Ivy Secrets by Jean Stone Page A

vats roll and turn with the resins; she studied the intensity of the hair-netted workers, knowing full well that she depended on their positive energy and their unfailing enthusiasm to keep herself going. Optimism, she thought, is infectious. Through their optimism, Marina had keyed into their pride: they needed work so desperately, they cared about what they were doing, they cared about the company. In turn, Marina had grown to care about them. It was a feeling she hadn’t quite adjusted to yet.
    She heard her office door open but she did not turn around.
    “Watching over the flock?” came the unaccented, Americanized voice of her sister, Alexis DuValle. Although Alexis had visited the States only a few times, she’d made a point of affecting the language. She thought it sounded more sophisticated.
    “My workers do not need watching over,” Marina answered without enthusiasm, for she’d long ago realized that it was the most effective way of dealing with Alexis and her perpetual sarcasm. “What brings you to the lower side of town?” Marina slowly turned and faced her sister.
    Alexis, as usual, was impeccably dressed—this morning in a daffodil-yellow sheath. She wore the pearl choker with the huge, emerald-cut, canary diamond clasp at her throat. The value of the necklace, Marina knew, equaled the annual wages of at least a dozen of her workers. Marina knew, because Marina had an identical one. Their father had given them the matching necklaces when they turned twenty-one. Marina now kept hers in the vault at the palace and wore it only at official dinners or formal functions—certainly not in the middle of the morning in the middle of the week, and certainly not in front of the workers. She was no longer interested in flaunting her birthright. Her lessons had been learned, and each day as she watched her hard-working employees, Marina was reminded that if she had been born to anyone else, she’d be out on the factory floor herself, grateful to have a decent-paying job.
    Alexis, however, remained in the royal wings, using her title to buy the respect she hadn’t earned, and most likely hoping that Marina would slide back into her jet-setting life, so she could look at their father and say with a smirk, “I told you so. I told you I’m better than she is.” There were times when it was easy to forget that her sister’s behavior was rooted in insecurity, just as there were times when it was difficult to believe that Marina and Alexis were not only sisters, but twins. This was one of those times.
    “The king has decided that Jonathan and I should bring the boys and move into the palace,” Alexis said. Marina winced, hating the way Alexis referred to their father as “the king,” as though he were high-and-mighty, as though he were better, even, than his own daughters. “There’s trouble with that slimeball Viktor Coe apparently.”
    “I know.”
    Alexis clicked her long fingernails together and examined an acrylic tip. “I suppose moving into the palace is sensible. After all, it’s time my boys got the feel of living there.”
    The comment, Marina knew, was intended to intimidate her, to remind her that because she had not produced an heir to the throne, Alexis’s children would be next in line.
    “Well, dear sister, what time shall we expect you home? We would not want you scouring the streets with danger nipping at your boot heels.”
    Marina wanted to comment that at least her “boot heels” could outrun Alexis’s spike heels, but decided to let it go.
    “I will be working late,” she replied. She stared at her blond-haired, fair-skinned sister, a replica of their mother in every aspect but sweetness. She wondered what Alexis’s agenda really was today. “Why did you come down here, Alexis? If you were only concerned with my safety, you could have called.”
    Alexis waved a long-fingernailed finger at her sister and pouted like a little girl caught telling a fib. “Well, big sister,