Identity

He lifted his cup, toasted. “Thanks, Mom.”

He’d earned it, just as he’d earned every penny since, because it was work, and work that required time, skill, brains. The weeks, often months of research and planning took a toll. Then add in the expense of maintaining his looks while changing them just a bit along the way, the cost of acquiring new identities and the wardrobe to suit them.

Some of the marks expected sex, something he’d honestly never enjoyed. But he considered it the cost of doing business.

There’d been that one in Portland three—no, four years ago, he remembered. God, she’d been relentless sexually. Then again, he’d cleared nearly eight hundred thousand before he ended their relationship. And her.

He’d done very well for himself, enjoyed his life, his work, his travels. And his success rate had been perfect, because he’d earned perfect. He deserved perfect.

Until Morgan Albright.

The one that got away.

It grated still, and he could admit the miss had left him shaken. More than a little shaken. Enough to take a break, indulge in a long vacation.

The bitch would’ve talked to the cops, to those asshole feds, and maybe, just maybe, he’d let something slip with her he shouldn’t have.

Not likely, but the nagging maybe pushed him to take a breather, to put a few thousand miles between them.

He could afford it, after all, some time in San Diego, then a couple of months in Malibu, before some island hopping in Hawaii.

Nothing better than a fine hotel on a beach, to his mind.

And as the saying went, all work and no play made Gavin a dull boy.

But even in fine hotels on fine beaches, he thought of her, and thought of her. He’d taken what was hers, but she’d lived. She’d broken his streak and that ate away at him.

He had to fix that, fix her, reclaim his luck. To add to it, he was bored. Work was play for him, and he missed it, and missing it, had gone into research mode.

He’d need to reclaim that luck, start a new streak before dealing with Morgan.

He had two likely candidates on the mainland, and he’d choose the lucky winner soon. But Morgan? She proved people were stupid, gullible, and always ripe for the picking.

She’d changed her passwords—as if that mattered—and had shut down her already sparce social media accounts over the last year.

But her mother had them all. She posted regularly for the family business in Vermont. Pretty photos, cheerful marketing, with a personal touch.

So he knew Morgan, flat broke, had moved to Vermont, back with Mommy and Grandma. And all those happy posts helped him keep an eye on her. He’d researched her family, the family home and business before he’d walked into that two-bit bar, so he knew the setup, the finances.

When he was ready, he’d use her mother’s accounts to find a back door and hack right back into Morgan’s.

When he was ready.

Maybe he’d been meant to miss her the first time around. The idea of “meant to” soothed him. She’d hurt him by living, he could hurt her so much more by letting her live awhile, then taking everything again.

A second shot required a change of tactics, a different method altogether. But with the potential of more, much more. More money, more pain, more pleasure for him.

What if, just what if, he killed all three?

Something to think about.

But first, he had to get back in the game. Time to choose that lucky winner, he decided, and started making a plan.



* * *



Morgan loved going back to work, the routine, the structure, the schedule. Putting on her uniform made her feel productive, capable. Meeting the staff meant she was, again, part of a team.

Training proved straightforward enough. Après was certainly a bigger and more upscale operation than any she’d worked in before, but she’d handle it.

Maybe her visit to the wine cellar left her a little breathless—those racks upon racks, and the vintages far beyond any she’d decanted in the past—but she’d handle that, too.

The menu from the back of the house ranked several classy steps above the Round, and guests received maple-roasted almonds and picholine olives with their drinks instead of pretzels and bar nuts, but that was all a matter of style.

She breezed through her training week, serving guests not unlike those she’d painted for Nell during her interview. Though she considered Nick the best of those who tended bar, she had no complaints.

As for the waitstaff, their training showed.

At the end of the week, she received a summons from Lydia Jameson.

She’d expected an elaborate office, something regal to suit the photo of the woman she’d studied and the biography she’d googled to go with it.

Instead she found a modest, workmanlike room, a serviceable desk with a chair as straight-backed as Lydia’s spine.

She wore her dark honey hair in soft waves around a strong face of sharp points. Cheekbones, chin cut like diamonds. The decades of lines didn’t detract from it but made her look wise. And formidable.

Her eyes were deep golden brown behind the lenses of black-framed glasses. Her poppy-red lips didn’t smile as she studied Morgan.

“Have a seat.” The voice matched the face—strong—as she gestured with a hand adorned with a wedding set with a blinding square-cut diamond solitaire. “And welcome to the Jameson family.”

“Thank you. I’m very grateful to be a part of it.”

“I see Olivia in you, and some of Audrey with it. I imagine you got the eyes from your father.”

“The color, yes.”

“I have a great deal of respect for Olivia, and in the last several years, for your mother. It’s why you’re here. Or I should say it’s why you were given the opportunity to be here.”

“I know that. I’m grateful for that.”

“As you should be. I had Nell interview you, as I felt I should step back. I also have a great deal of respect for my granddaughter.”

“As you should.”

Lydia’s eyebrows cocked up at that.

“Nell tells me, as did Don, you’ll be an asset to the resort.”

“I’m determined to be.”

“Are you a determined individual, Ms. Albright?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

Lydia let that hang a moment while she continued to study Morgan in silence.

“It’s difficult for a determined individual to start over, but without determination there’s no chance of succeeding. Your previous employers also touted your loyalty. We prize loyalty here, and will give it in turn.”

“I appreciate that, and I’ve already seen it. Nick Tennant, ten years; Opal Reece, twelve; Adam Fine, sixteen. And others with that much or more. People don’t stay happily at a job if they’re not treated well, if there’s not respect and loyalty on both sides. I’m going to give you my best, Mrs. Jameson, and my best is solid.”

“I’d expect nothing less from Olivia’s granddaughter. Once again, welcome to the Jameson family.” This time Lydia rose, held out a hand.

“Thank you.”

As she walked to Après, Morgan let herself breathe again. She was pretty damn sure she’d passed the last test.



* * *