Page 2 of Blacklist

“I’m a private contractor.”

He waits for more information—maybe a business card. I don’t offer any. So like a good member of the greatest generation he fills the void between us with mindless market chatter. I nod enough to look like I’m listening—and then I feel it—feel her—approaching. The room is electric, humming with the undercurrent of static building toward a strike—and the inevitable crash.

2

Adair

This isn’t happening.

My mother once told me that having MacLaine blood running through your veins meant being able to walk through fire like you set it on purpose. Given how often MacLaines start shit, it’s a valuable skill to have. Today, though, even in the pouring rain, I felt the heat the moment he touched me. It burned through me like wildfire. That’s how it had always been with us. No one was responsible for the devastation. It was an act of God, some natural force that couldn’t be prevented once it started. There was no controlling it. No denying it. All I could do the moment our eyes met was turn away and hope I made it out unscathed. Unlike last time.

That’s the thing about being a MacLaine, we may walk through fire but that means we’re all hiding scars.

The moment the limousine pulls into the drive, I’m out and up the steps. I don’t have to go far to find a bottle of Scotch. Not at Windfall, the family estate my father built. My finger traces the label. West Tennessee Whiskey. My father’s favorite. I pour a glass with unsteady hands, hoping to wash the memories away.

“It’s been five years,” I remind myself quietly. But while five years might be long enough to bury secrets, it can’t erase mistakes.

The house will be full of people soon. Mourners come to pay their respects, or rather gossip about my father and his fortune. They’re here to play the guessing game torturing the rest of us: who gets the money? The land? The company? What will happen to the MacLaine legacy? It’s all I’ve thought about for months. Years, if I’m being honest. Ever since daddy got sick. Ever since…

And then? Sterling Ford shows up at the funeral.

Which can only mean one thing: a reckoning.

I tried to play off the encounter. Five years had passed. Neither of us were kids anymore. I’m not certain I’ve changed much. At least, not as much as him. When I first met him, Sterling was a lean but wiry six feet. At the time I’d wondered if he was an athlete, but his physique then had come from a very different source.

“Maybe it wasn’t him,” I say to the empty room, even it doesn’t believe me. I know it was him like I know I’m breathing.

A shiver rolls through me as the memory of his skin, slick and hot against mine, flashes to mind. My body had recognized him before my brain did. He’s no longer the boy I remember, but I would know him anywhere. I am chills and fire—a feverish reconstruction of the woman I was when I woke up this morning mixed with a girl who fell for the wrong man. I knew today would be the end of me. I thought I might have a choice in who I would become after this. Now I know I was wrong. We never really rid ourselves of the past, no matter how deep we bury it.

“Adair!”

I quickly down the remaining whiskey. I know my sister-in-law’s voice by the edge of perpetual panic it holds.

Taking a steadying breath, I leave the bottle on my father’s desk. Exiting the study, I find Ginny in the foyer, struggling to hold a squirming heap of black taffeta and limbs.

“Could you?” Desperation glints in her chocolate brown eyes. “I need to speak to the caterer.”

“Of course.” I scoop my niece from her arms. Ellie instantly ceases her struggle, smirking up at me.

“Ellie, keep your skirt down,” her mother orders before smoothing her own black sheath. Ginny can’t stand a wrinkle out of place. Her copper hair is knotted into a chignon, not a hair daring to escape the tight coil. Her porcelain skin is buffed to perfection, a complimentary shade of rose dusting her cheeks. She is exactly the trophy my brother wanted on his arm. The only kink in her life is Ellie, who was born a bundle of determined chaos. She hurries off toward the kitchens, patting her perfect hair delicately as she goes.

I place the little girl on her feet, bending down to talk to her. Unlike her mother, Ellie’s strawberry blonde curls are tangled and windswept. I frown as I recall the argument I had with her parents last night. I told them she was too young to attend the graveside service. With them it’s always about appearance. How would it look if Angus MacLaine’s granddaughter were absent? I’d nearly bit my tongue off trying to keep quiet. Now Ginny is put out that Ellie was misbehaving. “You were pulling up your skirt?”

“Watch,” she tells me seriously. Taking a baby step back, she holds out her arms and spins in a wild circle. Her dress flares out, rippling around her as she twirls.

“Very nice.” I clap as she slows, dizzily stumbling over her own feet like she’s had too much to drink. I steady her and smile down at her. “Whoa. That’s pretty cool, but do you know why Mom doesn’t want you to do that?”

“Cause it’s granddaddy’s fumeral.” Her eyebrows crease together like she’s been through this before and recently. She tips her head, her gaze full of questions and I brace myself. “What’s a fumeral?”

“Funeral,” I correct her gently. I always get stuck with the hard questions where Ellie is concerned. “It means goodbye.”

“Why are all these people here for goodbye?” She holds up her hands to emphasize how everything about this is weird. “Why can’t we just wave to him when he goes?”

I curse Ginny for not having this conversation with her. This is supposed to be her job. She’s her mother. I know what will happen if I bring it up. She’ll flutter like a wounded bird and tell me that Ellie doesn’t ask her those things. We’ve been here before. There’s no point bringing it up. Ginny and I aren’t exactly close. Not anymore.

“He already left,” I tell her softly, “and this is a party for us to remember him.”

“Is there cake?” she asks hopefully.