London Dynasty (The Dynasties #1) - Geneva Lee Page 0,16

was the first of many uncomfortable situations I’d signed up for when I agreed to her father’s plan. I thought of the ten million pounds. Once I had it, I could slip away, start over, and finally start a real life. That was enough incentive.

A short while later, I stood in front of the mirror, processing the transformation Giles had achieved. When he’d first handed me his choices, I’d been skeptical. To go with the wedges, he’d chosen a pair of airy, wide-legged linen pants in a summery white. They rose high on my waist, tapering in at the narrowest point with two precise, sophisticated pleats. The silk blouse he’d selected was thin and nearly sheer, cropped to showcase the highrise of the pants.

“Less is more for a luncheon,” he told me, handing me the largest pair of diamond solitaire earrings I’d ever seen.

“Are these real?” I asked, nervously, as I poked them through my lobes.

He paused and considered. “Do you want to know?”

“No,” I said swiftly. If one of them fell out, I didn’t want to think about losing a diamond approximately the size of a small boulder.

Giles finished putting a few items into a handbag and passed it to me. I took it, studying the quilted leather and its interlocking CC logo.

“Lipstick, keys, identification, and I put my number in your mobile,” he informed me.

“Identification?” I repeated with surprise. I opened the clasp and found a driver’s license. Kerrigan’s face stared at me. I scanned it quickly. “But why wouldn’t she take this…”

“She took her passport,” Giles said. “Wherever she went, she didn’t need to drive, it seems.” He reached over and fluffed my hair over my shoulder. I’d sat still long enough for him to show me how she curled the dark locks we shared with an iron. He’d even walked me through her daytime cosmetic routine, which I was grateful turned out to be relatively low maintenance for someone who planned her wardrobe around her shoes.

I looked in the mirror one more time and found a stranger staring back at me. I’d seen her pictures, but until this moment, I’d questioned how everyone else saw such a resemblance. This morning, I’d shoved unruly hair into a ponytail and slipped into what I thought was a dressy outfit. Then I’d been whisked away from Bexby in the safe confines of the Belmond’s car and delivered here, where Giles had overseen the final stage of my physical transformation. The reflection showed no sign of Kate. I’d emerged from my cocoon with bouncing curls, full, painted lips, and the kind of sophistication that could only be bought. I’d become Kerrigan Belmond.

It had taken me nearly an hour to dress, so by the time, Giles went over a few more, important points and led me back downstairs to the library, I was starving and ashamed. I darted inside, the Chanel clutch under my arm. “I’m so sorry that I made you wait.”

Iris looked up from the tablet she was holding—apparently, the hundreds of books surrounding her on the walnut shelves weren’t to her taste—and blinked. “I expected you to take longer.”

I drove my lips into a smile and shrugged, realizing that Kerrigan wasn’t likely to apologize for taking too long getting ready. “I suppose I’m hungry.”

“Well, our reservation isn’t for two more hours, but we could hit the shops near Hillgrove’s,” she said brightly. “But if you’re terribly hungry, I can call and have them move it up.”

“I can wait,” I said. After visiting Kerrigan’s closet, I sensed she was unlikely to turn down a shopping trip.

“Excellent! This is going to be wonderful.”

Within an hour, I’d realized two things: Iris had meant everything she said about wanting to be friends and that I had never really been shopping in my life. Not by Belmond standards. When we’d reached Sloane Street in Belgravia, I’d recognized the designer names gracing the shop doors. Inside the first boutique, I’d made the mistake of peeking at a price tag and nearly fainted, uncertain if it was the item’s cost or the phone number to a helpline for shopping addicts.

Iris seemed more suited to this life than I was. If she saw a piece she liked, she just picked it up and handed it to the shop girl charged with attending to the every need of the two of us.

“Aren’t you going to get anything?” she asked me as we stood admiring a collection of silk scarves.

“I don’t really wear scarves,” I said without thinking