The Arrangement by Suzanne Forster Read Free Book Online Page B

up at him. “Cheating death was hard. This is harder.”
    “Family reunions? You’ll be fine.”
    “I don’t know what they’re expecting.” Frustration rang in her voice. He was patronizing her again, managing her like one of his clients. He’d coached her so thoroughly that she’d memorized his pep talks. You have transient amnesia and can’t be expected to remember anything but bits and pieces of the past. There won’t be spotlights and interrogations, so don’t make it hard on yourself. I’ve already told your mother how difficult this is for you.
    He bent to pick up her white silk kimono, which was lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. “You’re not the same person,” he said. “How could you be? They’ll see that immediately.”
    She took the robe from him before he could help her with it. Once she had it on, she turned away and tied the belt. He didn’t care about her, not really. He was fixated on finding out who’d tried to frame him for murder. That was the reason he’d given her for returning to Mirage Bay, but she had a gut feeling there was more to it. He wasn’t telling her everything.
    His voice came to her, low and restrained. “We need to behave like we’re married, Alison.”
    She glanced up at his reflection. He used the mirror to make eye contact with her, and she found it hard to look away. There wasn’t a hint of revulsion or pity in his eyes. He was razor-focused, curious and very aware of her, much like any man interested in a woman. But it was all part of the illusion, the arrangement.
    “And in love,” he said. “People will expect that much.”
    She knew it was true. Everyone would be insatiably curious, her family most of all. But she didn’t know how they were going to do it, or whether anyone would be convinced. It would require acting skills beyond either of their ability. Would anyone believe they were the same passionate, overheated couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other?
     
    Tears rolled down Julia Driscoll Fairmont’s cheeks as she plucked the downy hairs from above her upper lip. One by one, she extracted the barely visible offenders, leaving an occasional spot of blood. But the sharpest sting came from the errant nose hairs that dared to protrude from her aristocratic nostrils.
    Her esthetician would have been happy to do the honors, with much greater speed and far less pain. But that would have defeated the purpose. It wouldn’t have calmed Julia’s nerves the way plucking did.
    For the last half hour, she’d been sitting at her vanity, balancing a hand mirror and her surgical tweezers—and wincing with every extraction. She was probably adding a wrinkle for every hair. She had heard physical pain caused the brain to produce endorphins that could become addictive, but that wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t a pain junkie. If anything, her obsession with plucking was in large part thanks to her dear departed mother.
    Eleanor Driscoll had been named for Eleanor Roosevelt, and she took that responsibility very much to heart. From her teens, Eleanor Dee, as everyone called her, had been an activist. She’d thought of herself as a modern-day crusader, which included defending society’s downtrodden wherever she found them.
    Eleanor Dee believed in volunteerism and self-sacrifice. She was against self-indulgence in all its forms, including drinking, smoking and, of course, indiscriminate sexual behavior. Sadly, her daughter and only child, Julia, had failed her on nearly all counts, and in the most disgraceful and embarrassing ways.
    “Mea culpa,” Julia muttered. At forty-nine, she was still riddled with guilt and would be until the day she died. Only her mother and devoted husband knew what she’d done all those years ago in her twenties, and they’d taken her secrets to their graves. Julia had tried to atone. She’d lived an exemplary life…well, until very recently. But she had raised her two children and become a pillar of the