"She's my best friend."

"I know." The words settled uneasily between us. Finally, I cleared my throat. "Come on, let's get this Daddy Dearest moment over with. I wouldn't want you to miss high tea."

"You could come with us," she said as we entered the wraparound hallway leading to the office wing.

And maybe after that I could stick burning pokers beneath my fingernails. "I don't think so."

"What about tonight?" she persisted. "Want to come over?"

"What's wrong? Malibu Ken already have a date?"

"No, but my sister is having a birthday. I thought we might have a party, just the two of us."

The need in her voice both softened and hurt me. It had been a long time since we'd done anything together, just for fun. Then, remembering the way she'd stared, I also wondered how much of our alone time was reported back to Cher. I love you, Olivia, but..."I already have plans."

And I was desperate to tell her about them, about Ben. I just couldn't with Cher's face and voice so fresh in my mind.

Olivia's lower lip popped out. "But aren't you curious to know what I got you?"

"Does it involve the color pink, or a grossly overvalued designer initial stamped on it?"

"No. It doesn't involve crosses or holy water either. You're perfectly safe."

"Ha ha."

But Olivia linked her arm in mine as we continued walking, making it hard to cross my arms over my chest, and utterly defeating my snarl. d.a.m.n it, she was like PMS kryptonite. She instinctively knew how to sap a bad mood of all its energy.

"Stubborn," she muttered, singsonging it, as if to herself. "Too stubborn to admit any weakness-"

"Don't start this again."

"And too in love with life to just shut down completely."

In love with life? I raised a brow. "Olivia, I sleep all day-when I'm not training-and wander the dirtiest, grittiest mora.s.ses of this city's b.u.t.t crack at night."

She only smiled. "You volunteer at the soup kitchen once a week. You take portraits of the homeless to raise awareness, and as a tribute, marking that they're here. You let them know that you, at least, see them. And you've helped dozens of teen runaways return home, and if they couldn't do that, found them a new one."

I stopped dead. "How do you know all that?"

She shot me that secretive smile over her shoulder and kept walking. I had to rush to catch up. "Because I don't just chair the events that cater to the rich who feel better about themselves for eating a five-hundred-dollar dinner that they can write off at the end of the year. I talk to the people who talk to the people you help. Those who pay for plates might call me Ms. Archer, but those who are given a free meal call you 'friend.'"

"I'm going to puke now," I said, embarra.s.sed...and secretly pleased.

"Mind the carpet."

But by this time we were making our way across a room of marble, one markedly different from that of any other in the house. The floors were bare, the three windows unadorned, and its core was shaped like something called a "stupa." That, Xavier had once explained, was a mound the old Tibetan lamas built to house the remains of great meditation masters when they died.

Now, I don't know what a Tibetan stupa was supposed to look like, but other than the white marble adorning every surface, ceiling included, this looked just like the inside of a crypt.

Xavier had jazzed it up a bit, of course. There was a gla.s.s case in the center of the room, spotlit from above, holding the first full English translation of a thirteen-hundred-year-old ma.n.u.script-The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Nice and cheery. There was also a dais at one end of the room, large enough for a throne, which was what Xavier eventually planned on putting there. Right now there was just a large gold-framed oil painting, featuring snowcapped mountains hovering over gently sloping gra.s.sland, and wildflowers combed over by gentle winds while mountain yaks grazed between them.

Now, leading up to the dais things got a little less pastoral and a little more interesting. A phalanx of vertical prayer wheels sat aligned like wooden soldiers, though I'd never seen anyone spinning them and I didn't know what they were for. What did an overbearing, self-centered, egotistical gaming mogul pray for anyway?

But none of this was as weirdly perplexing as the masks. Xavier claimed they came from a Sherpa village, high up in the Himalayas, and while there was no reason to doubt him, I had no idea what connection Xavier Archer thought he had with the Himalayans. He was from the Bronx. Exotic in its own way, but slightly different.

The first mask was made of copper, an elongated devil's face that leered at us as we entered the room. That one never failed to make me shiver. Halfway into the room some round-faced G.o.d of corroded burlwood blew visitors a wispy kiss through pursed lips. Yet another G.o.d attended the office door, this one wearing a pointed crown, crimson mouth open in a silent painted scream. If these weren't enough to ward off all ill intent, the security camera staring from the corner with its cycloptic red eye would certainly finish the job.

A buzzer sounded next to the door. "Come in, ladies." Then a clicking sound as the oak doors unlocked.

Xavier's office was more in line with what you might expect from a gaming mogul. Gone were the spiritual hoohahs and totems. This room was all dark wood, oversized furniture, and chocolate walls. The coffered ceiling soared with smoked mirrors and crown molding, and hand-painted cabinetry held an impressive collection of dusty hardbound books, spines uncracked. The man himself was no less grand and imposing.

Xavier Archer has the sort of presence that rocks lesser humans back on their heels. He often waves his hand through the air like some European monarch, indicating that his subjects should sit. He did this with us, his daughters, and the only sign that this appointment was different from an acquisition merger or a meeting on quarterly earnings was his refusal to look up from the notes he was scribbling at his desk.

We sat in a pair of uncomfortable mahogany chairs. He'd changed little in the months since I'd last seen him; still built like a field ox beneath his custom Armani. His jaw was squarely defined, and he had one bushy brow that arched singularly across his forehead, which I knew he was sensitive about but refused to change. If you didn't know any better you could mistake him for an aging linebacker. But everyone knew better. Xavier Archer made sure of that.

"h.e.l.lo, Daddy," my sister said when he finally looked up.

"h.e.l.lo, Olivia darling." A smile flashed as he set down his pen, then disappeared as he glanced at me. "Joanna."

"Xavier," I replied. He stared at me with his muddy eyes. I focused on his brow.

Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair. "You girls are probably wondering why I summoned you today."

"Not at all."

"First, Olivia," he said, ignoring me. "I heard about your attempt to garner a position at Valhalla. How many times have I told you? I don't want any daughter of mine working. What would people think?"

"What do they think now?" I muttered. They both pretended not to hear.

"I expect you to grow up, get married, have kids, get divorced, and live happily ever after." He drummed his index fingers together. They looked like two sausages fighting. "Understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," Olivia said softly.

"What if she wants a job?" He looked at me and blinked, as if wondering why I was there. "What if she wants a job?" I repeated, louder.

"You mean like taking people's pictures for free?" Xavier had never hidden his derision for what he considered my "wasteful" hobby. He scoffed. "I don't think so."

I couldn't help myself-the defenses that automatically sprung up when I was around Xavier surrounded my sister as well. "I'm just saying maybe it's not enough to expect her to be mere decoration for you or some future husband to wear upon his arm."

Olivia put a hand on my arm. "Jo-"

"Olivia has a job. She's my daughter."

Yeah, and the benefits are lousy. I held my tongue, though, because Olivia was looking pained beside me.

"Now. If that's all cleared up?" Which meant, in his mind, it was, but I made a mental note to speak with Olivia about it later. "I heard there was a ruckus at Valhalla last night, Joanna. Care to explain?"

A ruckus? Is that what he called being attacked by a madman wielding a serrated poker? I smiled tightly. "Sure. I'll explain. I saved a few dozen of your precious high rollers from being hacked to pieces by a homicidal maniac. A good thing too. It would have been h.e.l.l on the carpet."

"Don't be facetious."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

We glared at one another over the polished gla.s.stop desk, each daring the other to say another word. We'd been this route before, and more than once. Xavier thought my sarcasm and sharp tongue were unbecoming, and that I should be more like Olivia; demure when his a.s.sociates' eyes lingered too long on her figure, sweet when an insult about her intelligence was flung over her head. Quiet even if she disagreed with anything he said.

I thought these expectations were asinine at the very least, bordering on deranged, so naturally I saved a great deal of my pent-up sarcasm for him.

Olivia gently cleared her throat beside me, causing me to break my stare.

"I understand the police had to be called in?" Of course that would be his greatest concern. Image, I thought, must be maintained at all times.

"The police were already there. They'd been tracking the guy for months." I didn't mention my reunion with Ben.

"Because he's killed before?"

"And he cheats at c.r.a.ps."

His eyes narrowed dangerously at that. "Perhaps you should be more selective about whom you date in the future."

Yeah, I'd kinda figured that one out for myself.

"You had something to tell us, Xavier?" I said, loving the way his teeth ground together when I used his first name.

"I do. Something of grave importance." He looked at us expectantly, almost pleasantly. Odd, I thought, if speaking of something truly grave. "It affects you, Joanna, more than Olivia."

Also odd that he would concern himself with me at all.

"I am not your real father."

My breath left me in a rush. "Thank G.o.d."

Olivia squeaked next to me.

"Excuse me?"

I cleared my throat. "I said, how odd."

"Yes, I know it must come as a shock. I only recently found out myself." He waved, indicating an open envelope on the corner of his desk. I picked it up, studied the type on the front, noted the lack of a return address or, indeed, any identifying mark, then removed the single sheet of paper enclosed within. Sure as s.h.i.t, it said I wasn't his daughter. It wasn't signed.

"Got more proof than this?" I asked, waving the paper in his direction.

"I think there's proof enough." And he wasn't talking about the letter, which meant he wanted it to be true.

I leaned back and let the note fall to the floor.

"But, Daddy-"

"Don't worry, Olivia, dear. I had tests done this week. You and I share the same blood."

I wanted to say she hadn't looked terribly worried, nor did she appear all that relieved now, but Olivia was wringing her hands and suddenly speaking fast. "But-But we're really sisters, right?" I looked at her. "Even if only...half sisters?"

Bless her. Sweet, sensitive Olivia. She was better than the rest of us put together. I put a hand on her arm, to let her know it didn't matter either way.

"You share the same mother, yes."

"She has a name," I snapped, and his head jerked, reminding me again of a bull. "Zoe."

In the nine years since she'd disappeared, without a note or a trace, Xavier had never, to my knowledge, spoken of my mother. I imagined it would be the same with me. Ten years from now, or ten minutes, he'd have blotted my existence from his memory. I too would be a ghost, wandering the hallways of this house; another name not to be spoken by the servants, though I doubted my memory would haunt anyone.

"I know her name." He pushed away from his desk and stood. His standard power stance. "Olivia, if you'll excuse us now, I have some things to discuss with Joanna alone."

She didn't move, but bit her lower lip uncertainly and glanced again at me. I patted her hand again. Xavier's face reddened, his nostrils widened, and that solitary brow lifted high. I waited for the snort and hoof stomp. "Olivia!"

"Yes, Daddy." She rose.

I shot her a rea.s.suring smile. "I'll talk to you later."

The door shut with a soft click behind her. It sounded like the report of a gunshot in the ensuing silence.

"So who is he?" I said without preamble. There was no need for pretense now.

"Who is whom?" he said, flipping open the humidor next to his desk.

"The man who fathered me," I said. "My real father?"

He waited until his Cohiba was cut and lit, and puffed twice before his eyes found mine. "I neither know nor care."

No, he wouldn't. He never had. "So you've done it, then. Finally washed your hands of me. Gotten rid of the great embarra.s.sment of the Archer family dynasty."

"Don't be dramatic, Joanna. And, remember, this was your mother's doing, not mine."

"But you must be so relieved," I continued, honeyed sarcasm dripping from my voice. "No more pretense. No more stilted introductions, or uncomfortable silences at Thanksgiving. Why, you never even have to see me again."

"That's right," he said, and in spite of myself I flinched, immediately hating myself for it. "Your inheritance is disavowed, obviously. I had the papers changed yesterday. I won't support another man's child. Olivia will receive everything." He looked at me, the smoke rising between us, beautifully symbolic. "You are not my daughter."

"But Xavier." I stood too, and leaned forward on his desk, pa.s.sing through the smoke. "How will it look?"

He'd already thought of that. "As far as the world is concerned you will remain my daughter. Estranged, but still mine. Understand?"

Just another possession, I thought, carelessly cast aside.

"You'll keep your house, your car, and a small monthly allowance since my daughter seems to care for you, but the family business, the homes and investments, they all belong to Olivia, and rightfully so."

"And the name?" I said, my voice going dead soft. "Do I get to keep the name?"

He hesitated. "It was your mother's too."

"One she obviously cherished."