Prologue
July, five months ago
Brooke Garrison ordered her first taste of alcohol at twenty-eight years old.
She reached across the polished teak wood for the glass of wine from the aging bartender at the Garrison Grand Hotel lounge. Her hand shook after the emotional toll of the day, hearing her father’s will read, learning of his secret life. At least she didn’t have to worry about getting carded even if she had been younger since her family owned the place.
“Thank you,” she said, surreptitiously reading the older man’s name tag, “Donald.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Garrison.” He slid an extra napkin her way as smoothly as the pianist slipped into his next song. “And please accept my condolences about your father. He will be missed.”
By more people than she had realized. “We all appreciate the kind words. Thank you again.”
“Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Anything else? She would like to erase this whole horrible day and start over.
Or at least stop thinking about it, much less talking. She’d already ignored four voice messages from her brother Parker’s receptionist.
Tentatively, Brooke sipped the wine, wincing. She watched the candle’s flame through the chardonnay’s swirl. Somewhere in that glass were the answers to what stole her mother away from her. To what had driven her father to lead a secret second life in the years before he’d died.
Her alcoholic mother’s bitter words after the reading of John Garrison’s will this morning echoed over and over again through Brooke’s head. “The cheating son of a bitch. I’m glad he’s dead.”
What a hell of a way to learn there weren’t five Garrison offspring—but six. In addition to three brothers and an identical twin sister, Brooke had an illegitimate half sister living in the Bahamas, a sister her father had never told them about while he was alive. Instead, he’d chosen to share the news in his will while handing over a sizable chunk of the Garrison empire to Cassie Sinclair—the newly discovered sibling.
Not that Brooke cared about the money. The betrayal, however, burned.
Conversations and clinking glasses of happier people swelled around her while she sipped. She wanted none of the revelry, even made a point of carefully avoiding eye contact with a couple of men attempting to snag her attention.
Brooke raised the long-stemmed crystal to her mouth again. She knew the wine was as top-notch as the fresh flowers and linens around her. Her taste buds, however, registered nothing. She was too numb with grief.
She’d always blamed her mother for her father’s frequent business trips. The drinking must have driven her wonderful daddy away. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if her father’s behavior had somehow contributed to her mother’s unhappiness.
And how could she untangle it all in the middle of mourning the loss of such a huge figure in her life? The hotel blared reminders of his presence. She could see her father’s imprint on each multi-domed chandelier in the bar, on every towering column.
Brooke circled a finger around the top of her half-full glass, an indulgence she never allowed herself because of her mother’s addiction.
Tonight wasn’t normal.
Her eyes hooked on the looming columns in the spacious hall outside the bar—the evening turning further beyond normal than she ever could have anticipated.
Through the arched entranceway walked the last man she expected here, but one she recognized well even in the dim lighting. Their families had been business rivals for years, a competition that only seemed to increase once Jordan Jefferies had taken over after his father’s death.
So why was Jordan here now?
Brooke forced herself to think more like her siblings and less like her peacemaker self…and the obvious answer came to her. He’d come to her brother Stephen’s hotel to scope out the competition.
Brooke took the unobserved moment to study Jordan Jefferies prowling the room with a lion’s lazy grace. No, wait. Lazy was the wrong word.
Think like her siblings. Jefferies would only want people to perceive a lazy lope so he could pounce while she was otherwise occupied staring at his blond, muscle-bound good looks.
Yeah, she’d noticed his looks more than once. He might be the enemy, but she wasn’t blind. However, she’d considered him off-limits because of the controversy it would cause in her family. Often, she’d heard her oldest brother Parker fume for days over a contentious business meeting with Jordan. The family diplomat, she always tried her best to soothe over arguments and hurt feelings.
For all the good it had done her. The whole Garrison clan had been ripped raw today.
Her mother’s voice whispered again…”The cheating son of a bitch. I’m glad he’s dead.”
The bartender swooped by, breaking her train of thought. “Can I get you anything else, Miss Garrison?”
Garrison. She couldn’t escape it anywhere around here, just as futile as thinking she could keep peace in her family.
Why bother trying?
A heat fired through her veins and bloomed into an idea, a desire. And sure, a need for open rebellion after a day of hell. “Yes, Donald, actually you can do something for me. Please tell the gentleman over there—” she pointed to Jordan“—that his drinks for the evening are on the house.”
“Of course, Miss Garrison.” The bartender smiled discreetly and walked under the rows of hanging glasses to the other side of the wooden bar. He leaned to relay the message and Brooke waited. Her stomach tightened in anticipation.
What would he think of her picking up the tab for his drinks? Likely nothing more than a Garrison acknowledging his presence.
Would Jordan Jefferies even remember her? Of course he would. He was a savvy businessman who would know all the Garrisons. A better question, would he be able to tell her apart from her twin?
He looked from the bartender to her. His gaze met hers, and even in the low lighting she could see the blue of his eyes. Interest sparked in his slow smile.
Jordan picked up his drink and wove his way around the patrons, straight toward her with a deliberate, unhesitating pace. He set his glass beside hers. “I didn’t expect such a nice welcome from a Garrison. Are you sure you didn’t have the bartender poison my drink, Brooke?”
He recognized her. Or a lucky guess?
“How do you know I’m not Brittany?”
Without ever glancing away from her eyes, he reached, stopping an inch shy of touching a lock of her hair that stubbornly refused to stay pulled back.