Hot Commodity (Banks / Kincaid Family #1)(22)

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Pasadena, California



Nauseated, Olivia stepped from the back seat of her mother’s town car and shivered as a chill of dread raced up her spine. She murmured a thank you to the butler who held open the door for her and then paused to stare up at the house.

The adobe-styled mansion with its clay-shingled roof was the only home she’d ever known. She’d grown up here. So why did it feel more like she was returning to a prison she’d tried to escape? Why didn’t she look forward to going inside her own home?

Because Vivian was in there.

Honestly, though, Olivia didn’t know where else to go. She had no close friends that would take her in. There wasn’t any family left that would claim either Vivian or her daughter and, well, that was about it.

The closest people to Olivia were her maid and hair stylist, and she couldn’t pull either Rosa or Grace Ellen into her problems. Her mother could destroy them both with a single phone call, getting one deported and the other arrested for writing worthless checks.

No, she couldn’t depend on anyone else. This was her life, the life she’d chosen for herself, and she needed to deal with it. Straightening her shoulders with a courage she didn’t feel, she started forward.

Her d’Orsay heels clicked on the cobblestone path, reminding her of one of those horror movies where the lone sound of high heels on concrete echoed through an empty parking garage just before the killer pounced. The perfect drum roll for her own impending doom.

The door opened before she reached it. She stumbled a step. Rosa peered out at her, eyes wide.

"Miss Donovan," she said, though her voice cracked with trepidation, "Mr. and Mrs. Roark are waiting to speak with you in the breakfast room."

Olivia’s face drained of color. The breakfast room. Of course, Vivian would summon her to the room where her father had died. Vivian was a pro at psychological warfare.

"Thank you, Rosa," she murmured and started her way toward her destiny.

Still wearing Cameron’s extra-large shirt, her fingers balled around the excess cloth covering her cold, clammy hands, taking comfort in the small protective warmth it provided. Her 'husband' probably wouldn’t be pleased about providing any kind of support for her, but she appreciated the soft cotton of his shirt anyway.

Vivian sat at the head of the table, reading a Wall Street Journal. A full meal was spread out on the ecru tablecloth. Nolan sat at her left elbow, the slight tremor in his liver-spotted hands showing his age as he split open a roll and buttered it.

Only breakfast was eaten in the breakfast room. Down the hall, a large grandfather clock chimed letting her know it was noon, way past time for a morning meal.

She bit back a shudder, knowing the only reason Vivian would eat lunch in here was to torture her. The wave of déjà vu that struck almost brought her to her knees. Her mother had planned it well, set up everything the same way it had been that morning. She wanted Olivia to remember. And remember she did. Vividly.

Olivia’s heels announced her arrival. Vivian lowered her paper and glanced at Olivia as if surprised.

"Darling," she called almost pleasantly, ushering Olivia further into the room. "Join us for lunch."

Olivia swallowed, hesitated, then moved forward. Easing into the chair at Vivian’s right, the same place she’d been sitting when her father had killed himself, she folded her hands in her lap and eyed the food, hoping she didn’t vomit.

"Eat," Vivian said with a congenial smile.

"The chicken is divine," Nolan added.

Olivia pressed a hand to her quaking stomach. "I’m not hungry."

"EAT," Vivian roared.

Olivia jumped at the unexpected bellow. Fumbling as she picked up her knife and fork, she cut into the breaded chicken on her plate, dicing it into tiny bite-sized pieces. Her mother glared, but she studiously ignored the woman, concentrating on slicing each portion precisely.

"Whose shirt is that?"

Olivia sank back and clutched the fabric to her chest as if she thought her mother might rip the cloth off her.

Vivian glowered. "Olivia, I asked you a question."

A remaining spark of her rebellion must’ve been lingering inside her from the night before, smoldering like a glowing ember ready to be blown on and ignited, because she lifted her chin and said, "Why, Mother, don’t you know? It belongs to Cameron Banks."

She only said the truth because she knew Vivian would never believe it. Which she didn’t. Lurching to her feet, Vivian stood so fast her chair overturned. Before Olivia could duck or brace herself, her mother’s arm swung around and her palm cracked against Olivia’s jaw. Long French-tipped nails sliced open her cheek, and Olivia wrenched backward, falling from her chair and onto the floor. She’d barely landed on all fours when her mother grabbed her by her hair and twisted, yanking her head up, forcing her to her feet. Olivia cried out; tears stinging her eyes.

"You’re lucky he wasn’t at the convention last night," Vivian hissed, puffing coffee-scented breath in her face. "If he had showed up, and you’d pulled this little stunt, I’d be very upset right now, Olivia."

Olivia whimpered.

"Where were you?"

When she didn’t answer, Vivian tightened her hold on Olivia’s hair briefly before shoving her back to the floor. Olivia began to scramble up until she noticed Nolan suddenly there, looming over her and staring with a cold, dead gaze as if he would push her right back down if she tried to stand.