Dead Ringer

29

Donovan's idea of "somewhere nice" was a dinner party on a freaking yacht.

I gaped as we boarded, a scarlet dress of Tilda's swishing around my knees. I had a feeling it was one of the longest dresses she owned, and she probably would have felt as out of place here as I did.

A few heads turned as Donovan guided me into the crowd. The expensive skirts and well-tailored suits separated me from them. They had been born into this. I wasn't just clawing my way among them by using a rich man; I was also using my sister's face like a mask.

A few people greeted Donovan with nods or handshakes. Some even included me. I liked to think that the way he clung to me as we made small talk meant something more than just forgotten sex—because if not, then all I had was a void where the memories should have been. I held onto him just as tightly, secretly hoping for a second chance.

I was the definition of a terrible sister.

It wasn't like that was a newsflash. I was used to having her seconds, just like she'd been used to having mine. So many of them never knew the difference, and the ones that did often didn't care. When she got bored, they didn't have to move on. I was there, with her face and her voice and a need to never be alone. It was perfect.

But I wasn't going to pretend like dating girls wasn't a relief, because she never made a move.

I looked up as Donovan extricated his arm from mine. "Forgive me," he said, bending down to speak into my ear. "I'll be right back. I promise."

And then he was gone. I stared at his back as he wove through the crowd, further and further away. Why did it always feel like he was running, and I was chasing after him like a desperate gold digger? I hoped he didn't think that. I didn't want him because of his money. I wanted him because he reminded me of something I'd lost.

Is that really any better?

"Matilda?"

I swung around to find an old woman detaching herself from the crowd, peering at me as she tottered closer.

"Oh, heavens, it really is you!" She took my hands, squeezing painfully tight. "How long has it been?"

"Too long," I stammered, searching for Donovan's head above the crowd. I spotted him at the opposite end of the deck, leaning against the railing as he spoke to a woman whose hand rested on her swollen belly.

"He'll come back to you, don't worry. He always does."

I stared at the woman. She spoke as if she knew the details of our relationship—or of Tilda's relationship with Donovan—and something made me play along. I nodded.

"Where are your rings?" she asked, frowning down at my left hand.

"I—um...." My mind raced. "I was afraid of losing them in the water."

She nodded, guiding me to the nearest table. We sat, our hands resting on the pristine cloth. She still hadn't let go, and the smile she gave me was full of sympathy.

"It's that weight you've lost recently," she said. "Slimmer fingers. You should get them refitted."

I nodded along in agreement.

"How's...you know? Everything back home?" She raised her eyebrows, as if we shared some secret that I was supposed to know.

"It's good," I said with a cheerful smile.

"Are you sure? You still look stressed."

I looked down at my hands and shrugged, hoping it was an appropriate response. If I was a trained FBI agent, I could have gotten something out of her, pieced together the information for an accurate picture of Tilda's past. Instead, I stumbled along, wishing I knew what to say.