The Dirty Secret by Kira A. Gold

Author:Kira A. Gold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Undressing Room

Vessa pulled her sweater tighter around her body, berating herself again for being naive—she’d thought she could just stay hidden until she could afford her own choices—but she’d forgotten how tiny Vermont was. The entire city of Burlington was smaller than her neighborhood in L.A.

Her laundry spun around and around in the industrial washing machines Manny kept in the basement of Brass and Bones. They were old avocado-colored steel with glass doors and slots for quarters, and they made the air in the cellar heavy and hot, but her teeth still chattered.

She watched her clothes splash back and forth in the washer, like a porthole in a stormy sea. The dryer tumbled clockwise, the same frenetic spin as the thoughts in her brain, always the same image: Starla and Killian in profile, him reaching across the table to touch her hand.

She’d imagined many scenarios of finally meeting her sister for the first time. Rescuing the entire family from hostages, in a VIP box at her own sold-out Broadway debut, showing up in an identical dress to their father’s White House inauguration. Her favorite was bailing Starla out of jail. But coming face-to-face with her while wearing a Pizza Piazza apron, in front of the guy she was having a fling with? That had never occurred to her.

A new fantasy lurked in the dark shadows of the cellar, one that involved the pulling of perfect strawberry-blond hair and fancy jewelry scattered on the floor.

Vessa’s phone rang four times—twice on Friday and twice Sunday morning. Each unanswered call was punctuated by the buzz of voice mail.

One message was from a number she knew by heart.

“Sweetheart, sorry I missed your call.” Her father’s words were hushed, like he was making an illicit call in a library—or his own living room. “You sound kind of low, honey. You want to make a day trip up to Montreal next month? There’s a Picasso exhibit at the fine arts museum. Give me a call sometime.”

The second message was from a deep voice with a rasp at the bottom and a Southern twang. Her response was immediate and visceral, a wave of arousal as if he had stroked her from lips to breasts to thighs, just by saying her name. “Vessa, this is Killian Fitzroy. It’s not an emergency, but the firm’s accounts manager needs the receipts from the credit card purchases. If you have the time to stop by, I’m planning to be at the house tonight. If you can’t, then just drop them off whenever it’s convenient.” There was a long pause. “The upstairs bathroom is pretty intense. You’ll have to explain the jokes to me. Okay. Bye.”

The third was from another familiar Vermont number. Nana’s voice was light as a bird’s chirp. “Hiya, Vess. Your dad told us you were here, and we can’t wait to see you. Come see us anytime. Except Tuesday, Thursday and Friday—your grampa has his physical therapy in the morning and he gets tired. And not this Monday, that’s my garden club.

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