A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(32)

He had no idea who I was. He stood there in his shirtsleeves, smiling pleasantly and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can," I said.

He cocked his head to the side and waited. He wasn't going to ask me in. He must not have noticed the family resemblance that was so apparent to me. I didn't want to break it to him on his doorstep. I would rather he was sitting down, but he gave me no choice.

"Hello, Father," I said.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I'd fantasized about him throwing his arms around me and welcoming me into the family with tears in his eyes, but I knew that was unlikely. More probably, he'd want to maintain the secret of my birth.

I could understand that. Respect it even. He had a wife and a daughter. I would be hard to explain. But maybe he'd want to meet his only son for a drink now and again.

His pleasant, benevolent expression changed in an instant. His eyes narrowed. His face grew stony. "Excuse me?"

"Hello, Father," I said again.

"Who are you?"

"Your son." I shouldn't be a complete surprise. He'd known about my birth.

"I don't have a son." His voice was as cold as his visage.

"And yet, here I am. Can't we go inside?" I said.

He stared at me for a long moment. So long I thought he was considering letting me in, but then he said, "If you think you're going to get money from me by perpetrating a fraud, you're sadly mistaken."

The door began to close. I stuck my foot in the opening.

"This is no fraud, Father."

"Get your foot out of my doorway," he said. I could smell his anger.

"Please..."

His voice grew low and menacing. "Get off my property, or I will call the police."

At that moment, I never wanted anything as much as I wanted to be let into that elegant house. As hopeless as the idea was, I longed to walk through the hall that opened into the sunlit rooms beyond, to chat over a drink, to dine with the family.

"Can't we talk about this?" The words struggled past my tightening throat.

"I'm asking you one more time to remove your foot from my doorway."

There was no point in getting in a wrestling match. I left.

That night I walked down the public stairs to the beach. The tide was high. I sat on the bottom step, removed my shoes and rolled up my pant legs. I waded in the whispering waves down the beach until I stood under the house.

It blazed with light from the French doors and windows that faced the ocean. I could see people moving about inside. The brown-haired woman walked back and forth between rooms. My father, head bent over a book, looked up every so often and laughed at someone I couldn't see. I belonged in that room. It was my birthright.

I'm not sure how long I stayed that first night, but at some point I felt the water climb to the middle of my calves, sopping my pants. I needed to leave if I didn't want to go for a swim. As I turned away, movement in the window caught my eye.

It was a girl.

A lovely, redhaired girl. She stepped to the French doors to look out at the night. In the gleam of the lamplight, her hair glowed like a fiery halo.

Years later, I read in the paper that my father had donated a large sum of money, much more than a Bachelor's degree would have cost, to the college I had hoped to attend. They put his name on a plaque in the wing of the building he helped to fund. His daughter, my half-sister, received a master's degree from the same school.

She also gained the house. It was on the market again, but that didn't solve my original problem—how to remove my inheritance. What I needed most now was time to think, time to plan. If I could put off the sale, I wouldn't have to worry about new owners locking it up tight against me before I was ready to make a move. I became more cheerful as I pondered my options. Maybe there was a way I could get my inheritance, and my sister would get what she deserved.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


The past few days on Cliff Drive were productive ones. Gwen developed a whole new appreciation for Lance. He wasn't just a pretty boy after all. With hammer in hand, he reminded her of one of those Nordic gods of wind or waves. She decided there ought to be a hurricane named after him.

He'd located the source of the mold smell in the attic. It was the result of a leaky section of roof. He summarily patched the tiles and moved on to the bathrooms, just in case they were contributing to the home's pervasive perfume. He replaced two toilets, four faucets and a showerhead. Then gave each room a coat of fresh paint. Even the towel racks and electric switch plates gleamed.

Lance installed things as fast as Gwen could purchase them. Which was the reason for her trip to the house this morning. He planned to paint the hallways and put up new overhead lighting as soon as he could get away from the office. She'd shopped last night, gone for an early run on the beach, and stopped by to drop off the paint and lamps.

In the front hall, Gwen noted that bleach and a strong fan—Lance's idea—had worked wonders on the attic mold. The old musty odor had been replaced by the clean, sharp smells of new paint, wood polish and cleaning products. It gave her courage.

If you'd have told her forty-eight hours ago she'd be coming here in the early hours of the day, alone, she'd have laughed. Yet here she was with only a slight jogging of her pulse. The renovation affected more than the house. Gwen's fears became less and less marked with each coat of new paint.