“Olivia Taylor to see Claire Donovan, please.”
She looked at me with poorly disguised suspicion. “Do you have an appointment?”
I looked her straight in the eye. “No.” I felt dizzy, nauseated, a sense of impending doom overwhelming me. But I already knew what the doom was about, and who would cause it.
Me.
I breathed deeply, steadying myself.
The housekeeper pursed her lips in disapproval. “Can I ask what this is about?”
It took everything I had to say the words I’d said many times before in my life, and to not faint on Claire Donovan’s doorstep.
“Please tell her I have something that belongs to her.”
24
The Deal
“Please wait here,” the housemaid said, her expression neutral, but her eyes flicking over me with quiet scrutiny. I stood on the porch, unwilling to step inside until invited. She hesitated for a moment, then turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving the front door open.
A few muffled words carried back to me. It was probably Claire’s voice.
Seconds later, the housemaid returned, her posture a little stiffer than before. “Mrs. Donovan will see you now,” she said, stepping aside to let me in. “Please follow me.” Her face crinkled a little as if she doubted her decision about me.
Following, I entered the foyer, where marble floors gleamed under a massive, sophisticated chandelier. But the first thing I noticed was the faint scent of lavender. Winston had told me he kept fresh lavender everywhere, to repel scorpions. The scent reminded me of him, stirring an ache inside my chest.
The maid invited me to head toward the backyard patio and showed me the way, walking quickly and silently across the spacious living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows let filtered sunshine in and showed a view of the hills. Ornate mirrors, impressionist paintings, and rich dark-wood accents adorned the room.
Did Winston enjoy this house? Or was it more to Claire’s liking? I’d always wanted a house like this. Yet this one belonged to Claire, and mine wasn’t on the horizon yet.
Outside, the back patio had been turned into an elegant, private oasis with a sparkling infinity pool, strategically placed rocks, lemongrass shrubs and cacti landscaping, and tall palm trees. Flanking the door, two large ceramic pots held flowering lavender in full bloom. This yard didn’t have a fence; the hilly landscape covered in shrubs and clumps of tall desert grasses ensured its privacy.
The housemaid opened the sliding door to the patio and stepped to the side. “Please take a seat.” She pointed toward a table under an open sand-colored umbrella. “Someone will be there shortly with refreshments.”
“And Mrs. Donovan?” I asked impatiently.
“She’ll be right with you.”
The door slid closed behind me, and I was left by myself. I leaned over a flowerpot and inhaled the powerful scent of lavender, filling my lungs with it and trying not to think of Winston, or of that day on the Colorado River.
Too restless to sit down, I paced the granite patio back and forth. By the pool, an open book was abandoned on a large cushy lounge chair, as if someone had stopped reading and left it there, planning to return soon. On the small wrought iron table by the lounge chair, a tall glass sat about two-thirds full with a yellow bubbly liquid and fresh mint leaves, and was covered in sweat. Probably lemonade. Several ice cubes floated in the glass, resisting the thawing power of the midafternoon sun. A small bottle ofVisineeye drops and a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses had been left on the same table.
Claire had just been there. Reading, drinking mint lemonade, without a care in this unfair world. Again, I found myself wondering how some people landed hands full of aces and others struggled, chased by hungry ghosts their entire lives, sentenced to never find peace. Or the love of a family. Was it the luck of the draw? Fate, as some would callit? Or something Claire had achieved for herself, fought for tooth and nail, the way I was fighting in turn?
The sliding door opened, and I turned to see who was coming.
It was Claire.
She was dressed in an elegant black skirt cinched with a black belt and a curve-hugging red top. She was thin, a size 4 at best, and almost as tall as I was. Her hair, blond and long and wavy like mine, was tied in a loose ponytail, several strands flanking her face in apparent disarray, yet carefully styled. A solitary blue diamond adorned her finger, this being the only jewelry she wore. Had Winston bought her that? A pang of jealousy sliced through my heart.
She studied me with curiosity. “Ms. Taylor?”
I nodded and offered my hand. “Olivia.”
“Olivia,” she repeated, the curiosity in her eyes colored with a touch of suspicion. She sat at the table and crossed her legs. “I’m told you have something of mine. What would that be?”
I pulled out a chair and sat, crossing my legs in an instinctive mirroring of her actions. Then I put the white file on the table next to my purse. “I have your husband, Mrs. Donovan.”
