The Lies We Tell (The Four 1)

He re-entered the room, bare-chested, a pair of pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. “Leaving already?”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t sleep well in new places.”

He nodded. “Okay, let me call you a cab.” Before I could say anything else, he’d swiped his phone from the table next to his bed and was dialling. He spoke in a low voice, then ended the call and turned to me. “They’ll be about five minutes. There’s a cab on its way to drop someone off here, so it’ll pick you up at the same time.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. “I’ll go and wait downstairs.” I stared at him a little awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

He gave me an understanding look. “Tonight was fun. If you ever want a repeat, I’m your man. If not, no big deal. I think we’re going to become friends, Winter Huntington.” Crossing the room to stand in front of me, he placed a soft kiss on my lips. “Let me throw on a T-shirt and I’ll walk you downstairs.”

At the front door, the taxi pulled up and the driver waved at me. “There’s my ride. Thanks for earlier. See you around, James.” We briefly hugged each other, and then I headed over to the taxi. He waited until I was seated in the cab, before he turned around and went back inside.

My mind churning, I closed my eyes, leaning against the window as the cab moved through the darkened roads towards my apartment. But it wasn’t James who occupied my thoughts.

It was the man with hair as black as onyx and stormy ocean eyes.

My stepbrother.

TWO

“This is it.” Talking aloud to myself, I slowed down my car, pulling up to the gated entrance. I noticed a camera focusing on me, and the gates smoothly swung open. I continued up the long gravel driveway and came to a halt in front of a large Georgian house, standing tall and imposing on the headland that stretched into the distance on either side. Other equally large houses were visible on the horizon, but none near enough to make out their features.

I parked my car to the left of the house, unsure where to leave it, and sat for a moment, trying to compose myself.

This would be the first time I’d seen my mother in person for years, and the first time I’d ever met her new husband. I was crossing my fingers that his sons wouldn’t be there. It was going to be difficult enough as it was, playing nice with the woman that had shown no interest in my life until I made contact after my dad had passed away, without them around, making me uncomfortable.

Clasping the bottle of vintage wine I’d splurged on, I made my way up the steps, bisected by tall columns, to the front door and knocked.

It swung open almost immediately.

“Good evening, Miss Huntington. We’ve been expecting you. May I take your coat?” A short, stooping man stood in the doorway, one arm outstretched towards me.

“Uh, sure.” I shrugged off my coat and handed it to him, along with the wine. “Thank you. And who are you? I mean, how do I address you?” I could feel my cheeks grow warm. My dad hadn’t been poor, but we certainly hadn’t been on the level of having staff.

“I’m Mr. Allan, Mr. Cavendish’s butler. You may call me Allan, miss.”

I gave him a hesitant smile. “Um. Okay. Thank you, Allan.”

He inclined his head towards me. “Follow me. Mistress Cavendish is expecting you.”

We walked through a grand foyer, down a long corridor, and entered a large room full of plants, with glass walls on three sides and an absolutely breathtaking view of the ocean.

“Wow.” My jaw dropped. The sun was setting, bathing the sea in a sparkling golden glow. From up this high on the clifftops, we had an almost panoramic view of the headland and the sea, stretching for miles.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A pair of stilettos clicked across the stone floor, and someone came to a stop next to me.

I took a deep breath, turning to face the woman I hadn’t seen in person since I was five years old. The woman who’d so easily cut me from her life. “Christine. I mean, Mother.”

“Hello, Winter.” Christine Clifford had barely aged a day— of course, I’d seen photos of her, but in person I could see how untouched she was by the years. If it was Botox, it was very subtle. She wore an elegant sky-blue dress and skyscraper heels, her dark hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.

She studied me, her cool, appraising gaze taking me in, and then a pleased expression crossed her face. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Of course, it’s only to be expected, with me as your mother.” She preened. “I look forward to reconnecting with you, adult to adult.”

“Me too.” I was shocked to find that I meant the words. I suddenly felt my lip tremble, and my eyes filled with tears. Despite everything, despite my suspicions, she was my mother. The only person connected to me by blood that was left alive.

She must have read something in my expression, because she added, “Now that your good-for-nothing father is gone, I’m all you have.”

And just like that, my impending tears were gone, replaced by anger. She watched me with a knowing look in her eyes. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing that she’d hurt me. With an effort, I swallowed my rage and fixed a smile on my face. Game face on.

“Great. Why don’t we start with you catching me up with your life?” If there was one thing my dad had mentioned about my mother, over and over again, it was that she was incredibly self-absorbed and loved to talk about herself.