“Jackson is asleep in the next room. I expect he’ll be joining us sooner than later. And in answer to your first question, talking about finances is just a bit too personal at this point for me, Mr. Gilmore,” she replied suavely. “Especially since this unannounced visit of yours is all about getting to know each other. Right?”
Barton chuckled. “I can tell right away that you’re not easily intimidated, Scarlett. May I take a seat?”
She swept her arm to encompass the living area. “Be my guest. Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s freshly brewed.”
He looked a bit surprised that she would be so gracious but nodded in assent. “Thank you. Black, no sugar.”
Scarlett commended herself on being able to pour her would-be antagonist a mug of coffee without spilling a single drop, and then setting it down in front of him without the slightest tremble to her hand. She retrieved her own mug and took a seat on the opposite end of the sectional sofa.
“So tell me, Mr. Gilmore,” she began, knowing how important it was for her to at least try and retain the upper hand right now. “I’m curious about how you gained entry to this building, given the tight security.”
He shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “Easy as pie, actually. All I had to do was contact a leasing agent, tell him I was interested in renting a unit, and meet him here a few minutes ago. Told him I’d show myself out afterwards and then gave him the slip.”
“Ah.” Scarlett nodded in understanding. “Which leads into the second question. How did you get this address?”
Barton scoffed, as though she was insulting his intelligence by even asking such a juvenile question. “A very discreet, very thorough private detective I hired a few weeks ago,” he replied. “I know quite a lot about you, my dear. Not a great deal of which is very flattering.”
She gripped her coffee mug a little tighter, wishing she had the guts to bash it against his thick skull. “I haven’t had a particularly easy life, Mr. Gilmore,” she murmured unapologetically. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to have been raised in the lap of luxury, you know.”
“Which is apparently why you’ve latched onto my son,” retorted Barton. “Thought he’d provide you with an easy way out, that he’d support you, be your meal ticket, didn’t you?”
Scarlett slammed her mug down on the table, knowing that her eyes would be flashing an angry blue fire right about now. “The hell I did,” she hissed. “Did your private snoop - oh, excuse me, detective - tell you I used to work three jobs just to scrape by? I’ve worked my ass off since I was in high school, and have never been afraid of working hard. As far as Jackson is concerned, I’ve never once thought of him as a meal ticket or someone to provide for me. Jackson is simply the man I love. Not his money. Him.”
Rather than react to her in anger, Barton merely guffawed.
“You’ve got quite a temper there don’t you, Scarlett?” he asked, his tone almost admiring. “Goes with that red hair. And while I didn’t recognize the names of either of your parents from your birth certificate, you definitely remind me of someone. Can’t quite put my finger on it, though.”
She shook her head in revulsion. “Jesus, you’ve even researched my parents? Well, not much to discover there. My mother was a useless, neglectful waste of space who I barely remember. As for my father - well, that’s a real interesting topic. I’m curious, Mr. Gilmore. What exactly did your very thorough private detective manage to unearth on my father?”
Barton looked a bit discomfited by her forthrightness, as though he hadn’t expected a waifish looking twenty-one year old to be quite so bold and brash.
“Nothing at all,” he admitted. “It’s almost as though Tom Banfield didn’t actually exist.”
“That’s because he doesn’t,” acknowledged Scarlett calmly. “Oh, I’m sure there are any number of men in the world with that name. But that’s not my father’s real name. Charming fellow that he was, he apparently gave my mother a fake name so that she wouldn’t be able to track him down. It wasn’t until last year that I finally learned who he really was.”
“Sounds like you’ve been doing a bit of detective work of your own,” observed Barton.
“Nope.” She shook her head in denial. “Frankly, I didn’t give a crap about who my father really was. I had given up on him a long, long time ago. No, in the end he was the one who sought me out. And not because of any newfound remorse he suddenly felt about abandoning me, but because he needed me for something. More specifically, he needed me for someone. And very, very specifically he needed my bone marrow to save his other daughter’s life.”
Scarlett calmly took a sip of her coffee as she watched the horror stricken look spread across Barton’s face as he slowly put two and two together. She had to suppress a smile of evil satisfaction as he paled noticeably beneath his tan, his jaw dropping in shock.
“Neil is your father?” he rasped. “That’s just not possible. I would have known about something like that long ago, before I allowed him to marry my daughter.”
She smirked, liking this feeling of having the upper hand, perhaps a little too much. She cautioned herself not to get too cocky, knowing that she couldn’t afford to let her guard slip for even one second with a man as conniving and controlling as Jackson’s father.
“I’m guessing this means you had dear old dad investigated, too,” she mused. “But your detective wouldn’t have turned up any out of wedlock offspring because Neil’s name wouldn’t have appeared on my birth certificate. ‘Cause, you know, he was such an upstanding and honest guy with my mother, giving her a fake name and all. Also guessing that if you had known about my existence you wouldn’t have given your blessing - or whatever the hell you call it - to him marrying your daughter.”
“You’re damned right I wouldn’t have,” barked Barton, the color slowly returning to his face. “As it was I had my doubts about that boy, something about him I didn’t trust. I can see now that my instincts were right.”
Scarlett shrugged. “Won’t hear any arguments from me on that front. I don’t exactly have warm and fuzzy feelings about the guy myself under the circumstances.”
Barton’s gaze narrowed, clearly displeased at her flippant tone. “So you never had any contact with Neil until - when?”
“Last May, not sure of the exact date. And he was too chicken to approach me directly, probably figured I’d spit in his face or something equally fitting. So he sent his trusty scout to do all the dirty work for him.”
“Jackson.”
At Scarlett’s nod, Barton grimaced. “So that’s how the two of you met. My investigator hadn’t been able to determine when and how you first began seeing each other.”
“Yup. And it was definitely not love at first sight from my end,” declared Scarlett. “When I found out who had sent him to see me, I was furious, didn’t want to have anything to do with Jackson or hear a single word about my father. It was only when he told me about - well, Hannah - that I agreed to hear him out.”