Scandal (With Me Book 2)

  Scandal

  Sue Wilder

  Copyright © 2021 Sue C. Smith

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ASIN: B08RCXHFZ3

  Printed in the United States of America

  SCANDAL... DON'T GET CAUGHT

  The same scandal blew up my life. Twice. It's about to blow up my life a third time.

  Connor Lange. Powerful, wealthy, embattled.

  He came to me for help. He had trouble written all over him. I should have said no. Instead, I said... yes.

  Connor Lange was beyond my reach. Forbidden as a client, dangerous as a man, and relentless in getting what he wanted. He inspired pure lust, and he would lead me back into memories I tried hard to forget.

  He was the rock on which I would willingly wreck my life.

  But he had secrets about why he came to me. And if he lied. If I believed him, I was never coming back from this.

  But wasn't that the nature of scandal? So seductive... until it destroyed you.

  My name is Luna St. Clair. And this... is my scandal.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m not naïve. I know not every relationship works out. Not even those you count on. The people you think will always be there.

  Your north star when you’re lost in the ocean.

  I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, pounding the ground until each jarring impact hit my knees. The jogging path was well-used, hard-packed, and I forced the anger into the run. My advice, given to my clients, and now I needed to give it to myself.

  Have a good cry, Luna. Don’t make your eyes puffy. Then go out and run.

  Ahead, a woman held on to a girl strapped into one of those toddler harnesses, while a yappy, prissy dog tugged on a leash. The tethers were freaking color matched—aqua blue with rhinestones—and the way the woman leaned back against the drag made her look like a towed barge.

  The way I felt.

  “Damn. Just freaking damn.” And I think I might have shouted that more than once because she threw me a look that said, watch your language, girlie, children and dogs here!

  As if the dog understood language.

  And the kid knew more than mama and maybe cookie, since she had one mashed against her mouth.

  But I should have known. Should have realized my beautiful, reckless, impulsive twin hadn’t changed. That her tell-all divorce hadn’t turned her into the sweet child she’d been for what—the whole ten minutes it took before she decided the world revolved around her?

  Sunny, when we were kids. The opposite of my Luna. Screwed up parents, I guess, who took one look at her blonde baby fuzz and thought she was sunshine, while I was bald. Hence the moon analogy, and the Loony nickname that tormented me through childhood.

  Sunny and Loony, the St. Clair twins, and I was as blonde as she was now. We were identical. Identical enough that if you were drunk, or in the dark, you might mistake me for her, and then laugh about it.

  Or she would laugh about it, claim she made an innocent remark while sitting in the makeup chair, waiting for the interview on a popular television talk show. You know the kind of interview, where she spills her dirt about secret lovers and a mega-divorce from a mega-actor with secret lovers of his own.

  At least her lovers had all been men.

  So, apparently, had his.

  That revelation was taking place in Chapter 21.

  I didn’t judge. People fell in love for reasons they couldn’t explain. Or didn’t want to face. Which was Soleil’s preference, throwing herself into lust and to hell with the consequences.

  Except the consequences were hitting me now. Soleil’s interview clip had gone viral for those who missed it. Or who found it so hilarious they wanted more than one view.

  The female talk show host, leaning in. Then Soleil, beautiful and vulnerable, putting both hands to her flawless face.

  And you could see how fucking mortified she was that yes, yes it was true. Her twin sister and well-known clinical psychologist, Dr. Luna St. Clair, had once pretended to be her. But Soleil insisted her comments had been “off the record.” They “blindsided her” during the live interview, and it “just came out” that I stupidly lost my virginity to a drunken college jock who thought he was screwing Soleil.

  Which fucking threw my credibility out the fucking window.

  Yeah, I should probably watch that old language, since I was shouting above the wind and the surf.

  Anger did that, though. I’d thought we’d gotten past virginity scandals when women burned their bras, but a new culture was in town, one that picked apart a person’s faults and splashed them all over the internet. And Soleil’s version of my faults—the version burning up social media right now—wasn’t even true.

  First, the man hadn’t been drunk, or in college, and I hadn’t selfishly pretended to be Soleil because I was plastic and jealous.

  Or because I’d been twenty-three and so pathetic, I hadn’t had sex yet.

  I agreed because she asked. Frantically begged. And I wanted to find out what her life was like, what it might feel like to be her. Then maybe I’d feel fine about being me.

  I tried to understand. Social media brought out the worst in people and I shouldn’t pay attention. Then I received a call from the university where I’d hoped to teach an online class. The department chair cleared his throat enough to say, “Dr. St. Clair, the committee has, uh, well, I’m finding this rather difficult…”

  He stumbled on like that for five more minutes. I’d timed it, gripping my cell while my throat ached until I couldn’t breathe without wheezing.

  Yes, of course I understood. Soleil’s little revelation made them question my professionalism and shallowness of ethics. Oh, and let’s not forget how pretending to be someone else demonstrated a willingness to deceive.

  Had to freaking love that one.

  “We’re sorry,” he’d huffed, trying to get it all out before he collapsed. “We’ve withdrawn the offer. Perhaps in a year, we can revisit the situation.”

  Then his phone beeped, followed by silence, as if the battery died and he hadn’t just hung up on me. I’d taken the opportunity to very carefully fill a water glass with wine and drink it down while I waited for my heart to stop beating like it wanted to break right open.

  But I was over it now. The buzz-saw breeze was at my back, sharp and gritty with sand, filled with the scents of the ocean, the kind you didn’t forget, that salty mix of seaweed and fish and fresh, moist air. In a few hours, I’d be meeting a potential client, and our previous phone conversation kept me on edge.

  The sexy warmth in his voice had been at odds with the dominance in his request. He wanted absolute privacy. I assured him that wouldn’t be a problem since I worked out of my home. When he asked for control, I told him that was mine as the therapist. He was willing to pay for exclusivity, but he’d be difficult, and a low-level unease had me running until I reached the crest of the bluff, where the ground flattened out into a viewpoint and the expanse of the Pacific was staggering.

  Behind me, a group of high school girls were closing in. I paused, jogging in place and caught in a frenzy of motion as they galloped past. Cross-country team, I decided. Ponytails bobbing, bent arms swinging. Long tanned legs. It was one reason this trail was so popular with the men because, like I said, the view could be staggering.

  As if on
cue, one of those men thundered around the curve and started up the incline, actually accelerating. He wore running shorts and shoes that were both expensive and serious. His abs were rock solid, the shorts riding low enough on his hips, I could see the V-shaped grooves and the trickles of sweat that glistened in the sun.

  For an instant, I couldn’t catch my breath. He was visually stunning, dangerously beautiful. Thick brown hair was damp from exertion. Hard masculine cheekbones, clenched jaw. His arms were pumping, pumping, and an exotic tattoo curled over one shoulder, down to the bicep, bunched tight beneath his skin.

  I marveled at the strength in his legs, the aggressive pace that didn’t let up, just pounded, punishingly vicious. A look of intense concentration was on his face, as if he chased his demons, and ran from them as well. When he closed the distance between us, I jogged to the side, but he kept coming. Pounding. Centering on the path and aiming right for me.

  I wondered if he even saw me. His expression never changed. Hard and unforgiving.

  Adrenaline surged. I stumbled, and as he charged past, his elbow slammed hard against my shoulder. I fell, jolted to my hands and knees in the dirt while saliva drooled from my mouth.

  “Jerk!” He continued to run with that focused stride. Didn’t even lift a hand in apology, or a middle finger, which I expected. When the woman with her messy toddler and yappy dog struggled past in a mass of legs and cookie, I saw her damn smirk—language, girlie—and felt like screaming “you fucking jerk” just for her benefit.

  Instead, I glared at his retreating back and saw the rest of the black tattoo, curling and pagan. I thought it looked familiar, but couldn’t place the design. My shoulder still tingled, and I wondered if there’d been some male hormone in his sweat that he left on my skin. He should bottle it, then. Make himself a fortune and stop knocking innocent women from the jogging path.

  And stop jogging without a shirt.

  That could have had something to do with me falling sideways.

  With my mouth open.

  God, Luna, can you be any more like Soleil, lusting after a man while you have dirt rings in your footie socks?

  It wasn’t a fair thought, even when I was angry. I jogged homeward, taking the path along the beach. My house came into view, and the familiar solace worked to ease my mind.

  My grandfather bought this house for my grandmother half a century ago. It’s a legacy property, the kind you can’t find anymore, with jelly-glass light fixtures and dark teakwood floors, and I live here as long as I handle the upkeep. I love the high ceilings and magnificent views that offset the antique fireplace. My grandfather wrote most of his books in the room I now use for my clients, and the space feels comforting in a way I can’t describe. The chairs in different styles and upholstery remind me of a sea captain collecting on his travels. The Aubusson carpet feels the same way.

  Ahead, I can see my neighbor, Birdie, waiting on the front walk. She’s a retired mathematician with moments of brilliance, but her husband died last year and she comes twice a week for social anxiety, which we both know is loneliness.

  “Luna dear.” I’ve always been Luna dear to Birdie. “Been getting all sweaty again, I see.”

  She knows why I run, and she’s clutching the container of sugar cookies she likes to bake; that’s how she pays me, with sugar cookies, chamomile tea and fifty minutes of conversation I appreciate as much as she does. “You’ll go shower. Take the time from my hour.”

  “Your fifty minutes, you mean.” It’s our tease, because Birdie loves pointing out how fifty minutes is not an hour and never will be. But I need to warn her. “I have a new client coming, so we can’t linger today.”

  “A man?”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Statically probable, since you usually treat women.” She disappeared into the kitchen to start the tea, a standard during my therapy sessions. Chamomile was calming, and once I’d showered, I felt more like myself again. My hair was wrapped in a chignon, and I wore black, high-waisted linen slacks with a white silk blouse—my preferred choice since the black-and-white look gave off a professional vibe.

  Birdie was already settled in a wingback chair near the windows. “You’ve heard the rumors?”

  She sipped her tea while I stirred sugar into mine. “What rumors?”

  “Another developer snooping around.”

  “Humm.” I ignored the slight tightening in my chest. “Has anyone approached you?”

  “Not me,” she said. “Someone’s talking to the estate lawyer for Martha Jenkins. That property is large enough for condos, maybe. The family’s considering an offer.”

  Carefully, I sipped the tea. “My father hasn’t said anything about selling.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’d sell without telling you,” Birdie reassured me. “He knows you don’t want to leave.” Then she smiled as if she wasn’t listening, and only someone who knew her well would notice the moments when her mind faded.

  “Oh, my,” she said after ten more minutes of conversation. She was staring through the windows overlooking the front walk. I leaned forward to get a better view.

  A luxury sedan rolled to a stop beside the curb. The rear door opened, and a man stepped out. His black suit was elegant and starkly tailored, a deliberate signal of power, paired as it was with a white shirt. Uneasily, I glanced at my black and white choices. Perhaps he knew what I knew. Clothes were protective shields, and I wondered what he hid behind the formal attire.

  He stood with one shoulder turned, revealing his profile but little else. When he straightened his tie, I caught the glint of gold cufflinks. His brown hair was pushed aside with careless perfection. A man in his prime. That much was obvious in his posture, in the athletic ease when he turned.

  In the way his eyes narrowed. How he stared with that intense concentration.

  At my front door.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Who I was seeing—because if this man was my next appointment, then he was twenty minutes early, when most new therapy clients were late. I dealt with anxiety, so tardiness wasn’t unusual. It took courage to ask for help.

  But the luxury sedan was pulling away, and he was definitely walking toward the red geraniums I’d planted to make the entryway more inviting.

  “Statistical odds, Luna dear.” Birdie smiled with the satisfaction found in being right. “If that’s who I think he is.”

  No, no, we do not think that’s who he is!

  Birdie couldn’t know what thoughts were racing through my mind, and she rose to her feet. “We’ve finished our tea, so I’ll just be running along.”

  “Birdie.” Desperate, I stood too, wanting to keep her close. “We still have twenty minutes.”

  “Only ten because those extra minutes aren’t part of my hour.”

  “Now?” I huffed, irritated by her serene smile. “You want to concede the extra ten minutes now?”

  “Well, you always tell me I overstay.”

  Frantic, I gathered the cups, knowing instinctively I would not be offering tea to a man who looked like that man. Nerves ticked at the base of my throat. I thought of effortless power and the way he’d looked on the jogging path. The rock-hard abs. The sweat-slicked skin. “This is crazy.”

  “This is providence,” Birdie said, patting and fluffing her hair like she’d be meeting her husband, and I rushed to the kitchen, stacking cups and spoons. The sugar bowl tipped, making a mess. Spoons clattered to the floor. Birdie was heading for the front door, turning the crystal doorknob. Letting in the shaft of sunlight and the brisk ocean breeze.

  “You must be him,” she chirped as I wiped my hands on a towel and tried to reach her before she said something outrageous. “Did you come to see my Luna dear?”

  “Your Luna dear?” His voice was husky, deeper than what I remembered from our phone conversation. Waves of awareness rocked through me. Birdie was reaching out to take his hand. A strong hand, with a competent grip. He closed his fingers around hers, gently, as
if he understood she was fragile, the way a bird can be fragile beneath the colorful plumage.

  The same fingers I’d seen curled into fists as he ran so ferociously up the hill. When he slammed against my shoulder and left me in the dirt.

  Tingling goose bumps rose on my skin. My face stung.

  Irrationally, I grew angry.

  Angry at Birdie.

  At the way this man could smile and command her attention and approval in a single instant. Even though he was stealing twenty minutes of her cherished time.

  And I hated that I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop noticing the ridiculous blue of his eyes. The way sunlight caught in his hair with layers of black and brown.

  He redefined handsome with a sensual edge, and when his gaze locked onto mine, once again I fought the sensation of this man coming toward me.

  Hunting me down.

  Wearing a dark suit that fit like armor.

  And looking far more dangerous than he’d been in black running shorts and no shirt.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Connor Lange,” he said, turning back to Birdie. “And you are?”

  “Bernadette Maxwell.” She looked goofy and young, fluttering her hands like some fainting southern belle, and I wanted to shake her.

  “I’m looking for Dr. St. Clair, Bernadette. Do I have the wrong house?”

  “Oh, this is the right house.”

  Birdie stepped back, patting the fake rosebud she wore in her white hair, while beside her, Connor Lange stood tall and imposing. The tailored suit fit him to perfection. The cuff links at his wrists glinted in the light, and I’d met enough prominent men to know what that show of understated wealth actually meant. His hard gaze pinned mine, and we stared at each other. Silent. Both of us waiting like two opposing forces ready to collide.