Page 25

As the cloud of dust kicked up by the Jeep’s tires faded to a haze, Jean studied the scene in front of them.

The iron gates and fully staffed security booth at the end of the private drive had set the expected hoity-toity tone, but between here and there, they seemed to have teleported to a different world.

“What the fuck, Hildy? I’m getting major dude-ranch vibes.” It would be hard not to, what with the hay bales and hats, not to mention the red bandanas tied around every other neck.

Hildy pressed her lips together, hmm ing thoughtfully as a man in a checked shirt and painted-on Wranglers twirled his lasso for an older couple, who clapped when he finished the trick. “It is a bit frontiercore. Possibly my intel was a teensy bit faulty, regarding the theme.”

“You think?” Jean glanced down at her midriff-baring bustier, barely covered by the fringe of her vest. “This ensemble does not say cattle drive. I look like a total imposter.”

“You’re from Wisconsin. They have lots of cows there.”

“Gentle cheese cows. This feels more like angry steak cow country.”

“Probably best not to call them that to their faces,” Hildy cautioned, reaching across to unbuckle Jean’s seat belt.

“I’m not planning to get that close to big scary cows.” Jean braced her wedge heels under the glove compartment, resisting Hildy’s attempt to push her out the door.

“Are we really talking about cows, or are you scared of seeing a certain playboy beer millionaire with soulful eyes?”

“I’m not scared. He should be scared of me.” She crossed her arms, scowling at what looked like a troupe of square dancers. There were exactly zero crinolines in Jean’s luggage. Sexy mesh bodycon dresses? Sure. Wholesome gingham? Not so much.

“Great. Hold on to that confidence. You said you want to be so luscious he felt personally attacked. Mission accomplished.”

“But maybe I should be a different kind of thirst trap. To blend in.” You’d have to come at Jean with a hot poker (which for all she knew might be part of the evening’s entertainment) to make her admit it, but she’d been counting on at least looking like she belonged here with the Snooty McSnootersons.

It hadn’t occurred to her that they’d all be playing cowboy.

“We could go back to town and get some flannel shirts,” Jean suggested.

Hildy rolled her eyes. “Because nothing says SEX like a plaid button-down. Also, what town? The last sign of civilization was half an hour ago. Over gravel roads. And that was a rest stop.”

She had a point. Jean had asked more than once if they were there yet, especially after losing cell reception. The Pike family estate was nestled in a secluded canyon a stone’s throw from the Wyoming border. It was picturesque, if you liked that kind of thing, but not exactly a retail hotbed.

“There’s a trout stream too,” Hildy had explained as they bumped over the rutted roads leading into the surprisingly green valley. The grassy slopes gave way to steep rocky walls topped with spiny red ridges that towered high above. “Really good fly-fishing.”

“How do you know all this?” Jean asked.

“Research, babe.”

That sounded more productive than getting sucked down the rabbit hole of gossip sites dissecting Charlie’s relationship with Adriana Asebedo.

It was too late for regrets. They were here in the wilderness, cut off from the internet or the hope of a quick mall run. And Hildy was trying to physically eject her from the passenger seat.

Jean shoved back. “Quit it.”

“Time to hop along. Go on, git.”

“How come you get to do an accent?”

“Because I’m behind the scenes. You’re the face of this operation.” Hildy ducked down, hiding behind the steering wheel. “Now go out there and do your thing, before someone recognizes me, and we both get kicked out.”

“Are you on a Most Wanted list I don’t know about?”

Hildy’s sigh dislodged one of her curls. “There’s a total media blackout, and my last name basically screams ‘media.’ And since I haven’t exactly been flying under the radar, there’s no way I’m getting in. But don’t worry, I’ll be in the wind.”

“What?”

“I’ve always wanted to say that. FYI, there’s a burner phone in the garment bag, if they take yours.”

“I have zero bars.”

“Pictures.” Hildy tapped her temple. “Want me to count you down? Three, two—”

“I’m going,” Jean snapped, gathering her impractical bag and floppy hat.

“Remember to own it. You’re the kind of girl who puts the ‘eh’ in entitled.”

“And the tit.” Jean dropped onto the grass. “Tits. Plural. Since I have two.” She slammed the door before Hildy could get the last word in.

Two men in western shirts with contrast piping and shiny snaps hurried over, the first going to the trunk while the other greeted Jean.

“Welcome to the Pike Family Ranch. Your name?”

She channeled the attitude of the haughtiest guests she’d dealt with at Dolphin Bay. “I am Eve.” A flicker of uncertainty made her add, “Sockless Tommy’s niece.”

He glanced at the very un-cowboy tablet in his hands, tapping the surface before turning it to face her. “If you could just sign here.”

Jean debated raising her sunglasses to read the minuscule lines of text but didn’t want him to see the blank look in her eyes.

“Standard NDA,” he said, with an I-know-right eye roll. Just one of those everyday annoyances, like having to show your passport before jetting to the Alps for a ski vacation. “For everyone’s protection.”

“Indeed,” she droned, in the affectless deadpan that definitely did not qualify as an accent. Between that and the frozen face, Eve’s vibe was fully I am so cool I’m basically a cadaver. Who sleeps in a designer crypt . Her attitude dared any of these fools to ask her to line dance.

“Thank you. The family would love for you to join them in the main house for refreshments. I’ll tell your driver where to park.”

Jean inclined her head, as if this were the bare minimum she expected at the many house parties she attended in her life as a wealthy parasite. Er, socialite.

No wonder Charlie thought he could get away with treating the little people like dirt, if he’d been brought up in this environment. About time someone taught him otherwise.

All she had to do was make it to the house in these death-trap platform sandals. They’d looked so alluring on the shelf, before she’d strapped them onto her feet. Definitely no sport mode on these babies.

An attractive middle-aged woman stepped out the front door, already smiling.

She was wearing a long denim shirtdress that managed to suggest “western” without making her look like she was waiting tables at a barbeque joint.

But it wasn’t the low-key elegance that hit Jean hardest. The perfectly layered dark hair was lightly threaded with silver and her eyes looked so much like a certain two-faced snakeologist’s, she might as well have been wearing a sign around her neck that said I’m Charlie’s mom!

“Hello! Welcome…” The other woman’s smile stayed bright as her voice trailed off in question.

“I am Eve,” Jean said again.

The temptation to keep talking was strong, but a central part of the Eve concept was being a conversational black hole. No babbling allowed. Instead of trying to justify her presence by volunteering information, she let other people fill in the blanks.

“Eve! How wonderful to meet you.” Before Jean could react, she’d been pulled into a hug. It required all her presence of mind to stay limp and sluglike instead of reciprocating. “I’m Sandy Pike. We’re so happy you could join us for the festivities.”

“I’m sure.”

Mrs. Pike recovered from this ego trip with impressive speed. “What do you do, Eve?”

“I dabble. I’m a dabbler.”

“That sounds very… creative. Like your clothes!”

Jean side-eyed Mrs. Pike but detected no trace of covert insult. She kept her guard up anyway, in case Charlie’s mother was as slick and duplicitous as her son.

“I met Sockless Tommy once. You don’t look much like him.”

“Lucky me.” Jean’s jaw felt like concrete. Was she about to be exposed this close to seeing Charlie again?

Mrs. Pike laughed. “All those ex–professional wrestlers have the same sense of style, don’t they?” She linked her arm with Jean’s so they could walk side by side. “Of course a lovely young thing like you isn’t going to have a mullet perm.”

“No,” Jean agreed, wondering what other fun tidbits Hildy had neglected to mention about Jean’s fake uncle.

“Now, do you need a potty break,” Charlie’s mother asked, with the sweetness of a preschool teacher, “or are you ready to join the others?”

Would Jean have been greeted this warmly if she’d shown up as herself—sometime waitress and reluctant resort employee—instead of the alleged niece of a rich stranger with questionable taste in hairstyles?

The front door loomed ahead. It was the moment of truth—and consequences. For Charlie, obviously. Those butterflies in Jean’s stomach were pure performance anxiety, untainted by anything weak and embarrassing like excitement.

Jean flashed back to the last time she’d stood outside a door waiting to see him.

She imagined a flamethrower spitting fire across the empty lot of her feelings, burning down any weeds that might have sprouted from the dirt.

Then she pictured herself kicking aside the ashy husk that represented the last scrap of her delusions about Charlie “The Snake” Pike.

It didn’t matter if he had twenty girlfriends inside. She was here for one thing, and one thing only. “What was the question?”

“I asked if you were ready to go in,” Mrs. Pike reminded her, tactfully ignoring Jean’s momentary zone-out.

Right. Showtime. Jean squared her shoulders. Prepare for total domination, Charlie. She turned to his mother with a thin smile.

“Bring it on.”