Pure Sin (Privilege 5)

“This should be simple,” Jessup said. “All you need to do is sign where indicated, and then I’ll be able to give you all the account numbers and keys.”

He lifted an open box off the chair on his other side and placed it on the table. Inside were several sets of keys, each with a white tag hanging off of it, and a series of worn-looking bankbooks.

“Keys?” she asked.

“To the five safety deposit boxes containing all your mother and grandmother’s jewelry. To the ranch in Texas, the house in Florida, the villa in Italy, the condo in Vail, the pied-à-terre in Paris. Also, the cars,” he said, lifting out one after the other. “You’ve got your Cadillac convertible, your grandmother’s classic Benz, your father’s Porsche, and your mother’s Infiniti. Your grandmother never had the heart to sell those. The keys to the various vehicles at the other homes are all with the caretakers, but I thought I’d bring these with me in case you wanted me to have one of them shipped out.”

Ariana’s tongue was slick with saliva. She was actually about to start drooling. Pied-à-terre in Paris? Villa in Italy? Condo in Vail? Her choice of cars? Suddenly she wished she’d taken Lexa up on her offer and brought her along, just so that she could have her pinch her.

“Miss Covington? Are you all right? Do you need some water?” Mr. Jessup asked.

“Um, no, thank you. I’m fine,” she said. She folded her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see them trembling, although he probably would have thought she was overcome with stress rather than excitement. “Actually, you could have the Porsche shipped out, if you don’t mind taking care of that for me.” She had detested Briana Leigh’s ridiculously ostentatious gold Cadillac. From everything she knew about Mr. Covington, she was sure his car was more classic—more understated.

“Of course not,” Mr. Jessup said, making a quick note. Then he took out a second pen, uncapped it, and handed it to her. “All right, then. If you’ll just show me your ID, we can get started.”

Ariana’s blood froze. “My ID?”

Did he think she wasn’t who she said she was? Did he think she was some kind of fraud? She’d been living as Briana Leigh Covington for the past four months. And he had no idea the torture she’d had to live through before taking the name, just to secure it. How dare he ask for ID? Her fingers clenched the pen so hard the tips began to turn white under her fingernails.

“Yes, it’s just a matter of course,” Mr. Jessup said. “Legalities and all that. You do have it with you?”

Ariana breathed in deeply through her nose, telling herself to be patient. The man was just doing his job. He wasn’t trying to out her. Slowly, concentrating on every move—on making them look casual—Ariana placed the pen down, reached into her bag and extracted her wallet. Her fingers were slick with sweat, so it took several frustrating tries to remove the license from its transparent casing. Mr. Jessup chuckled at her many attempts, which made her skin prickle. Then, finally, it slipped free. She handed it to him, held her breath, and waited.

The man barely glanced at it. “Thank you,” he said, handing it back to her.

Ariana tucked the license away as her skin gradually returned to a normal temperature. It was fine. Everything was fine.

“Sign here,” Jessup said, turning the first page toward her.

At first, Ariana’s fingers were trembling so badly, she could hardly write Briana Leigh’s name. But with each successive signature, her writing became more clear, more sure. She was worth millions. She had properties all over the world at her disposal. And within days, she’d have a car on campus. This was the single best day of her life.

“And here . . . ,” Jessup said, putting the last piece of paper in front of her.

Ariana signed quickly, then clasped the pen in both hands over her heart, biting down on her lip in excitement. Slowly, Mr. Jessup slid the box toward her.

“All of your parents’ accounts are electronic, so I’ve brought you the passwords and account numbers. But your grandmother was old school. She liked to write everything down herself,” Mr. Jessup said fondly. “I thought you might want to have her records.”

“Thank you

,” Ariana said, reaching for the first account book.

She tried not to be too quick about it, lest she appear greedy and not properly mournful, but she did have to look. She simply had to. She opened the account to its last entry and stared at the balance. It read $756,905.32.

“That’s just her checkbook,” Mr. Jessup said, almost apologetically. “The savings accounts, of course, are far more substantial.”

Ariana felt suddenly faint. Her mouth went dry, and she shakily placed the book down on the table. She was rich. Filthy, stinking, disgustingly rich. She could take this checkbook right now, walk out of here, and buy herself ten cars if she wanted to. Or a few boats. Or a freaking town house on Capitol Hill.

“I think I’ll take that water now, please,” she said.

“Of course.”

Mr. Jessup leaned forward and hit a button on a keypad at the center of the table. It let out a buzz. “Yes, Mr. Jessup?” a voice chirped.

“Miss Covington is in need of some water, please, Cheryl,” he said.

“Right away, sir.”

Ariana cleared her throat, gripping the arms on her chair. She had to calm down. She had to stop freaking out and think clearly. What would Briana Leigh do right now? Her grandmother had just died. What would she say?