Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes)

by Cusack, Louise

  “It’s too early,” Ted replied, struggling to close the roll–top of his writing bureau. He stood up to give himself leverage.

  Baz sighed. “No, dad. I need you to go to the dining room while I get Wynne.”

  Ted waved him away with his free hand. “Off you go then.”

  “You first.”

  “No, you!”

  “Dad …” Baz frowned. “You’ll forget. I bet you’ve already forgotten what you came in here for.”

  Ted crossed his arms and turned to face Baz. “Have not.”

  Baz swore softly but his father was onto that straight away.

  “Are you swearing, boy? You know I don’t hold with that. Particularly when there are ladies around. What if Elsie heard you?”

  “Elsie’s gone, dad.”

  “Did you swear in front of her? Wretched boy. Is that why she left? Where am I going to find another housekeeper to work all the way out here?”

  “Dad, can we talk about this later? The party pies will be burnt if we don’t eat them soon.”

  “Party pies?” Ted snorted. “For breakfast? That’s a change. Usually all I get is soggy cereal.”

  “It’s dinner time, dad. So if you could go to the dining room now, I’ll dish them up shortly.”

  At which time Wynne would decide his family were fruit loops and she’d leave. But maybe that was one less problem to worry about.

  “Oh. Good–o,” Ted said and shuffled past Baz, but then he lingered at the door.

  “Off you go to the dining room, dad,” Baz said and pointed.

  “I know the way.” Ted shook his head, bemused.

  “Then I’ll see you there in ten minutes. I’m bringing a woman with me. Wynne. So be nice,” Baz said.

  “Lynne,” Ted muttered as he set off. “Who’s she?”

  Baz watched his father totter off, and when he was sure the old man wasn’t coming back he went to the writing bureau and lifted the roll top his father had been struggling with. Inside was a jumble of technology which Baz quickly realised was worth thousands of dollars: a digital camera, a digital telescope, a hand held computer, an iPod. Baz picked them up one by one. They were all still in their boxes, as though they’d never been used.

  Baz put the iPod back in and closed the bureau, then he stood looking at it. He’d bet anything that Randolph Budjenski was behind this. But why? And was there any point in talking to his father about it? The old man would just get mad at Baz for prying. Nothing would be sorted out.

  Baz cursed himself again for not being clever enough to get Randolph’s address to give to the private investigator his solicitor had engaged. The mobile phone number had produced no results — a dodgy name and address, no surprises there. And now the kid wasn’t answering the phone. Baz was at a dead end and no closer to getting his father to sign the Power of Attorney forms. It all looked hopeless.

  Maybe I don’t deserve Saltwood.

  Ted had never come right out and said that, but it was implicit in every conversation they’d about the estate, particularly the recent ones. Baz stared out the window at the blackness outside and considered for the first time that he might lose his inheritance. And would that be so bad? He didn’t want to live here, after all. There were too many bad memories. So maybe he should let his father do what he wanted, and when the money was gone Ted would have no choice but to go into a nursing home and then Baz would be rid of him.

  Really? Rid of him?

  Who was he kidding. Baz would never be rid of his father. Long after Theodore Wilson was gone Baz would still hear his voice saying Weak. Stupid. Playing with toys. Hating his father and pushing him away wasn’t going to fix Baz’s childhood. If anything it would lock him into that powerless place where his life had been stolen from him and he’d had no choice.

  Baz had choices right now, and he wasn’t going to do the same thing to his father, as he’d had done to him. Nursing homes were no better than boarding schools. They separated you from the people who cared about you, and although Baz was a long way from imagining he loved his father, he did care about him, otherwise why would he care if the old man wandered off. So the smart thing would be to stop pretending otherwise and just get on with sorting things out.

  Although, when he looked down at the jumble of technology in the writing bureau a disquieting feeling came over him that this was just the tip of the ‘secrets’ iceberg, and that there were far worse problems to be sorted. Never mind that he had his own little secret, snoring away in the guest suite.

  So they weren’t a ‘normal’ family, whatever that was. But that wouldn’t stop Baz pretending they were. Having dinner was normal. People did that every day. Surely Baz could do that too without any further drama. He just had to get all the diners to the table first. Ted was hopefully on his way there, so that just left Wynne, and Baz set off for her room.

  He’d left her an hour ago, so she was probably starting to wonder what the hell was going on. Or maybe she’d taken all that time to shower and dress. She might have washed her hair. It had been soaking wet, although sexy in a wet–leather–slicked–down sort of way.

  There, that was good. He was thinking Wynne was sexy. Well, her hair was at least. So perhaps it was possible for him to be attracted to someone who wasn’t either a nut case or a manipulator. If only he could notice other things about her that were attractive. Maybe her mouth. He couldn’t really remember that, but he knew he was attracted to women with sexy mouths. Wynne’s was probably luscious, he’d just never noticed.

  “The party’s about to begin,” he called, and knocked on her door. “Your escort is waiting.”

  It opened on an overpowering waft of perfume and Baz almost gagged. He caught himself, but not before he’d taken a step backwards. Wynne was standing in the doorway in a gauzy floral halter–neck dress, fluttering her eyelashes, her dyed burgundy curls so perfectly arranged they were probably held in place with hairspray. Add to which, she had make–up on, and not just mascara and lipstick, but foundation as well. On her feet were apricot stiletto sandals that matched the color of her dress.

  “Wynne,” he said, trying to hold his breath so he wouldn’t cough. “You look… gorgeous,” which was true, but she was definitely overdressed for a casual dinner with a neurotic and his demented father. “This way,” he said and took her hand, eager to move towards fresher air. She had so much spray stuff on, his eyes were watering. “Dad’s waiting. Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Starved,” she said in a husky stage whisper. Her sandals click–clicked as she stepped off the polished floorboards onto the hallway runner.

  He glanced at her, about to smile, imagining she was vamping it up, but she fluttered her eyelashes at him and he suddenly realised she was genuinely trying to be seductive.

  Overdressed, over–sprayed, and — he looked closely — thin lips.

  Shit.

  “We’re pretty informal here with meals,” he told her.

  “Oh dear. Am I overdressed?” she asked, in a small, don’t–dent–my–confidence voice.

  “Not at all,” he lied smoothly. “It’s lovely to have some femininity amidst all the testosterone.” He smiled at her and she smiled back, forcing it.

  In fact, everything about her was forced. He’d liked her much better when she’d stood in his doorway looking like drowned mouse.

  Then they turned the corner and stepped into the dining room and Wynne propped, drawing a quiet breath. Baz came in behind her, realizing he should have scoped the room first to make sure his father wasn’t swinging off the chandelier, but nothing was untoward. Ted was sitting at the head of the table still dressed in day clothes and everything was in its place.

  “It’s huge,” Wynne whispered, struggling to smile at Ted, and Baz looked at the room again through her eyes. A century old mahogany dining table for twenty, servant’s entrances and sideboards full of crystalware, silverware and fine china. In its day, Saltwood had been the place to snag an invitatio
n to. Glittering dinner parties and dances had filled the house with guests and noise, but that had all fallen by the wayside with the advent of war. When four of the five the Wilson men had come home in a box, the remaining son, Baz’s grandfather, had become a recluse. Now Saltwood felt far too big, and while Baz had always thought of his family home as ludicrously over–large, he could see how a stranger might find it intimidating.

  All Baz could do was offer a distraction.

  “Wynne, I’d like you to meet my father, Theodore Wilson. Dad, this is my friend and colleague Wynne Malone.”

  She click–clicked around the table and waited while Ted pushed his chair back and wobbled to his feet before she took his hand and shook it firmly. “So pleased to meet you, Mr Wilson,” she said sweetly, and Baz watched his father light up.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Malone,” he said, his baritone voice smooth although his head wobbled and his hand trembled as she shook it. “So glad you could join us.” Baz marveled at the fact that for a brief moment his father wasn’t a forgetful old man but the patriarch of a wealthy dynasty. The fleeting, erroneous impression gave Baz an uncomfortable feeling that he’d been underestimating the old man. For some time.

  Wynne smiled again and fluttered her eyelashes some more before turning back to Baz who put her in the seat beside Ted’s. “Now, you two make small–talk while I get the party pies.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Wynne said, and Baz had a glimpse of teeth and fluttering eyelashes before he turned to walk away. She must have directed her attention at his father then, because as Baz stepped out the door he heard her say, “So tell me, Mr Wilson, how long have you lived in this beautiful house?”

  Baz knew his father wouldn’t be able sustain a conversation with someone who didn’t know his proclivities, so he hurried back with the slightly burnt party pies and some seriously soggy garlic bread. “Just the way you like it, dad,” he announced, sparing a smile for Wynne as he put the tray on the table between them.

  “It looks delicious,” she said and smiled, faking again.

  Baz suddenly realised his return grimace was every bit as phony, and he wondered at his behavior since Wynne had arrived. He’d been pretending ‘happy families’ the whole time, and why? To impress her? Normal hardly seemed worth the effort.

  “Actually,” he said, taking his own seat across from them, “They taste like crap, but dad loves them, don’t you, dad?”

  “Don’t say crap,” Ted snapped, but had no reservations about holding his plate out and expecting Baz to dish up. “He’s always had a potty mouth,” Ted confided in Wynne, as though his son was suddenly invisible.

  Baz stopped piling the pies onto his father’s plate and turned his attention to Wynne. Stuff the old man. He could get his own food.

  “Sometimes those things just slip out,” Wynne said diplomatically, not quite looking at anyone.

  “Well I hope you don’t swear,” Ted replied, gesturing with the hand that held a half–eaten, crumbling pie. “There’s nothing uglier than a bad–mouthed woman.”

  “That’s terribly sexiest, Mr Wilson,” Wynne replied, surprising Baz who’d expected her to dish out some conciliatory pap. “I don’t think it’s any worse for women to swear, than for men to.”

  Ted eyed her carefully as he munched into his pie, spraying pastry crumbs in all directions. “You’re a firebrand,” he said at last, nodding his head at her. “You’ve got spunk.”

  Wynne turned to look at Baz as she replied, “Oh, I’m sure I’m not the only firebrand, Mr Wilson. I’m sure Balthazar is full of… spunk. Aren’t you Baz?”

  Baz paused with the tongs in mid–air. Despite the loud perfume, the lacquered hair and the epileptic eyelashes, the way she was looking at him had managed to turn him on. He could feel the stirring low in his body, and unlike the painful embarrassment of his inappropriate, drug–induced attraction to Venus, this was loose and warm and deliciously sinful. Wynne, an adult, was talking sex at the table in front of his father and that pushed Baz’s buttons in a way he’d never anticipated. She was initiating foreplay with his mind, and he liked it. A lot.

  “Yeah. I am full of spunk,” he replied, smiling a smile his father would never be able to interpret. But Wynne did, and she returned it.

  “I thought so,” she said softly and lowered her head, smiling at her plate as she daintily cut up a party pie and forked a morsel into her mouth. She chewed delicately and then swallowed. Baz couldn’t stop staring. When she licked her lips, he licked his own, then realised he was breathing through his mouth. Loudly.

  He forced himself to look down at his plate and realised he had no appetite at all. Well, not for food. Wow. I like Wynne … that way. He glanced at her again and realised she was genuinely sexy. The tilt of her head, the sweep of her eyelashes, the curve of cleavage deep in that halter top. How had he missed that?

  “Are we watching a movie tonight?” Ted asked and clunked his glass of milk back down onto the table before reaching for some garlic bread.

  “A movie?” Wynne said brightly, turning to Baz, her eyes lit up.

  “Sure,” he said and dropped his gaze to her lips which seemed to be mesmerizing him, although he wasn’t sure how that transition had happened. They were still thin, but somehow he found that incredibly sexy. “We’ll let Wynne pick.” Ted opened his mouth but Baz shot him a quelling glance. “She’s the guest.”

  “Fine, fine,” Ted grumbled, “but I like old movies. Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart.”

  “Me too,” Wynne said. “Although Dirk Bogarde is my favorite.” Her head turned slightly and she looked at Baz from the edges of her luxuriant lashes. “He has the most soulful brown eyes, and such a sexy smile.”

  “I’m not sure if sexy is swearing,” Ted said around a mouthful of garlic bread. “But I don’t like it.”

  “I do,” Wynne whispered, lowering her eyelashes on those sideways glancing eyes. Baz was completely captivated. She was talking about him, and his father had no idea. She was flirting. And it was definitely turning him on. “There’s nothing nicer,” she said in a louder voice, turning to Ted, “than sitting comfortably in the dark watching a good romance unfold.”

  “Oh, you like a romance?” Ted asked.

  Baz was eating food he couldn’t taste, thinking about sitting in the dark with Wynne.

  “We’ve got The Spanish Gardener with Dirk Bogarde,” Ted said. “That’s a love story.”

  Wynne swallowed her mouthful and said, “That’s wonderful, Mr Wilson. I love that movie.”

  “Oh, call me Theodore,” Ted said, clearly forgetting her potential to be a ‘bad–mouthed woman’.”

  Wynne gave him a genuine smile then, and said, “Thank you, Theodore. And please call me Wynne.”

  Ted nodded and went back to his food but Baz had stopped eating. He was completely won over by her smile and wanted desperately for Wynne to smile at him that way. But she went back to cutting tiny pieces of party pie and forking them into her mouth, that delicious little cavern he suddenly couldn’t wait to explore.

  Christ, what had happened in the last half hour? When he’d picked her up from her room he’d been put–off completely, and now he was busting his shorts to sit next to her and watch some crappy old black–and–white movie.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Baz,” she asked, glancing at his barely touched plate before meeting his eyes.

  “Not for food,” he admitted softly, gazing right back at her.

  Across the table Ted snorted and said, “Then why don’t you eat grass?”

  Wynne smiled and that and went back to her dinner. “You have Irish ancestry, then?” she asked innocently.

  “Bovine more like,” Baz replied, nodding at his father who was chewing away, bits of pastry poking out each side of his mouth. “More party pies, dad?” he asked, lifting the tray.

  Ted shook his head and bits of pastry showered down onto the crisp white tablecloth. “Do you see my roses?” he said to Wynne, pointing with a half–
eaten pie at the vase.

  She stifled a smile. “Beautiful, Theodore. Scarlet Henry, aren’t they? And … Iceberg?”

  “Snow White,” he corrected.

  Baz was impressed. “You know roses?”

  “My mother adores them,” Wynne said.

  Baz glanced away as a shaft of grief sliced through him. Mine too, he thought, but he said nothing, shocked by the sudden appearance of pain. What had happened to his emotional cocoon? Talking about mothers didn’t normally affect him. Was it because he was at home? Or had Wynne done something to loosen his armor.

  “May I have another pie?” Wynne asked, holding out her plate.

  Baz obliged, and then dished up another two for his father despite his objections, along with more garlic bread. If he filled the old man up he might fall to sleep when the movie started, which of course would leave Baz and Wynne figuratively alone. In the dark.

  Venus was asleep so he could forget that problem for a few hours to concentrate on Wynne. For all he knew the police would arrive tomorrow and the proverbial would hit the fan. Tonight was his window of normality. Necking was normal. He wanted to do that. And Wynne was flirting with him so she probably did too.

  “We’ve got ice–cream,” he told Wynne, “if you want any dessert.”

  She licked her lips. “Maybe later,” she said.

  Baz nodded. They were definitely on the same page.

  “I want my ice–cream now,” Ted butted in, and Baz glanced up to find him reaching for the last party pie on the plate, his trembling fingers not quite able to grasp it.

  “Caramel topping?” he asked, transferring the pie to his father’s plate.

  “And nuts,” Ted demanded. “Two spoonfuls.”

  Baz grinned at Wynne who stifled her own smile and merely started stacking plates back onto the tray. “I’ll help you with this,” she said and shot him a glance before he could refuse. “I’d like to see the kitchen.”