She’d recognized the paper it was written on instantly. It was the pink-monogramed stock her father had bought for her when she turned twelve. She had used it to write letters to Mrs. Povey and Mrs. Ashtead because she had no family or friends to write to.

There was no way Christian could have got hold of the paper, or had it copied.

Her father had lied to her.

Imogen squeezed her eyes shut as her heart pinched. Part of her didn’t want to open the letter, didn’t want to learn the extent of the betrayal.

But the other part had to know.

She opened her eyes, sat down on the couch and her hands shook as she unfolded the letter. The paper was wrinkled.

Delaying a little longer she traced her finger over her monogrammed initials as she’d done when her father first gave her the paper. Then she focused on the words.

She recognized the flowery letters immediately. Her father’s writing. He did everything with a flowing, over-the-top grace, including his handwriting. A lump formed in her throat as she read.

Christian,

I have asked Papa to give you this letter because I do not want to see you again.

It was fun to see how the rest of the world lives for a while, but I much prefer the chateau. Don’t come back to the garden, otherwise I will have to call the police.

Piper will be back next week. You are no longer required.

Imogen

Imogen closed her eyes. The last time she’d seen Christian was just before she flew to Paris with her father in a private jet. She remembered his awe when she’d told him about the plane and his offhand comment that she was slumming it with him. It was no wonder he’d believed the letter to be true.

She put herself in his shoes. They’d had a couple of weeks together having fun, with that underlying connection zinging between them. She knew he’d felt it too, even though neither of them voiced it aloud. Each sentence her father had written came with a solid punch to that connection.

Christian’s reaction made perfect sense.

She wiped at the tears in her eyes.

“You all right?”

She glanced up; Christian was standing there, cradling his coffee, watching her. How long had he been there?

Imogen nodded, though she felt anything but all right, and handed him back the note. “Thank you.”

“Did it help?”

She’d got her answer, but she wasn’t sure if it actually helped her. She had no idea how to address Papa’s lies. “It’s my father’s handwriting,” she said. “He gave me the paper for my twelfth birthday.”

Christian sat down beside her. Imogen wanted to turn to him, but if he hugged her she suspected she might give in to the tears building up inside. She had to
think
.

Remy had somehow learned her secret: that she’d found someone to spend her summer days with. But was he truly so concerned about who she fraternized with?