The Sinner (Notorious Book 1): Notorious

By Molly O'Keefe

I've never been able to resist a sinner and in the bayou, everyone sins sooner or later…

The last time I let a man into my life, I was left with a broken heart, a ruined reputation and my daughter. So, I don't make that mistake anymore.  But The Manor, the crumbling Louisiana mansion that's been in my family for decades, is becoming a hazard to live in and we need someone to fix up the house before it falls into the bayou.  

That someone is Matt Howe. Who is too handsome. Too tempting. And our chemistry is like nothing I've ever felt before. When he puts on his glasses? I break all my rules and let him into my bed.

But everything Matt told me is a lie. He isn't a handyman, he's looking for a fortune in gems he thinks my family is hiding.  While he's hiding a pain that would destroy other men.

When all the secrets are revealed, can our sins be forgiven?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Fader
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393729617

Molly O'Keefe

Molly O'Keefe sold her first Harlequin Duets at age 25 and hasn’t looked back! She has since sold 11 more books to Harlequin Duets, Flipside and Superromance. Her last Flipside, Dishing It Out, won the Romantic Times Choice Award. A frequent speaker at conferences around the country she also serves on the board of the Toronto chapter of Romance Writers of America. She lives in Toronto with her husband, son, dog and the largest heap of dirty laundry in North America

Book preview

1

SAVANNAH

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Katie, I sang. Come out, come out wherever you are.

I snuck up to the huge rosebush, searching through the wild pink tea roses for a glimpse of my kid .

Gotcha! I pushed apart the thorny branches only to find C.J., the orange tabby, sleeping beneath its leaves.

This is getting ridiculous.

A quick Saturday morning game of hide-and-seek with my eight-year-old was turning into an all-day event. I pushed through the ivy and weeping willow branches that dominated the back courtyard, but Katie wasn’t in any of her usual spots.

She’d upped her game.

I tripped over a broken cobblestone and caught myself against a thick blanket of vines that had eaten up the fountain and obliterated the bird feeder.

It was getting very jungle-like back here. Soon these games with Katie would require a machete.

That would add a whole new dimension to hide-and-seek.

I told you, I cried. You can run but you can’t hide.

The branches of the cypress rustled over my head and I smiled, backtracking to the trunk of the old tree.

This is new.

It was only a matter of time before Katie worked up the courage to climb the tree. The hundred-year-old cypress was a beauty—bigger than the two-story house in front of it, and its roots were pushing through the cobblestones, breaking up the courtyard like some kind of underground monster.

As if it had been yesterday, my foot found the small lee in the trunk, my hands found the knobs on the lower branches and within seconds I was halfway up into the leaves. Carefully looking for snakes, and hoping my daughter had done the same.

What would my clients say if they could see their staid researcher now? The kids at the library, would fall over their stolen library books if they saw Ms. O’Neill climbing trees.

I found my daughter lying across one of the thick branches directly over the decrepit greenhouse and back stone wall of the property. The girl had only been up two hours and the new red silk pajamas Margot had brought back from her cruise were covered in dirt and leaves.

Found you! I cried. You’re doing dishes for a week.

Shh! Katie hissed, not turning away from whatever scene she was spying on.

What’s up? I whispered, climbing a parallel branch, shimmying out over the courtyard on my belly.

Margot, Katie whispered. My sweet wild child daughter pushed the red tangle of curls behind her ear, revealing her freckled face, her wide lips and long nose. She looked nothing like me, which was going to serve her well. Because she was so much more than pretty. She was tough. Independent. Beautiful in her own wild way. Pure at heart.

Everything I am not.

I think she’s crying, Katie said.

I tore my eyes from my daughter and sought out Margot’s amongst the weeds and broken buildings beneath us.

Back wall, Katie said. Someone wrote something on the stones.

Not again.

I saw Margot, wearing her white linen, pumps and no doubt the diamonds scrubbing at the back wall. The letters—SLU—

I can hear you girls up there! Margot yelled without turning around.

What are you doing, Margot? I yelled back.

Contemplating bear traps, she said and threw the thick yellow sponge into the bucket of water at her feet. Margot turned and faced me in the heat of the morning. Her long white hair was perfect, her face as stunning as the diamonds at her wrists and ears. You would never guess she was pushing eighty.

But right now Margot was one pissed-off matriarch. And when Margot got mad, things got organized. And cleaned. And worst of all, changed.

Shit.

Every year, I yelled, shimmying back down the tree, shamed by my grandmother’s elegance into at least acting like an adult. You know this happens every year. As soon as school gets out for summer, we get every teenager trying to prove to their friends how cool they are.

Why vandalizing our home was considered cool was one of the great mysteries of local teenage life.

I swung down from the lowest branch and landed on the broken cobblestone. Katie was carefully scrambling down after me.

Careful, I said, which was what I found myself saying all the time to my daughter. Not that it did any good. When Katie got within reach I lifted her down, holding her close for just a second, smelling the sunshine and rose smell of her skin.

The pajamas were toast.

What were they writing? Katie asked, pointing to the letters on the stone walls. I shot Margot an arch look.

Child, please. Like you don’t qualify? Margot asked.

Officially, I’m not an O’Neill.

Honey, an O’Neill by any other name is still an O’Neill.

The truth was, every O’Neill female was born with secrets, and through our own legendarily bad decision-making, each of us had our own sins. Not that the men had it any better—my brothers had their own crimes and mysteries.

Secrets upon secrets, that was the O’Neill legacy.

It’s just a bad word, I said. Kids think it’s funny to write bad words on our back wall.

Sluts.

Whores.

Thieves.

Was this here while I was gone? Margot asked. She got back a week and half ago from the cruise.

No way, I denied, though I wasn’t totally sure. I loved my jungle, wild and unmaintained, but it obstructed the view of the back wall. It’s new.

It’s never been this bad before, Margot said. Come look at this.

Katie and I headed around the tree and through the vines to the greenhouse and back wall. Now that I was closer I could tell that Margot was actually very upset. Her fine elegant hands were shaking.

Look, Margot whispered, pointing to the greenhouse.

Every pane of glass had been shattered and all of Margot’s orchids were destroyed. The unearthed roots like veins, strewn across tabletops and the floor. Dirt like blood, everywhere.

It was awful.

Oh, my lord, Margot.

Occasionally Margot went to New Orleans and played poker, or took a cruise with an admirer and gambled across the seven seas, and she used to keep her winnings back here buried in pots because she didn’t trust banks. She’d done it for years before I found out and made her stop. Are you hiding money back here again?

No. Margot pulled a face. I lost on this last one, I told you that.

Then why would anyone do this?

Because it was here. I don’t know. She looked around the wreckage, her face drawn. I understand you hate the idea. But I think it’s time.

I started picking up shattered pottery, knowing I was too late—the courtyard was out of control. The boldest of the high school students were drinking back here, and Katie was almost always getting cuts and bruises from the roses and broken cobblestones.

These plants, the trees, the bushes—nothing had been touched in years. Nearly twenty. But the idea of someone else, some stranger back here, was unthinkable.

Because if they were in my courtyard then they’d be in my home. In my life. And no good ever came of that—pain was an excellent teacher.

I’ll clean it up, I said, a bubble of frantic energy rising in my throat. I start vacation on Tuesday. I can work on it then.

I’ll help, Katie chimed in, crouching next to me to pick up the ruined orchids and I winked at her, grateful.

Honey, Margot said, shaking her head. We both know you’re taking the time off to work on that research for the Discovery Channel. There aren’t enough hours in the day. And it’s not just cleaning up the plants anymore. We need the greenhouse rebuilt, the wall needs to be fixed and I think we need an alarm system.

In our garden?

Margot flung out a hand to the shattered remains of her greenhouse, the orchids like dead animals. All the evidence she needed, really, to prove that things were getting dangerous.

"Now the greenhouse, next the house? These assholes are getting bolder. You know that."

I looked down at Katie, the messy rumpled perfection of her. Strangers in the garden? Bent on helping? Or, worse, strangers in our house? Bent on who knows what?

When put that way, it was an easy call.

Margot, I sighed, because Margot wanted this done ages ago and had only held off because I was so against it. I’m so sorry.

They’re all gone, Margot said, picking up her red and yellow Giant Ansiella. They’ve ruined everything.

I looked around, chagrined and regretful that I’d let things get this bad. I should have done the basic maintenance that would have at least kept things safe. I had, after all, managed to keep the middle courtyard groomed and lovely. A pastoral paradise.

But the back courtyard was mine—it had been from the moment my mother had dropped me and my brothers off with Margot and left without a word. And I liked the wilderness of it, the overgrown vines and crumbling statues. The stone walls covered in hens and chicks, the roses pink and red like hidden gems, small beating hearts in a giant breathing body of green.

And so did my daughter. She was herself back here, feral and tough. The way kids weren’t any more. The way she needed to be to survive.

Oh, stop. It’s a garden. You are a grown woman who should have more important things to do than get attached to weeds and rosebushes.

Or maybe I should have more in my life than weeds and rosebushes. The thought flickered to life briefly before I extinguished it. My life was fine. It was the assholes destroying our property that needed to get a life.

I know, Margot watched me carefully. We’ve been alone in this house for so long it seems strange to bring someone else in.

We don’t need anyone else! Katie cried and I tucked an arm around my daughter, realizing that maybe there was such a thing as too much family unity—considering my eight-year-old was showing signs of xenophobia.

Margot’s right. I sighed and Margot’s perfect eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. It’s time to bring someone else in to take care of this garden.

2

Savannah

---

Monday morning before work, the doorbell rang, a heavy gong sound that echoed in the house. It was so rare I actually jumped, dropping the wooden spoon in my hand onto the floor. And Margot, from the library, yelled;

I’ve got it. She said like people were ringing our doorbell all the time.

The hair on the back of my neck got all prickly.

What did you do, Margot? I yelled as I walked out of the kitchen.

I put an ad in the paper. And lo and behold, I believe we have our first applicant for the job of handyman-slash-gardener.

This was too fast. Too much. I wanted to yell stop. Just let me think. But Margot approached and put her soft hand against my cheek.

I’m sorry for everything that’s hurt you, sweet girl, she said and I wanted to flinch away, but my grandmother’s kindness was like a spell. And I wish I could say that nothing will ever hurt you again. But I can’t make that promise, all I can say is this, hiring a man to come take care of the back courtyard, will be all right. I will make sure of it.

I was a grown-ass woman with a child of my own and I shouldn’t need my grandmother of all people making those kinds of promises. But somehow I did.

I wasn’t proud of it.

I’d been chewed up and spit out by people I had trusted. A couple of lessons like that and you just stopped letting people in the door. Figuratively and literally.

Can I open the door? Margot asked and I knew if I said, no, I wasn’t ready, she’d leave that man to die of exposure on our front step.

But I was being ridiculous.

Yeah. Of course.

Before throwing open our bright red front door, (bright red because a little bit – fuck this town) Margot patted down her hair and smoothed her silk blouse across her waist. She winked at Katie who then vanished into the dark parts of the house and trust me when I say I wished I could go with her.

She opened the door revealing the bright hot Bonne Terre, Louisiana day and a man wearing a suit like he’d been born to do it. His tie was gone, but the jacket and the crisp white shirt beneath were fine quality. As was he. Tall and broad and…fine.

He had thick brown hair and a face carved out of stone.

Well, Margot said to the man. You’re here about the ad, I suppose.

His face froze. A smile half on, half off.

Yeah, this guy, wasn’t here for the ad. He had the wrong address. Or he was going to sell them something.

Because he did not look at all like a man dressed for hard outdoor labor. But then he smiled.

And I mean…it was a doozie.

I am, he said. I’m here about the ad.

You’re a little over dressed for it, Margot said.

Well, first impressions and all that. His smile was crooked and it lit a spark in his eyes and I glanced down at my hands, flushed.

Come on in, Margot said and stepped back next to me in the shadowed cool of the foyer.

Margot, I whispered as the strange man climbed the stairs, like some kind of predatory cat, all muscle and intention. His shaggy brown hair gleamed like polished wood and his green eyes radiated something hot and awful that I felt in the core of my body—a trembling where there hadn’t been one in years. Hot sweat ran between my breasts under my white cotton shirt. This is not a good idea.

Please, Savannah, Margot all but purred, her eyes hovering over the man like a honeybee. Look at him. It’s a fabulous idea.

And then he was there, big and masculine on the tattered welcome mat. C.J., the little tart, stepped out of the sleeping porch to curl around his shoes.

Seriously, that cat gave all of us a bad name.

My name is Matt Howe, he said, holding out his hand.

Margot clasped Matt’s big paw in her’s. I’m Margot O’Neill, she said. Welcome to our home.

Then it was my turn.

My turn to touch his flesh to mine. My turn to stand under his neon gaze.

He’s just a man, I told myself. Tell yourself he’s a client. He wants research on minor battles in the Pacific during World War Two or about the migratory patterns of long-tailed swallows.

My hand slid into his and receptors, long buried, long ignored, shook themselves awake, sighing with a sudden pleasure.

Savannah O’Neill, I said, my voice a brusque rattle.

A pleasure, Savannah, Matt said, bowing slightly over my hand. And my whole body went hot thinking he was going to kiss my fingers.

Your ad was a little vague, he said, stammering slightly on the words. I was hoping for some more information about what you’re looking for?

I cast a quick, dubious look at Margot. What about Handyman /gardener needed was vague?

We’ll show you the courtyard, Margot said, smiling at Matt. And you can see the scope of the work.

Margot was determined—more determined now that a man was here, handsome and virile, stepping into the Manor—than she’d been in front of the greenhouse two days ago, cradling her dead orchids.

Men in general were a danger to the O’Neill women; it had been proven time and time again men brought out the worst in us. The most notorious aspects of our already inappropriate characters.

Even me.

Especially me.

It had been years since my heart had thundered in my chest like this—and that had not ended all that well.

I’ve lived in this house my whole life, Margot was saying, her hand cradled in Matt’s elbow as she led them through the shabby manor as if it was still the best property in the area. And my mother did the same before me.

It’s a beautiful house, Matt said, glancing up at the high ceilings, all of which needed spackle and paint. The mahogany floors beneath our feet were beginning to buckle and sag in places and I watched as Margot led him around the worst patches, as though they were avoiding puddles in the rain. Did your family build it? He asked.

I laughed and Margot tossed me a wicked look over her shoulder. Yes, Margot said. My great-great-grandfather built this house.

As a saloon and whorehouse.

All of us stepped from the dark hall, with its offshoots of parlor, dining room, solarium and library, through the glass doors into the middle courtyard.

Beautiful, Matt said, and I wondered if he really meant it. He seemed to. All that predatory intensity was dialed down for a moment as his eyes swept over the hedges and lilies I kept in order. There were tables to rest cups of coffee and cushioned coaches for reading. And silence.

Everything I loved.

Yes, Margot agreed, with a sideways look at me. The middle courtyard is not the problem.

The phone rang inside the house and Margot cast me a pleading look, which I scowled at.

Right. I was going to leave this strange man alone with my aging grandmother. Particularly when said aging grandmother insisted on wearing the only real jewelry we had left that was worth anything.

I didn’t care how handsome this Matt guy was, he could still break Margot’s wrist with one hand.

I was distrustful. Sue me.

I’ll be right back, Margot said, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. My granddaughter will show you the rest of the way.

Margot left, blue silk fluttering behind her.

Grandmother? he said. She looks like she could be your mother.

She’s not, I said. The subject of daughters and mothers was not discussed at the Manor.

Is your mother here? he asked, and I stared hard at Matt, as if to see past his green eyes and strong arms to the heart beating under that lean chest.

Strange question.

Just a question.

He stared right back at me, his eyes wide open as if he had nothing to hide.

Of course, that had to be a lie. Everyone had something to hide.

No, I