Take it to the Grave Bundle 1 Read online

  I blinked. Was she having a little dig at me? My gaze darted toward my sister, sitting on a settee, my nephew asleep in her arms. Wow. That little screeching monkey looked so calm and peaceful when he was asleep. So cute. I wanted to reach out to touch him, smooth that soft down on his head, but I stopped myself, the memory of Sarah standing so protectively in front of her son’s crib, so defensively—against me, her sister. That stung. I switched my gaze back to my sister. She avoided my gaze. Yep, her mother-in-law was having a dig at me for...not responding sooner? Did she not know how cell reception worked in the back of the boonies?

  “I’m so glad to be here, to finally meet my sister’s new family,” I told the older woman. She smiled. A little.

  “Yes, well, we’re also happy to finally meet Sarah’s side of the family.” Even that comment was loaded with a masked criticism. I glanced at my sister.

  Sarah looked relaxed and casual, yet I thought, with that expensive cut, she could probably just roll out of bed looking like that. I stared at my sister. Her complexion was pale—not the unblemished, untouched-by-the-sun, thousands-of-dollars-spent-on-night-creams-and-facial-peels kind of pale, though. More of a hint of the tired, wan, I-so-need-sleep pale I’d seen on countless new mothers the world over. For a moment, she was still, her shoulders slightly hunched, her mouth drawn, and I’m not sure, but was that just the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes?

  Her clothes were beautiful, the kind that cost a lot to look oh-so-casual, and her shoes...more posh feet. I sighed, then noticed her perfectly plumped and made-up lips were pressed tight. Despite the rich quality of her ensemble, she looked...worn. Tired...weak. So different than the woman I’d seen in the baby’s room, holding a hand out so protectively toward the infant. So different from the strong, resilient woman I’d pictured in my mind’s eye on those very brief occasions I’d wondered about her over the years. I was surprised, I’ll admit. She didn’t look the way I thought she would—the way I thought she should.

  “Hi, Maisey.” The guy at the window turned, and when his eyes met mine across the room, he smiled. His lips parted, curved, his teeth strong and white against his tanned skin. Wow. He looked movie-star gorgeous. An all-American, clean-shaven, sandy-haired, blue-eyed drink of handsome that could easily grace posters hanging on the walls of a teenage girl’s room, or be that next tabloid sensation. Sex on legs, as one of my nursing friends used to say. His blue eyes twinkled warmly, and his chin lifted, revealing that strong jawline.

  “Warwick,” I responded, smiling in return, and this time my smile was sincere.

  No wonder Sarah married him. The guy was a hunk, a magnetic, smoking-hot hunk. He was gorgeous and he was rich. I couldn’t believe my sister. Sarah had everything a woman could ever want, surely? So clever, always landing on her feet. A beyond-handsome husband, a beautiful son (when he wasn’t screaming the house down), a home that was architecturally stunning, servants at her beck and call, in-laws who were present and engaged in her life...family. A sharp, hot shard of jealousy pierced me. Sarah wanted for nothing. She was living in the lap of luxury, in a long-term, committed relationship with a man, building a spectacular nest, creating a family...and I was working in mud and filth, living a nomadic life without a permanent address, and running out on my Mr. Shag-for-Now, creating tears and hot messes everywhere I went, everyone I touched. She had it so together, and I, by stark, pathetic comparison, had a backpack and a new lipstick. Fuck me.

  “Got a hug for your brother-in-law?” he asked, grinning, approaching me with arms outstretched. We hugged, and my surprise at how close his hands were to my butt, or how firmly he pulled me to him, pressing my breasts against his strong, muscled chest, or how he held me just a little too long past appropriate, was quickly swamped by a hot tide of attraction. God, he smelled so good. He felt good. Lucy purred inside my mind. She wanted to play.

  “It’s great to finally meet you, Warwick.” I was pleased Lucy got his name right. He gave me a tight, thrilling little squeeze as he stepped back, and again his handsome features enthralled me.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, his voice low with a welcoming warmth. His eyes surveyed me, and he winked. I saw the flare of approval, of attraction, and was secretly excited that this man, this hunk, was obviously attracted to me. More than that, though, with that knowing glint in his eye, that intent focus on my breasts, my hips and legs—this man wanted sex. With me.

  I wanted it, too. With him.

  “I’ll take whatever you’re dishing out,” Lucy replied, my voice low and husky, just the way Lucy had perfected it. Just for a moment, I entertained the thought of indulging. For a split second, pieces fell into place in my mind, pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even realize were scattered in my brain. How satisfying it would be, to take my sister’s contentment, her security and satisfaction, and rip just a little bit from her, bring some of that sugar my way.

  Screw her husband, Lucy whispered inside my mind.

  I blinked. Oh. My. God. Seriously? How could I even go there? This gorgeous, flirty man was not some guy at a beachside bar or a cab driver looking for a good time—despite his interest—no, this was my sister’s husband. He was married, he had a son and he was my brother-in-law, and I wanted to screw him? God, how sick was I? How could I even think of doing that to my sister? Sure, we hadn’t seen each other in years, and despite our current proximity, we were as distant as two individuals can be, a fact that saddened me. I had no idea how to overcome that chasm. But Sarah—she was my sister; she was there when Dad died, when I was so sick with grief and despair, who held my hand at his funeral, who held my hand when we had to go back to school, who held my hand when we moved into Peter’s home, who stood up for me, whispered to me through the wall when we were both locked in our rooms, and who had fed me when my own mother was either too drunk or, later, too injured to do it herself. If at all possible, I hated myself even more than the night I left Rich, or when I broke Pedro’s heart.

  No, Lucy did that, and Lucy was responsible for this little quandary. God, Lucy was going to get me into so much trouble. I sighed, then smiled brightly as Warwick approached, a substantial serving of amber liquid in the glass in his hand. Oh, who was I kidding? That wasn’t a glass from Walmart; that was crystal in his hand. It caught the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting colorful prisms of light onto the floor, bathing his path in a deferential sparkle as though even the gods wanted to celebrate the existence of these rich, successful, beautiful people.

  “I hope you don’t mind whiskey,” Warwick commented as he handed me the crystal tumbler. “You did say ‘whatever I was dishing out.’”

  I smiled. “I can handle this,” Lucy purred, and Warwick winked as he raised his own glass. I smiled as I clinked my glass lightly against his, and took a sip of the scorching liquid fire.

  Go on. Have some fun, Maisey.

  Shut up. My smiled turned brittle. Flirting with my brother-in-law, boozing it up—Lucy was the wild child when she needed to be, but I wasn’t sure that was exactly what I needed for this situation. If I let Lucy take over, she could make a mess of nuclear proportions. Lucy would so have sex with Warwick, and then sneak out in the middle of the night, clutching her shoes and her bra, giggling into the darkness. Lucy would totally drink up, charm the parents and then be outrageous—and get away with it.

  Except for sleeping with her sister’s husband. Yeah. I don’t think even Lucy could get away with that.

  Let’s give it a try, Lucy urged.

  I had to get Lucy out of my head. Lucy protected me, helped me move on when things got too serious, but...these people weren’t just people. They were family. I eyed my sister on the white leather sofa. She held my nephew. He was my blood. My family. I couldn’t abandon him, just like I couldn’t abandon those poor, desperate people in need of medical care. It wasn’t in me to completely trash a child’s future. It’
s why I did what I did for a living, and why I was here in this concrete-and-glass castle.

  Yeah, Lucy had to take a backseat for this one; otherwise, she’d get me into trouble that I might not be able to duck out on.

  You have to sit this one out, Lucy.

  No, Lucy wailed. That’s not fair.

  No, it’s safe, I told her. I closed my eyes, rubbing my temple until I could mute Lucy’s comments.

  “Are you okay, Maisey?” Warwick asked, looking at me curiously.

  I smiled, content that Lucy was contained. “Yeah, sorry. Jet lag.”

  “This heat wave isn’t doing anyone any favors.” Eleanor subsided on the sofa next to my sister. I think that was the older woman’s attempt at being friendly.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Maisey. Sarah says you were in Asia?” Eleanor gestured to the armchair next to the sofa, so I sat obediently. I hesitated.

  The problem was, if I wasn’t Lucy, who the hell was I? Lucy had been a part of me for so long, the persona I pulled out when I needed a little courage and a lot of confidence. I wasn’t quite sure how to be myself, not with any great success. Just ask Pedro. Hell. Lucy was exciting and interesting. Maisey was...well, boring. Timid. Mundane.

  No, I was determined to do this on my own, and not let Lucy get me into trouble. “I work as a site supervisor for Nurses Without Borders,” I said. I relaxed against the backrest of the armchair and smiled. At least I knew about this subject. “I help implement the introduction of health clinics and programs in remote communities.”

  “Sounds like challenging work,” Edward said.

  My smile broadened as Edward winked at me as he lowered the newspaper. Yeah, like father, like son. Eleanor’s greeting was mild. Polite, calm, not cool, but definitely not warm. I lifted my glass, extending my finger in an artfully chic move until I remembered my nails were jagged, unpolished and just a little coarse, so then I adjusted by waving the glass in what I hoped was again an artfully chic move.

  “I can see the family resemblance,” I murmured, mimicking Eleanor’s manner, and the older woman’s smile thawed. A little. I waved my hand again in what I seriously hoped looked like elegant insouciance and not drunken abandon.

  “You have a beautiful home. The view is stunning.” And this time I was talking about the beach and ocean outside these walls, and not the picture-perfect people inside.

  Sarah met my gaze and smiled, and for a moment there was something familiar, comfortable and so beautiful. Home.

  I rose and went over to my big sister, smiling as I sat next to her on the sofa, almost sinking into the buttery softness of the leather cushions. I gazed down at my nephew.

  “Look what you made,” I said softly. “He’s so beautiful, Sarah.” I spoke quietly, but almost felt the others’ varied reactions of pride and pleasure in my words. Eleanor, in particular, lifted her chin as though personally accepting the praise.

  Elliot really was cute. I wanted to see him crawl around, toddle, trip and try again... I was surprised by that intense longing that swept through me. I wasn’t a settle-down kind of gal, and there was no way I’d consider having my own kids, but that was a life choice for me. I had nothing against kids; I loved them—especially if they slept through the night. I could feel myself soften toward my nephew, my shoulders relaxing, my lungs expanding and a warmth spreading in my chest that I hadn’t felt in years—and it wasn’t the whiskey.

  “Would you like to hold him?” Warwick asked, his smile indulgent as he braced his hand against the backrest of the sofa, not too far from Sarah’s head, and looked down at us. I almost missed the shift in Sarah’s posture, the slightest hunch to her shoulders, the tightening of her arms around the baby as she hugged him closer, my nephew’s little snuffle at the shift in position, although he slept on.

  I kept the smile on my face, although my heart withered. Oh, ow. She was protecting him again. From me. My cheeks warmed, but my jaw clenched as I choked back the instinct to cry.

  “Go on, Sarah, give Maisey a turn with Elliot,” Warwick said, dipping his head toward the baby.

  Sarah blanched, her gaze flicking between me and her husband, and time seemed to slow. A line appeared in the center of Warwick’s brow, just above his nose, and I wasn’t sure if it was impatience, anger, confusion or a combination of all three.

  Sarah couldn’t quite hide her terror—no, reluctance. Why would the thought of handing her firstborn to her little sister make her wary? I resolutely ignored my highly inappropriate considerations toward her husband of only a moment ago. No, this was something else, something different. She didn’t want me to hold her son. She didn’t trust me. Pain lanced my gut, and I thought furiously of a way to politely, tactfully decline the offer. I didn’t want to put my sister in an awkward position—although, really, was there anything more awkward than this very moment? I was briefly distracted by the exchange of looks, so silent but apparently conveying so much between my sister and brother-in-law, but then decided it was far better to back out of this situation than dwell on it.

  My sister’s shoulders sagged as she turned to me, and she leaned forward. Oh, God, she was going to hand him over. She didn’t want to, I knew. My hand twitched, and amber liquid splashed onto my white, not-quite-linen pants. I gasped, and Sarah’s eyes widened as I rose. She leaned back a little, holding Elliot high to her chest as she gazed at me.

  “Oh, God, how clumsy am I? It must be the jet lag,” I spoke hastily, brushing my hand over my thighs. I could feel the fabric sticking to my leg, the cold, wet sensation much more comfortable than the reluctant pause in conversation of just a moment ago. The sour scent of whiskey wafted up, canceling out that sweet, baby-talc smell of innocence embraced in my sister’s arms.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go change,” I said, smiling apologetically to everyone in general and nobody in particular. I shook my head in self-recrimination. “I’m so sorry, guys.” I stepped away from the sofa, placing the crystal tumbler with a dull clink on the glass end table next to the sofa. I started to walk toward the door, that same goofy, apologetic smile on my face as I scrunched my nose in a mock-grimace and looked over my shoulder. Sarah’s expression was a mix of relief and surprise. I glanced at Warwick, and had to force my feet to plod along.

  He’d flinched, his gaze focused on the drops and rivulets of whiskey on the otherwise pristine white sofa. Yes, once again, I had left a mess in my wake, but it was the angle of his head, the clench of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes, that was so familiar, so...daunting. That kind of reaction, right down to the muscle tick in the cheek—and my muscle memory kicked into gear. As soon as I was in the hall and out of sight of those in the room, I ran.

  Warwick’s recoil reminded me of someone. My stepfather, Peter.

  Sarah

  The summer breeze caresses my face like an old friend. I rest my head against the porch swing, using my feet to rock us. Elliot sighs against my chest, asleep at last. The quiet moments I share with him are the best part of my day.

  What a horrible evening. Warwick was a perfect asshole. I’m sure everyone knows he wants to bone my little sister. He didn’t make any attempt to hide it.

  Poor Maisey. I should have warned her about the mess she was walking into. But how was I supposed to know Warwick would make a move on her? She isn’t his type. Or at least, she wasn’t his type. Who knows what he’s into these days?

  The screen door squeals, and I hear Warwick’s footsteps behind me. Good—I have a few things I’d like to say to him.

  “Sarah?”

  It’s Maisey. I sigh with relief as I pat the space next to me. “Come sit with us.” Gripping the porch with my toes, I steady the rocker. She hesitates before squeezing in beside me. “What’s wrong? Is it too hot in your room?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? It’s an icebox in there.”r />
  “I can ask Warwick to turn down the A/C if you like. He can be a little...overzealous.” I hope she’ll get that I’m not just talking about the air-conditioning.

  “It’s not that. It always takes me a while to get used to a new place.” Maisey runs her fingers through her hair. She does seem unsettled here. I should have realized she’d feel like a fish out of water in the Hamptons, especially after seeing so many people living in desperate poverty.

  “Occupational hazard?”

  She doesn’t smile at my joke. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “How many countries have you been to now?” It’s hard to believe this is the same girl who used to hate change, the one who would throw a fit if we ran out of crunchy peanut butter for her daily sandwich.

  She shrugs. “It would be easier to tell you where I haven’t been.”

  “Wow—I’m so jealous. I’d love to see more of the world, but it’ll have to wait until he’s a little older.” I snuggle Elliot closer.

  “Speaking as someone who’s spent many miserable hours in planes with screaming babies, you have my thanks.” Maisey moves as if to touch my son’s cheek, but then thinks better of it. “I’m really sorry about being such a klutz. I hope I didn’t ruin your couch.”

  It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. My sister is many things, but clumsy isn’t one of them. “The sofa is fine. I think your pants got the worst of it.” I wish it were that easy for me to escape.

  “It’s okay. Nothing of mine is worth anything much.”

  She sounds so wistful I wish I could hug her. “But what a life you have. And remember, you’re helping people. Everything you see here is just stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.” She must think I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world. It’s always the people who have the most who claim it doesn’t matter.

  “We’ve sure taken different paths.”

  “That we have. Dad would be so proud of you if he knew you were a nurse. I wish he was here to see it.”