Twisted Lies (Dirty Secrets) (9 page)

“Nope. I wasn’t invited into the grown-up section.” Absently, I rubbed the scar on my shoulder. “But something strange did happen when I got home. I think Jaxon’s back.”

Jade’s eyes widened. “I, uh…shit. This is bad.” She fumbled with her mug as she plopped down onto a stool. “Why do you think he’s back?”

“I came home to find a vase of white roses and a note with the letter
J
scribbled on it in front of my door.”

Jade leaned forward. “I can’t believe that bastard is back to stalking you. You need to go to the police.”

“He’s careful and diabolical. Even if I went to the police, what in the hell would I say?” I arched a brow. “Leaving a vase of roses on my doorstep is hardly grounds for filing a complaint.” I sighed. “No, I’m going to have to wait for him to slip up.”

“You need to stay with me.” Jade’s jaw tightened.

“I can protect myself, Jade. Shit, I’ve been doing a damn good job for twenty-three years.”

Jade grabbed my arm. “Don’t get all huffy. I’m worried.”

I gently squeezed her arm. “I know. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

I stared off into space, fighting the urge to never leave the safety of my house again, but I’d come too far to ever let that happen. Now everything was finally going my way. It had been a hard road to success, but finally, the pain of my past was behind me. I was no longer the broken girl. I was strong and in control, and I refused to let Jaxon win…

* * *

After finally kicking Jade out so I could start my workday, I finished checking my emails, following up with possible buyers and distributors. Normally, during the initial stages of my collection, the majority of my day would be consumed with design work, closing myself off for at least two weeks just to focus on drawing and sorting everything through. But this time, the design work had already come together, and I was starting on a gown that Jade would wear for her upcoming gala. The premier of my gown would have the fashion hags salivating for the release of my collection, and I couldn’t wait

Sitting on the arm of my couch, I stared at the beginnings of the Sin Michaels collection, which were hanging on racks in parts of my four-thousand-square-foot townhouse. I exhaled a frustrated breath. I was going to have a busy day of working on toiles and cutting patterns.

My phone vibrated with a text from Ariella.

We need to meet. I have design changes. Call me!

I stared at it with my fingers poised to text her back with two words—
fuck off
. I looked over at my sketchbook lying on the coffee table, and I stared at the wedding dress I’d designed for her.
She can kiss my ass
. I wasn’t going to change another damn thing. My temper was on the verge of flaring. I had so much work to do and so little time to let her take me out of my element.

I considered calling Giselle, my talkative intern who helped me most of the time, and then I changed my mind. I was already in a pretty fucked-up mood, and I needed to work in solitude. Turning on some music, I danced over to my workstation, ready to rock through the day, when my cell rang.

“Sin Michaels,” I chirped into the phone.

“Hello, Ms. Michaels. This is Ram Steele. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet last night.”

I fumbled the phone. “Hold on.” I ran over to my tablet and turned off the music. “Hello, Mr. Steele. I’m happy you called.” I walked back over to my workstation while wiping my now sweaty palm against my jeans. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m not sure what your concerns are, but I assure you Sin Michaels Corporation is doing just fine—well, more than fine.” I cleared my throat. “Did you see today’s newspaper? I had a whole article giving kudos to my upcoming line.”

“Yes, I did. But we have some major concerns that will delay us in giving you the additional money you requested,” he stated coolly.

My heart clenched. Without that money, I would be screwed. I’d ordered expensive custom prints from a factory in Asia. One delayed payment could mean the fabric wouldn’t arrive in time, halting my whole collection.

“What concerns?” I croaked.

“Business concerns that should be discussed in person,” he stated calmly.

My fingers tightened around the workstation’s edge. “Mr. Steele, can I be blunt?” I tried to calm down, but the more I thought about the impact of his devastating announcement, the more pissed I grew.

“Please do.”

“This is bullshit.” I paced back and forth. “You gave me two million dollars, and per our agreement, you committed to giving me another million within six months.”

“Ms. Michaels, did you actually read the agreement?” He paused. “Because if you did, you would know that a clause entitles us not only to request our two million dollars back, with interest, but to also break the contract altogether.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue. “Are you fucking kidding me? What in the hell would make you want to do some dumb shit like that?”

“I do respect your candor, Ms. Michaels, but that doesn’t change the fact that we need to discuss our concerns in person. We’ll meet today at three. Please take down this address.”

I scribbled his directions with shaky fingers. “I’ll be there at three sharp.”

I disconnected and promptly dialed Tabitha.

“You’ve reached Tabitha Thorp. I’m away on a creative sabbatical. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I return.”

I stared at the phone.
Creative sabbatical?
What. The. Fuck?

I’d known her for years, and not once had she taken any sabbaticals.

Damn it!

I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt like I was being royally screwed. I released a frustrated growl, and with a sweep of my arm, I knocked everything off my workspace.

CHAPTER

6

Core McKay

My head snapped up when my office door opened, and Ram, my business partner, walked in before closing the door with a decisive click behind him.

“That was the most fucked-up thing you’ve ever asked me to do.” Ram snarled.

I arched a brow. “To hell it was.” Pushing aside the contract on my desk, I waited for the brewing tirade that I knew was on the tip of Ram’s tongue.

“Okay, not the most fucked-up thing, but a damn close second.” Ram sat down, running a hand over his head. “I still don’t get it.” He paused. “What the hell is this Sinthia Michaels shit about?”

I remained silent for a few minutes, trying not to lose my patience. No one in the McKay organization would dare question me this way, except Ram. Our years of connection as friends and business partners had given him that right.

Ram kicked his feet up onto my desk. “Don’t give me that fucking stare, bro. I want to know. What the hell possessed you to give a fashion designer two million dollars?”

I leaned back in my chair. “You should know me by now. I don’t give shit away. I invested two million dollars,” I snapped.

Ram scoffed. “Well, you invested a shitload of money into a clothing business, and I’m pretty sure that was a fucked-up decision. That pussy must be serious.”

I shrugged. “Fuck the two million. I spend that much on the upkeep on my house in the south of France. The money is nothing compared to what I stand to gain if my hunch turns out to be right.”

I still marveled at the fact that I’d come a long way, going from a vicious criminal thug to a legitimate businessman. Now so powerful and rich that I could invest millions in a business that I knew wouldn’t make a profit for me.

“This is bullshit, Core. You invested in a business you don’t give a shit about. Why?”

My temper flared. “You’re pushing the boundaries of our friendship, Ram.”

Ram leaned forward. “Like I give a shit. We’re family, and family asks questions.”

I closed my eyes in irritation. “I finally found him—Bigsby Calhoune, the man we’ve been searching years for. He’s been right under our noses.”

“Bigsby Calhoune? The man running for mayor? How did you come to that damn conclusion?”

I gave him a tight stare. “Remember the charity event you couldn’t attend?”

* * *

Manhattan. Nights Ago.

Flanked by my top team members, Max and Rocco, I exited the luxury vehicle. “Wait here. I’ll be in and out of this place in fifteen minutes.”

I didn’t normally mingle with New York’s elite, and I damn sure never did political fundraising events. I’d only accepted tonight’s invitation as a courtesy to Mitch Fillion. Mitch had stepped in and provided assistance with the legalities of a complicated and contentious company takeover that had been on the verge of crumbling. Mitch had proven to be more valuable and ruthless than I’d expected. I needed to keep men like Mitch—those who only cared about money, power, and status—in my pocket.

I watched the crazy scene progress. Overflowing into the street, New York’s elite were sauntering into the invite-only, fifty-grand-per-plate dinner that was being hosted by Mitch in honor of his newest pet project—mayoral hopeful Bigsby Calhoune.

Adjusting my bowtie, I confidently strode by the frenzied mess of paparazzi, who ignored me in favor of the star-studded elite preening before the flashing cameras. I hated the press. Unlike most men with my wealth and power who gravitated toward the ego-stroking media, I avoided them like the plague, living my life in anonymity.

I waited impatiently while a white-gloved security staffer politely scanned my body with a handheld metal detector. Entering through the huge front doors, I immediately flicked through the room—a cavernous, modern space with large columns and slab granite. The private formal political party was in full swing as men in tuxedos escorted their diamond-encrusted ladies around the room like arm candy.

Blending smoothly into a throng of foreign dignitaries, businessmen, and socialites, I headed for the bar, ordered a drink, and absorbed the high-octane mixture of new oil money and old European wealth before the bartender pushed a glass of scotch between my fingers. The cigar-smoking men talked business as their beautiful flavors of the month looked on with blank faces, casually taking a glass of champagne or a canapé from the passing waiters.

Glittering, sleek women with strikingly sculpted faces smiled provocatively at me while circling around me in hopes of snagging husband number two or three. My eyes roamed over them with disinterest. They looked like most women I’d fucked over the years during my transition from crime lord to legitimate business mogul. Along with surgically enhanced breasts provided by top plastic surgeons, they all had hard bodies courtesy of hours in the gym with their personal trainers.

I was bored with the selection. Sipping my scotch, I ignored them. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me that I hadn’t fucked anyone who looked remotely like a real woman in a while. Even with a string of women and business successes over the years, I actually missed one thing from my days as the ruthless leader of the largest crime empire in New York—a woman with soft curves, pretty girl-next-door looks, and a sassy take-no-shit personality. It was time for a change, but finding a woman who could satisfy my distinct and dark tastes would be nearly impossible.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mitch’s loud, animated introduction of the well-matched, beautiful couple—Ariella Bellisario and Bigsby Calhoune—to a guest. Bored, I watched Bigsby shake the guest’s hand with an exaggerated flourish. My body tensed. My mind flared with recognition at the unmistakable glint of diamonds and rubies on Bigsby’s middle finger.

Pushing away from the bar with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I walked leisurely through the crowd and toward the trio. The guests shifted, cutting off my view of Mitch and the couple, but I easily found them again and confidently strode up to them.

Mitch was all smiles as he shook my hand. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.”

Bigsby’s eyes narrowed on my all-seeing eye neck tattoo. As Bigsby frowned, his gaze darted to Mitch. He clearly did not approve of my presence at his dinner event.

My expression darkened. “Is there a problem?”

Mitch shot Bigsby an irritated glare before laughing loudly. He clapped me on the back. “Apologies, Core.” He gave Bigsby an admonishing stare. “Bigsby is new to the intricacies and important players of our circle, so please excuse his ignorance. I’m still trying to get him up to speed.”

Bigsby’s body tightened as he ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair with agitation.

Mitch looked pointedly at the couple. “This is Core McKay—as in McKay Corporation. He’s one of my biggest clients.”

Ariella’s mask of neutrality slipped as her eyes widened. “Well, this night is full of surprises. I get the privilege of putting a face to the renowned name.” She smiled
.
“Congrats on your recent billion-dollar merger.”

I inclined my head but remained silent.

Mitch looked eagerly at me. “This is Ariella Bellisario.”

Ariella nodded politely as my gaze swept over her. From her designer form-fitting dress to her perfectly coiffed hair and makeup, she was the precise image of New York socialite success. I smirked. I knew her perfection was a facade for the seedy, dark side she kept hidden from her fiancé. On several occasions, the smoldering sex nymph had trolled my sex club, begging Ram to top her. The duality of her flawless persona amused me.