Chapter 3

Blair

“This is the place,” I said, pointing to the entrance to my mother’s mansion. Two wrought iron gates were tipped in viciously sharp spears. An intercom was attached to the stone wall beside it.

A curved gravel drive led past a stone fountain. The rose bushes were bare of leaves and flowers, now. Slate roof tiles above the seven-bedroom home I’d grown up in, pale stone walls, marked by wooden beams, and a terracotta entrance.

It was opulent, and the tree my mother kept especially for Christmas grew in its same spot – just outside the front door. She hadn’t decorated it yet. She always left it to the last minute.

Everything was lit up in the night by bulb lanterns, their glow steady in the dark.

“Knock, knock,” Samson said, rapping his knuckles on the wheel of the Audi. “Are you going to be all right here?”

“Fine,” I said and pressed the flat of my hand to my stomach. Fuck no, I wasn’t going to be all right. My mother had the nose of a bloodhound. “What if she sniffs it out? In the first five seconds?” The question was more for myself than for him.

“Then I guess I’ll have to return the car,” he replied and pulled up to the gates. He pressed a button on his door, and the driver’s side window rolled down.

“Let me do the talking,” I said.

“Hmmm.” He reached out and pressed the button on the intercom.

“Samson! Let me do the –”

“Hello? Who’s there?” Mom’s voice zinged through the intercom. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Good evening, ma’am,” Samson said.

I hissed and flapped my hands at him. He grinned.

“This is Santa Claus with a special delivery for you.” His voice bubbled, hot cocoa, thick and unctuous. “Have you been a good gir –?”

“Mom!” I yelped over the tail end of his sentence.

Samson burst out laughing.

“Blair? Blair, is that you?” Mom half-screeched over the dying rumbles of mirth from my ‘partner in lies.’

“Yes, Mom, it’s me. I’ve come for Christmas. Could you open the gates, please?”

“Of course, darling. Oh, this is wonderful. I’m so happy you’re here. Hold on, darling, I’ll let you in.”

Happy because she could force me to sing and dance, no doubt. She could question me about progress with my law degree.

The iron gates swung inward, and Samson revved the engine of the Audi. He sped up the drive, going a little too fast, spitting up gravel in our wake.

My heart fluttered, and I clamped down on the armrest. The speed exhilarated me. Mom would probably lose her mind about this later but it was worth it.

Samson sailed to a halt in front of the front steps and put the car in park. “Ready?” He took my hand and squeezed once.

I squeezed back – I needed the strength and comfort. I’d already made the damn decision to go through with this but that didn’t mean I was made out of iron. My nerves were wrecked. “Ready,” I whispered.

Samson got out of the car, circled around to my side, then opened the door for me. He offered me his hand again and I took it, stepped out into the crisp New York air.

The grand front door, cedar wood and engraved, swung outward and there she was.

Regina Scott: glorious, thick blond curls falling around her heart-shaped face, an off-the-shoulder nightgown, glimmer and shimmer, in spite of the fact that it was cold enough to freeze a bird on a branch out here.

She shimmied forward on high heels, looking at least ten years younger than her forty-five years and threw her arms out. “Darling,” she cried, crimson lips parting to reveal whitened veneers. “Darling, come here. I’ve missed you so much.”

Samson escorted me around the front of the car – ahem, excuse the pun – and up the front stairs to my mother. I stepped free of him but the heat of his touch lingered, warming me through the thick, baggy sweater I’d thrown on this morning.

My mom was Marilyn Monroe. And I was… ugh, the woman who brought Marilyn Monroe her coffee.

“My sweet pea,” she cried and wrapped me in her embrace. Chanel No. 5 overwhelmed my senses. My eyes watered a little.

“Mom,” I choked out. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, it’s not Christmas yet, you. Still a few days,” she said and shuffled back a step. “Well, look at you. Pink-cheeked and cute as ever.” She pinched my chin and waggled it from side-to-side. “You’ve gained some weight. You’re not pregnant, are you?” Mom tittered a laugh as if it was the most hysterical thing she’d ever heard. “No, of course not. Oh, sweetie, I’ve missed you so much.”

“How are you?” I asked and rubbed the spot she’d pinched. Samson stood behind me, the pressure of his presence and its meaning intruding on the moment. Not that I cared – this wasn’t exactly the happiest return.

I loved my mother, but she drove me up the wall.

“Me? How am I?” She fluttered fake lashes at me. “Fabulous, darling. I’m so happy you’re here, though I only expected you tomorrow morning, and I’m excited for our dinner tomorrow evening. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” It came out in a rush of sound, high-pitched and breathy.

“Of course not,” I said. How could I forget? My mother, in all her alacrity, had organized a dinner with my ex-boyfriend, his new girlfriend, and my mother’s new lover tomorrow evening. Having Samson here would probably help me through the dinner, too. “Mom, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Is it the strapping fellow lurking behind you?”

“Yes,” I said.

Samson stepped up beside me. His arm brushed against mine, and I flinched, barely contained it. “Mrs. Scott,” he said, extending a hand toward Mom. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mrs. Scott is my mother,” she simpered. “You may call me Regina.” Another flutter of those fake lashes, this time accompanied by a hip wiggle.

Jealousy flared in my chest, and I clamped my hand down on Samson’s arm.

His eyes sparkled, and he raised an eyebrow at me.

“Samson,” I said, and took Mother’s gaze from him, “is my fiancé. Mom, I’m getting married!” I put on my best, joyful smile. It had to be enough. Hopefully, she’d be too shocked to notice my white-knuckled grip on Samson’s arm.

“What?!” Mom gasped and pressed her hand to her décolletage. “You are? Darling, that’s wonderful. This is the best early Christmas present imaginable.” She swept me into a hug but my arm dragged back. I hadn’t let go of Samson, and my grip had tightened even more.

It was reflexive, nothing to do with the fact that Mom had eyed him out, of course. Just the result of heady anxiety and the fear that Mom would flip out when I finally told her that ‘wedding’ would mean me leaving my studies behind.

Mom let go of me and I stumbled. Samson caught me, slipped his arm around my waist, and held me to his side. “Easy there, gorgeous,” he said and pressed his nose to my crown. He kissed it, lightly, and I shivered. “Don’t go falling for me all over again.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Regina said and clapped her hands. “Isn’t he cute? Samson, it’s wonderful to have you here. I must admit, this is a bit of a shock but it’s happy news nonetheless. Oh, you two must come inside and tell me all about it. Where are my manners? It’s so late already, you probably want to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, we ran into some traffic on the Interstate,” Samson said. “Storm’s coming. A lot of people are heading out of state.”

We followed Mom into the terracotta entrance hall, and she shut the door behind us. “It’s a pity it’s so late. My chef has already left for the day or I’d demand he make you two something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, quickly. We’d both gulped down hamburgers on the way over, partly because I’d wanted to avoid Mother’s hospitality, and partly out of nerves.

“Yeah, all full up.” Samson stifled a yawn. “Shoot, I’m beat.”

“Oh, are you?” Regina sighed. “I suppose I can wait until tomorrow to hear about how you two met. Come, I’ll show you the guest room.” She directed that at Samson, and once again, the inside of my chest went hot and then cold again. Why did this bother me so much?

Samson probably got hit on by women all the time. But my mother? My own mother? I’d just told her he was my fiancé, yet she did it anyway. Relentless as she’d always been. That was part of the reason I’d avoided guys – watching my mother throw money at her suitors, fucking up the good relationships and keeping the bad, had induced an allergic reaction to that lifestyle in me.

“Come on, sexy,” Samson breathed but it was for my ears only. Mom was already halfway up the staircase to the second level.

My faux fiancé walked me up the stairs behind her. Regina glanced back at us every few feet. No, not at me, but at Samson. Oh, god, is she checking to see whether he’s looking at her ass? Wow. Wow. Wow. Kill me now.

We reached the landing and traversed a long hallway that looked out on a central living room on the bottom floor. A silver chandelier hung level with us, its crystal bulbs lit up, casting rainbows along the matte cream walls.

Opulence. Everything from the gilt frames, most of them bearing kitschy paintings or images of my mother in her prime years – as she called them – decorated the left side of the hall. Regina halted in front of a set of wooden double doors and spread her arms.

“Your room, lady and gentleman,” she purred, then took hold of either golden handle and opened the doors, revealing the chamber beyond. A four-poster bed, en suite bathroom, and a mirror against one wall. Quaint glass windows and a single candle burning in its holder, as if she’d anticipated I’d bring a guest.

No, she’d probably have stuck me in the big room to remind me how alone I was.

“It’s stunning,” Samson said. “Thank you, Regina.”

“It’s my greatest, greatest pleasure.” She inhaled and pressed out her chest. “You two have a lovely evening. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.” Mom winked at me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, darling.” She sauntered off, wiggling her butt.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Samson said and looked down at me, the lips twitching into his oh-so-sexy smile again, “but that leaves our options open, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t make me slap you on Christmas.”

He leaned in and pecked my cheek. “It’s not Christmas yet, Blair.”