The Secret Sister. Brenda Novak

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      Thank God for small favors! Maisey glared at the contractor’s truck. She’d never shopped for a Ford F-250, but it looked big, rugged and costly. “A mortgage is only part of the cost of living. He’ll have other bills to pay.” She’d learned all about those other bills when they’d quickly drained her bank account...

      “I’m sure he’s got income. He still has his business, and Mom doesn’t care what he does as long as he keeps everything up around here. He probably plans to fold Smuggler’s Cove in with his regular work.”

      “I see,” she said, but gripped her purse tightly—as if she wanted to fling it out the window at that truck, which was impeding the limited view through the trees.

      “That’s okay, isn’t it?” Keith asked.

      “It’s not what I would’ve done.”

      “You’re sentimental. Mom is...less so. And that still leaves you with eight units.”

      She was upset that he didn’t seem to care, because she knew how he’d react if it’d been his inheritance Josephine had diminished. What if she’d sold the flower shop, which they’d both been told would go to him?

      He shifted the transmission and began to drive away.

      “Whoa, what are you doing?” Maisey asked. “We’re not going to talk to the contractor?”

      “I don’t want to interrupt the poor guy at home. I figure you should see what you’re getting into before we bother anybody.”

      “Won’t we need keys?”

      “Not to poke around a bit. You might take one look at the other bungalows and tell me to drive straight to Coldiron House.”

      “They’d have to be a lot worse than this. The little I can see looks fine.” What if this guy had his sights set on owning the whole development one day? And if she ever tried to make the property complete again, what if he refused to sell and she couldn’t get the bungalow back?

      “Unit 5 is in decent shape because he finished it right away, so he could move in,” Keith explained. “Now he’s starting on the seaside units. They have the highest priority since they go for the highest rents.”

      She peered through the trees, craning her neck to see the next unit. “I don’t like that he’s here—or that he might become a permanent fixture.” She didn’t want anything to change, not in this place.

      “You haven’t even met him.”

      “I don’t need to meet him.”

      When they turned in at Unit 6, she cursed under her breath. “Look at that.”

      “Told you. Not quite what you saw at the last cottage, is it? And it’s the best of the ones that are left.” This time he cut the engine, but she didn’t get out. She stayed in her seat, gazing at the buckled porch, the sagging and missing shutters and the all-too-obvious water damage, which had left a mark halfway up the walls.

      “Is it completely empty inside?” She hadn’t considered that...

      “Everything’s been gutted, so Raphael can do what he needs to do.”

      She began to worry that she wouldn’t be able to stay here, after all. “Where’s the furniture? Was it ruined?”

      “Not all of it. Mom had me help move everything. She insisted we throw out the drapes, bedding and towels, stuff like that. They needed to be replaced, anyway. Most of the furniture, even some of the mattresses, were salvageable, though. What’s left has been stacked in the last unit.”

      That was good news. Depending on what had been saved, Maisey could furnish whatever unit she chose. She could always buy bedding. Perhaps she’d make her own drapes—or order them online if she couldn’t come by a sewing machine.

      But there was no denying that the bungalows looked worse than she’d expected. She’d been living in New York, newly single, when the hurricane hit, but she’d heard it was the worst Fairham had ever endured.

      Now she could see that was true.

      Keith opened his door. “Should we check the inside?”

      She nodded, and they got out. But the bungalow was locked, as she’d predicted. They were trying to look through the windows when they heard the sound of an engine and turned to see the same pickup they’d noticed in front of Unit 5.

      The driver parked behind the Mercedes. Maisey couldn’t see much of him, though, until he started toward them.

      Then her breath caught in her throat. Not only did she recognize this man, she’d once had sex with him!

3

      “OH, GOD, THAT’S RAFE,” she breathed, her voice low enough that the man approaching wouldn’t hear.

      “Who?” Keith said, but there was no time to explain.

      “Rafe” Romero wasn’t just someone she’d once slept with. At sixteen, she’d lost her virginity to him, rather unceremoniously, in the back bedroom of a party she’d been forbidden to attend (because there would be riffraff like him there), and she’d done it to spite her mother. She might’ve continued to sleep with him. The fact that he was four years older, reckless and without “prospects,” as Josephine would say, made him an appealing choice for her purposes—especially since all that “unsuitable” came in such an appealing package. But once he’d learned she wasn’t eighteen, like she’d said, he wouldn’t have any more to do with her. Even when she’d told him she was a Lazarow, thinking that might make the difference, he’d narrowed his eyes as if he had no respect for her family name or her money. He’d said that just meant she wouldn’t understand anything about the real world. She could still hear him laughing when she’d stomped off.

      As he closed the distance between them, Maisey hoped he wouldn’t remember her. She’d had eighteen years to realize how self-destructive and ridiculous her behavior had been, and was embarrassed by it. Particularly when she recalled how brazen she’d been...

      Pretend you don’t have a clue who he is and maybe he won’t recognize you, she told herself. He’d been so drunk that night she thought she had a chance—until their eyes connected and he hesitated midstride.

      He definitely recognized her. Shit... “Something I can help you with?” he asked.

      “There is if you have the key.” Grateful that he didn’t immediately give away their previous involvement, she pointed at the door.

      “You’re Josephine Lazarow’s daughter,” he said.

      She nodded politely but indifferently. “Yes. My name’s Maisey. And I’d like to see this unit.”

      He smiled at Keith. “Good to see you again.”

      “You, too. Sorry to come by out СКАЧАТЬ