Page 121 of Bitter Confessions

“What’s your name?”

The girl’s mouth curved before her gaze flicked beyond Jasmine and instantly went blank.

“Dahlia.”

Jasmine jolted and whirled to face the owner of that deep rumble. A man and a woman stood side by side. It took her a nanosecond to realize she was looking at Nathaniel Trentham, who was a mirror image of his father. They had the same unsettling deep blue eyes and unruly hair, but Nathaniel was clean-cut, several inches taller, and looked like his face would break if he smiled. The workaholic son, and the father of the girl she was talking to. The look he was giving her wasn’t exactly friendly. The woman at his side, a buxom strawberry-blond around her height, gave her an appraising look.

“Nathaniel Trentham,” he said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

She took it and blinked at the firm handshake, which was a far cry from his father’s gallant hand-kissing. Clearly, Nathaniel hadn’t inherited his father’s charm. “Jasmine Hen—” she began before correcting herself. “Roth.”

Nathaniel gave a curt nod, released her hand, and switched his attention to his daughter. “It’s Dahlia’s bedtime.”

She didn’t hear any movement behind her, but a second later, the girl passed her with her book hidden in the folds of her dress. Jasmine felt an odd kinship with Dahlia and wished she could give her a hug. Daughter of a workaholic father. No mother. What were the chances they’d discovered and latched onto Uncharted Waters around the same age?

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dahlia,” she said.

The girl halted, glanced up at her father, and then looked back at her. “It was nice meeting you too, Jasmine.”

“Mrs. Roth,” Nathaniel corrected.

“No, Jasmine’s how I introduced myself and what I prefer to be called,” she said.

Nathaniel gave another curt nod and put his hand on Dahlia’s shoulder as he escorted her toward a waiting staff member. That left her with the curvy strawberry-blond dressed in a black gown with a dramatic slit and the largest emerald earrings she’d ever seen.

“I’m Charlotte Trentham.”

“Oh!” If it weren’t for her dark blue eyes, there wouldn’t have been a trace of Sullivan in her. “Your father told me you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Yes.” Charlotte turned and indicated the empty hallway. “But first, you have to tell me how you got Dahlia to light up like that. I haven’t seen my niece smile in weeks.”

Realizing everyone, including Roth, had entered the dining room, sent a ripple of anxiety through her. “We were talking about books.”

“Yes?” Charlotte prompted.

“I read the same book when I was her age. I was able to talk to her about it a little.” She hesitated and then inwardly shrugged. “I also told her I’m an author.”

Charlotte paused, brows arching. “Well, aren’t you turning out to be a pleasant surprise? First, my father puts you on the spot by asking for the first dance. That was naughty of him, but you couldn’t have handled it better. And now this. No one mentioned you were a writer.”

She flicked her hand. “I write under a pen name. Fiction. It’s not something I normally share, but I thought it would get Dahlia’s attention and it did.”

There was a great deal of activity in Charlotte’s eyes. She had no idea what the other woman was thinking. Why the hell had she outed herself? And why were they standing here talking about it when everyone was already seated?

“Now it all makes sense,” Charlotte murmured.

“What does?”

“You chose quite a few charities that focus on literacy. Book distribution, training workshops on reading and writing, and that program that develops reading skills by pairing children with therapy animals and their owners. Of course, you donated to other causes, but I was curious about those in particular.”

Her mouth sagged. “How did you...?”

Charlotte gave her an apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind. Several of the charities you donated to are run by friends of mine. It’s a small community, and the ninety million you donated got everyone’s attention.”

Her heart stopped. “Ninety million? No—I donated thirty.”

Charlotte gave her a polite but puzzled smile. “My sources say it was nearly one hundred million.”

Had she accidentally donated a third of her inheritance? No, it couldn’t be. She’d decided exactly how much would go to each charity and counted every fucking zero ten times to make sure it was right. “I think there’s been a mistake. Maybe there was another donor who gave to those causes at the same time as me.”

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