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  “Believe me, if I had known that he was going to do that, I would have put a stop to it immediately. If Daniel were alive, he would never have let Jeff get involved with you.”

  Olivia recognized the name. Jeff Wilcox had been her uncle Daniel’s protégé. He was the son of close personal friends of her aunt and uncle, and when he had graduated from college, he had gone to work for Daniel. Olivia was away at school at that time, but she remembered seeing Jeff at a couple of gatherings. She’d heard her aunt and uncle speak of him many times. From what they said, he was a courteous and easygoing young man who often expressed his gratitude for the opportunity her uncle had given him and the kindnesses shown to him by her aunt. Shortly after her uncle died, she’d heard that Jeff had taken a position with a charitable organization.

  “He knew there were risks,” she heard her father say.

  “You set him up,” Emma cried. Olivia had never heard her aunt so upset. “You lied to him. He would never have invested the charity’s funds if he had any inkling that they weren’t safe. I know Jeff. He’s honest and decent. He has a wife and a new baby now. He wouldn’t risk that. Have you no conscience?”

  “I only did what he asked,” her father answered. “It’s not my fault if his board of directors thought he misappropriated the funds. I offered him several investment strategies, and he made the final decision.”

  “Decisions based on the lies you told him,” Emma countered.

  “Wilcox isn’t such an upstanding citizen,” he snapped. “Greed was his downfall. He demanded a fee from me for investing the charity’s funds, and I’ve got the signed papers to prove it.”

  “Lies, all lies,” she cried out. “Jeff would never—”

  “It’s his word against mine,” her father snapped. “And when the authorities investigate, they’ll see that the evidence is on my side. The documents clearly show that there were risks with the investments and no guarantees. Documents that he signed, I might add.”

  Olivia had heard enough. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked inside. Neither Emma nor her father noticed her. They stood with their backs to the door. The window was on her father’s right and she could see his reflection. His eyes were cold and his jaw was clinched.

  “How much did Jeff Wilcox give you?” Olivia asked.

  Robert MacKenzie turned to her, the contemptuous scowl gone, replaced by a dazzling smile. She’d been told that women adored him and that, if he hadn’t decided to go into the Wall Street world, he could have made millions as a movie star. Tall and fit, with thick silver-tipped hair and eyes as blue as hers, he was considered devastatingly handsome, but it was his charm that captured his clients. Men believed they were in his inner circle, and women thought he wanted them in his bed. He had never cheated on his wife, though, for to do so would diminish his carefully constructed persona. He had learned to use all of his attributes to captivate and to hypnotize. Besides, money was far more important and arousing than sex. Very few people knew the real Robert MacKenzie, the devil hiding beneath the angel’s wings.

  “Hello, darling. How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

  “Not long,” she lied. “I just heard you talking about Jeff Wilcox. What have you done to him?”

  “Nothing. Your aunt was misinformed,” he said, shaking his head and never letting the smile fade. “As usual,” he added. He walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to kiss her on her cheek. “How are you feeling? Are you taking your medicine every day?”

  It always came back to her health. She believed it was her father’s way of reminding her that she was flawed in his eyes. He knew how to manipulate her and make her feel inferior. When she was younger, it had worked, but no longer.

  Olivia looked at Emma to gauge her reaction. Her aunt’s gaze was locked on Robert, and her face was flushed with anger.

  Olivia stepped back, then walked over to stand next to her aunt in a show of loyalty. “Father, I haven’t had to take medicine for years. You know that.” Turning to Emma, she said, “Tell me about Jeff Wilcox.”

  “Don’t answer that,” Robert ordered. “Olivia doesn’t need to concern herself with business matters, especially in her weakened condition.”

  “Will you stop—” Olivia began to protest.

  Her father cut her off when he said to Emma, “My daughter is so starved for affection, she’ll believe anything you say, Emma, and she’ll try to help because you’ve shown her that you care. If you get her involved in this, the stress could prove to be too much for her.”

  “For God’s sake, Robert, your daughter has grown up and is quite healthy. Stop trying to make her an invalid.”

  “Tell me about Jeff,” Olivia repeated. She folded her arms and leaned back against the desk, leaving no doubt that she wasn’t going to budge until she got an explanation.

  Her father refused to respond. Emma didn’t have any such qualms. “Jeff became the manager of the Walden Foundation. They help the indigent and the homeless by providing housing and job programs. They’ve had a tremendously successful track record. The man who started the charity had, himself, been homeless and had been helped by a kind stranger. When Walden’s luck turned, he vowed he would help others, and he started the charitable foundation. He died several years ago, but he left thirty-two million dollars for his charity to continue, and Jeff was brought in as its director. The position was perfect for Jeff. He always wanted to do work that would make a real difference in the world. And he was doing a great job I understand . . . until he met your father.”

  “Jeff gave him the money to invest,” Olivia said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And now it’s gone,” she concluded.

  “Yes,” her aunt said. “All of it squandered in risky investments.”

  “The risks were clearly explained,” her father argued.

  Emma ignored his protest and continued, “The board of directors had allowed Jeff autonomy to make these investments because he had given them assurances that everything was in secure funds. Of course, when the investments went under, they called for an investigation. Your father had guaranteed that all of the investments were protected and had the highest ratings possible, and Jeff, being the trusting and decent man that he is, believed him.” She shot Robert a look of contempt.

  Olivia’s father shook his head and smiled condescendingly at her. “He was lying, Emma. The papers he signed clearly show he was made aware of the risks.”

  Emma turned back to Olivia. “The prosecutors are involved now. They’re claiming that Jeff not only mishandled the money but also that he did it knowingly and with the intent of lining his own pockets. If there’s a trial and he’s convicted, he could go to prison and be taken away from his wife and his baby—all for something I know he didn’t do.”

  Olivia turned to her father. “How much did you make on these investments?”

  Her father gave a slight shrug and answered, “It’s not my responsibility to keep people from making stupid decisions. If Wilcox had chosen to invest in my Trinity Fund, he wouldn’t be in this mess, but he insisted on another route.”

  “How much?” Olivia insisted.

  “My five percent commission for the transactions was a low fee, considering the circumstances.”

  “So you walked away with over a million and a half, and Jeff Wilcox faces prison—not to mention the charity that is destroyed.”

  “I’ve wasted enough time talking about this,” her father said as he began making his way to the door. “I have to be back in New York for an event tonight.”

  Olivia could barely control her anger. Her chest was tight, and she desperately needed to use her inhaler, but she didn’t dare in front of him. It would be one more thing to mock, and it would prove to him that she was, indeed, inferior.

  She had known that
her father’s business activities were suspect in the past, but it was as though she was seeing him without a filter for the first time. Even his attire seemed disingenuous, with his hand-tailored suit and his handsome cashmere scarf draped around his neck. Olivia watched him slip on a black wool coat that was impeccably cut and a perfect fit.

  “Father?”

  “Yes?” He said as he put on one leather glove and reached for the doorknob.

  “This has to stop. You can’t continue to hurt people this way.”

  Her father turned back to her with a compassionate smile. “Get some rest, Olivia. You look pale. That terrible disease you have . . . it’s lurking under your skin . . . waiting. You never know when it could come back.” He left without saying good-bye.

  Monday morning, Olivia applied for a job with the IRS.

  FOUR

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Olivia told Jane. “Agent Kincaid asked me how I ended up working for the IRS, and once I started explaining . . . it got away from me.”

  “Did you tell him you’re investigating your father?”

  “No,” she replied. “But I went on and on about reaching my goal, and he naturally wanted to know what the goal was. I wouldn’t tell him, of course. I barely know the man. He has to think I’m crazy.”

  The two women were sitting side by side in beige leather recliners in what they called the Dracula room of St. Paul’s Hospital. Olivia was giving blood her friend would receive the following afternoon.

  Dressed in black silk pajamas and a hot-pink robe, birthday gifts from Sam and Collins, Jane had come down from her hospital room to keep Olivia company. Jane’s long honey-brown hair was up in a ponytail and she looked pale, terribly pale. Dr. Pardieu had ordered the blood transfusion and had told Jane that it would help immensely. It had in the past, he reminded her, and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t help now.

  “You shouldn’t care what other people think.”

  “I know,” Olivia agreed. “But Grayson’s . . . different. I do care what he thinks about me, and honest to Pete, I don’t have the faintest idea why.” She sounded bewildered.

  “Grayson?”

  “Agent Grayson Kincaid. He told me to call him Grayson.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

  “Probably not,” she said and was surprised by the stab of disappointment she felt. “Let’s talk about something else. Did I mention that Jorguson told me he admires my father and that he knows people who have done quite well investing in his fund?”

  “He must not have heard that you’re trying to stop him.”

  “How could he have heard? Every time I make an inquiry or lodge a complaint, it’s squelched. No one’s calling me back, the SEC . . .” She took a breath. “It’s frustrating, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “Tell me everything that happened at the interview,” Jane said. “Start at the beginning.”

  Since Jane was looking so sickly, Olivia decided to accommodate her, and by the time she was finished, Jane had a stitch in her side from laughing so hard.

  “Let me get this straight. You asked Jorguson’s bodyguard if he had a permit to carry a gun? The man’s pointing a . . . what did you call it?”

  “A Glock. Agent Kincaid called it a Glock.”

  “Okay then, he’s pointing a fancy Glock at you, and you want to know if he has a permit?” Jane thought, given the circumstances, the question was hilarious, and she couldn’t stop laughing.

  Olivia handed her a tissue to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I watch way too much television, don’t I? On all those police shows the detectives ask the criminals if they have permits. I was trying to think of something to say to get him to stop coming toward me. It’s illegal for him to even carry the gun. I don’t know why I didn’t point that out.”

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  If an outsider had asked her that question, she probably would have pretended that it was no big deal, she hadn’t been scared at all. She wanted people to think she was a tough, no-nonsense kind of woman. Only Jane and the other Pips knew the real Olivia. They understood her vulnerability because they were just like her.

  “Oh yes, I was scared,” she said. “But I was also so astonished by his behavior I could barely think what to do, and I was angry, really angry. People shouldn’t bring guns to five-star restaurants.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  Olivia laughed. “It sounded like one, didn’t it? I guess I just didn’t want to die in such a lame way.”

  “Getting shot during an interview is a lame way to die.”

  She shrugged. “I can think of better ways. Don’t laugh at me. I’m giving you my blood, which happens to have antibodies you need, so be nice to me.”

  A nurse came into the room to check Olivia’s IV. After saying hello, Jane switched to French as she continued the conversation. Because of their crush on Dr. Pardieu, all the Pips eventually had become fluent in his language. It was their way of saying thank you to him for saving them.

  “I’m always nice to you,” Jane said. Then, in the blink of an eye, she became melancholy. “What if the transfusion doesn’t work this time? What if I don’t feel better and I have to start chemo again?”

  “The transfusion will work,” Olivia assured her.

  “You’re a real contradiction, you know that?” Jane said. “You’re such an optimist with everyone, but when it comes to yourself, you only see the negative.”

  Dismissing her criticism, Olivia responded, “The transfusion helped in the past, and there’s no reason to think it won’t help now. You’re just a little anemic, that’s all. Don’t stop trusting Dr. Pardieu. He’s taken good care of all of us.”

  Jane was in the mood to feel sorry for herself. “But you and Collins and Sam have all been cured. I’m the only one struggling after all this time. I don’t understand it. I was feeling great until a few weeks ago.”

  “We’re in remission,” she corrected. “Not cured.”

  “Dr. Pardieu said you’re safe now,” she said. “And none of you have had any symptoms for years. I’m the difficult one.” Jane knew she sounded pitiful, but she didn’t care. She usually tried to be the positive, upbeat one, but she knew she didn’t have to put up any shields with Olivia or the other Pips. She could cry like a three-year-old if she wanted to and not worry that any of them would think less of her.

  “You’ve always been difficult,” Olivia said, smiling. “Sam says you can be a real pain in the . . .”

  Jane burst into laughter. “I guess I’m not going to get any ‘there, there, you poor thing’ from you.”

  “When did you ever get any of that from me?” She shifted position in the recliner and winced when the needle moved ever so slightly.

  “Never.”

  “If Dr. Pardieu isn’t worried . . .”

  “He says he isn’t.”

  “Has he ever lied to any of us?”

  “No. In fact, he’s been brutally honest.”

  “So, if he isn’t worried . . .”

  Jane smiled because she realized she was actually feeling much better. A little whining wasn’t such a bad thing after all. “If I don’t have to do another round of chemo, I’m going to participate in the art show at the Scripts Gallery. The artists have to be there,” she explained. “I’ll have four paintings on display. Maybe I’ll get lucky and sell one or two.”

  “Are you low on funds? I could give you—”

  “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with from my mom’s life insurance. I’m just saying, getting paid for my work is validation. I want you to come to the gallery, okay?”

  “Let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”

  “Logan’s going to try to come to the show, too.”

  “Your brother’s
out of rehab?” Olivia’s surprise was evident in her voice.

  “Yes,” she replied. “And he’s doing really well this time. He seems serious about his sobriety. He’s going to meetings every single day, and he’s trying to make amends.”

  “Like?”

  “He comes to see me every evening on his way home from work.”

  “Logan has a job?”

  “He’s working as a mechanic at Roger’s Rent-A-Car company. He helps out at the counter, too. Logan says the owner is giving him more responsibility, and he doesn’t want to let him down. He worries about me. He never used to.”

  “He was too drunk and too stoned to worry about anyone.” She saw Jane’s expression and hurriedly said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it was true, but not any longer. He brings me carryout and told me that when I get home, he’ll come over and cook for me.”

  “Maybe rehab worked this time,” Olivia said, though she didn’t hold out much hope. Jane was an eternal optimist. Olivia wasn’t. Logan hadn’t gone willingly; rehab had been court mandated. Jane’s older brother had been a mess for as long as Olivia had known Jane. He drank alcohol like water, and his drug of choice was cocaine.

  She hoped for Jane’s sake that Logan had decided to change his life. She was about to ask another question about Logan when he walked into the room. He was tall, gaunt, and painfully thin, but there was a light in his eyes Olivia hadn’t seen before. He put his finger to his lips to let Olivia know he didn’t want her to say anything, then quietly snuck up behind Jane. He leaned down and whispered, “Boo.”

  Jane jumped. “Logan, will you stop doing that,” she demanded. “Why you think it’s funny to scare people is beyond me.”

  He laughed. “Hi, Olivia. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered.

  He turned to Jane then. “I’ve been all over this hospital looking for you. What are you doing here?”