His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

Cal’s smile felt twisted, bitter. “No worries. Father can have his opinion. I’ve never let it bother me.” Huh, and he’d accused Monica of being a liar. Of course it bothered him. Hurt like bloody hell.

  Pix had been an unconventional mother, but she loved him utterly. Although limited in her capacity for feeling empathy, she was great fun, just not terribly useful in a crisis. Between his parents, Pix came out on top. She may have dragged him from pillar to post, but having Pixie Hughes as a mother wasn’t so bad, in the scheme of things.

  “I shouldn’t have let Father keep me away from Jules. I’m quite mad about her, you know.”

  “You’re not going to start crying like a little girl, are you?” Jules’s voice sounded behind him. He turned to find her walking toward him, two cups of coffee in her hands. She gave one to Cal and one to her mother. “I’ll go get another.” She rubbed Cal’s arm. “And I love you too, you giant wanker.”

  Paolo’s pleas replayed in his mind. Seeing his father look so ill, thinking about Babcock—he should really make things right with his mum. Cal nodded to Tara and, excusing himself, walked down the hallway. He called Pixie and filled her in, giving her the details of George’s condition.

  “Your father is a very angry man, Cal. That’s bad for the heart. And he ate too many sausages. That will do it to you, which is why I never let Paolo eat red meat.”

  “Sausages are pork.”

  “Isn’t that red meat? Ham is pink, surely. What about you, are you all right, darling?”

  “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “Please give Jules a hug for me. I’m terribly sorry the two of you are going through this, and you have my deepest sympathies.” She sounded like a greeting card, but Cal knew it was her attempt at showing concern.

  “Will do. I love you, Mum.”

  “And I, you. Call me if you need anything at all. Anything, Calum, I’m quite serious.” He didn’t know what she could possibly do, but at least she made an effort.

  He felt better, having made his peace with her. Now if he could make things right with Monica. He missed her terribly, but what was he meant to do? Despite her wild, impulsive nature, Monica Campbell was a forever kind of woman, and Cal didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.

  Chapter 22

  Workers and movers and caterers swarmed through the garden. They nearly careened into one another as they furnished three tents, strung thousands of lights, hammered on a dais for the string quartet. The gala would be much less formal than the event Allie had originally planned. Monica couldn’t believe they’d pulled it off in less than two weeks. So why couldn’t she muster some sort of pride or satisfaction?

  Monica ran a hand over her tired eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been living at the mansion, not only because it was convenient, but because she didn’t want to lie in her own bed. The last time she used it, she’d been with Cal. He seemed to be all she could think about. Her days were miserable, her nights unbearable. Monica had made a mistake, breaking it off with him. A terrible, painful mistake.

  “Things are coming together.” Allie stood next to her, the ever-present binder in her arms. She’d morphed into a bossy, busty general, ordering everyone around the garden and making sure all would be perfect for the big night. She was totally in her element.

  “Yep,” Monica said. “Looking good.”

  Allie gazed at Monica’s profile, but Monica avoided eye contact. Seeing her sister’s compassion only made her feel worse.

  “Mon, I say this with love—you look like shit.”

  “Thank you,” she said, keeping her eyes on the men carefully threading lights through the rosebushes. “And I say this with all due respect—fuck off.”

  “Still surly, I see. Do you have a dress yet?”

  She turned to Allie. “Can you just beat me to death with that binder so we don’t have to have this conversation again? I’m wearing something from last year. It’s fine.”

  Instead of snapping a retort, she rubbed Monica’s shoulder. That damn compassion again. “Go get some rest, Mon. We have this thing under control.”

  Monica cleared her throat and looked away. She couldn’t rest, and yet, she was exhausted. Not just from all the work or the sleepless nights—she was exhausted from grief. How was she supposed to get over Calum Hughes? The man had driven back into her life with that shitty Mustang. He’d told her about cities she’d never heard of, he’d called her out on her bullshit, and he’d made love to her like it meant something. Now Monica was nothing more than a puddle of useless, gooey sorrow.

  “Seriously,” Al said. “Go take a break.”

  Monica nodded and dodged men moving tables as she made her way to the house. Pandemonium ruled in here too, with florists and cleaners bustling through the hallways.

  She took the stairs two at a time. No one was allowed up here—Trevor’s orders. He was very put out with strangers fucking up his routine. His words. Repeated often.

  Monica didn’t want to go back to her guest room. She’d spent hours on that bed, tossing and turning, miserable without Cal.

  She darted into the salon instead. It was her favorite part of the house and overlooked the garden. She stood at the window, watching everyone come and go. And felt completely alone.

  When the door opened, Monica turned to see Trevor enter. A pained look crossed his face as he glanced at her. He advanced farther into the room and withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket’s inner pocket. “Here. Mop up.”

  Monica touched her cheek. Shit. She’d been crying again. When was this going to stop? She used to be so strong. Closed off. Maybe, but closed off was a lot less humiliating than this. “Thanks.”

  Trevor stalked to the booze cart and poured two measures of alcohol. As she sniffled and wiped her eyes, he walked back and handed her a tumbler. “Drink that.” He sank down on the sofa and sipped his own.

  “What is it?”

  “Brandy. Now, what’s got you all wobbly?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.” She took a sip, and it went down smooth. “Is this old?”

  “Older than you and I put together. Now talk. Or you’ll force me to fetch Allison, and neither one of us wants that. She’ll smother you, and she’ll put me to work.”

  Monica shuffled to the opposite tufted Chesterfield and flopped down. “I’m just…you know.” She shrugged.

  “Ah, of course. Now it’s all so clear.”

  She took another sip, enjoying the alcohol scorching a path down her throat. “Cal.”

  “Quite.”

  “I love him. Like, head-over-ass love.”

  “Mmm. My condolences.”

  She glanced at him, took in his tailored suit, the blue silk tie. He and Cal couldn’t be more different. “I broke it off with him.”

  “Yes, Allie said as much.”

  She sipped her brandy and began to loosen up. She hadn’t been eating, and the alcohol hit her quickly.

  “Does he love you?” Trevor gazed at her through cool gray eyes, studied her like she was one of his silver saltshakers in the glass case downstairs—with impersonal, mild interest.

  “I know he cares about me. Or he did. But I haven’t heard from him in days.”

  “Cal had a rather unconventional upbringing.”

  “I know that.”

  He raised one brow. “Do you? Then you know his father’s never shown an ounce of affection. Pixie is…well, Pixie. Anything that doesn’t affect her directly doesn’t hold her attention for long. Cal was mostly left to his own devices.”

  “He had Babcock.”

  “Know about her, do you?” He paused with his glass halfway to his lips.

  “Yeah. He was with her until the end. He’s a good guy. But he doesn’t stick around.”

  “And you want what, true love conquering all”—he motioned with one finger—“happily ever after, and all that rubbish?”

  Monica leaned forward. “Watch yourself. You sound a little cynical there, Trev. Since you’re married to my sister, t
hat’s not reassuring.”

  “I’m cynical about everyone else, never Allison.” His eyes turned to ice. “She’s a fucking miraculous aberration. But we’re not talking about her. We’re talking about you. What if Cal can’t promise forever? You’re obviously miserable without him. But you’ve been miserable for years, so what else is new?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but what for? “I’m quitting the foundation.” She swallowed the rest of the brandy in one gulp and began coughing as Trevor watched.

  “Good,” he said, once she finally stopped. “I’m not one to give advice, and God knows I’m not one to take it, but that job is not right for you. You and Allison could use some distance.” He stood, drained his glass, and rebuttoned his jacket. “I guess you can make up your own mind about Cal, but he did stress that he’d be back.”

  “What?”

  “When he left for L.A., he said, if anyone asks, I’m coming back. Perhaps that was meant for you. You’ve always been an all-or-nothing person. Maybe there’s room in your life for a little compromise?” He strode to the door and left her sitting alone.

  Compromise. Balance. Yeah, she could use some of that. And if she was this miserable without Cal, maybe she could take him on his own terms. Seeing him in intervals…maybe that would be enough. She could make it be enough.

  * * *

  Cal threw down the wrench and wiped his hands on a plush white rag—a monogrammed rag that used to be a hand towel in its former life. In the last few days, he’d performed tune-ups and changed the oil in the Bentley, the Rolls, the Mercedes coupe, and the Range Rover. There was nothing left for him to do. Not a bloody thing—unless he wanted to tear each car apart and rebuild them, piece by piece. It might very well come to that. He’d never been so…not bored. Restless? Agitated? Yes, all those things, but the root cause felt more like hopelessness.

  Cal had become a shell of a person, walking around this vast, stupid estate—listless, with nothing to do but think. All the sunshine, the mild weather—it should have recharged him. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

  He bent down and shut the toolbox—if one could call it that. After his father came home, Cal had gone out and bought the basics. George didn’t own so much as a screwdriver, let alone a torque wrench. Cars were Cal’s therapy, but unfortunately, even that wasn’t working right now. But really, what else was there? Play tennis? Swim? Sun himself by the pool? How did Jules stand it out here? Los Angeles held no appeal for him. At least in Vegas he could buy his way into a game of poker or work on the Mustang.

  And be close to Monica.

  Right. That. She was the reason this horrible, morose feeling had taken him over. How he missed her. Her smile, her scent, her plump upper lip.

  Shit. He’d made a pact with himself. No thinking about Monica. No sense in dwelling on what he couldn’t have.

  Cal walked out of the garage and stared up at the sky, where white clouds resembling cotton wool drifted to the east. Lowering his head, he glanced at the vibrant garden Tara had planted at the back of the house. Gardens reminded him of Monica. Cal ground his teeth. God, if only he could think about something else. Anything else. But memories of her—her soft, pale skin, her lavender-scented hair, her infectious laughter—flooded his brain every other goddamned minute.

  Grabbing the keys to the Range Rover, he stalked back to the garage. He needed to get out. Go for a drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. He simply couldn’t stay locked up one more minute.

  Cal started the engine and circled ’round to the front of the house. His father got a little better day by day. He’d be able to go back to work in a few weeks. Cal would be free then. Able to jet off to Budapest or spend the winter in Key West.

  Oh, who was he kidding? There was only one place Cal wanted to visit. Visit. That was the problem. Monica wanted something much more permanent than the occasional meet up. She didn’t want him on a part-time basis. She’d made that clear. So why didn’t his brain get the message?

  When his phone vibrated, Cal’s heart began to pound. It did every bloody time, and it was never her. He glanced at the screen. His father. Again.

  “Yes?”

  “Come upstairs.” Then he rang off. No explanation. He didn’t ask; he commanded. And Cal obeyed. He didn’t want to be the one to send the old man back to hospital.

  Slamming the car in reverse, he drove to the garage and climbed out. He was trapped here. Like an animal in a zoo. Like Monica in her office.

  Cal rubbed the bridge of his nose. He really needed to think about something else. A ’72 Iso Fidia—a car he’d dreamed about since he was sixteen. He could dwell on that rather than Monica’s voice and her fuzzy steering-wheel cover, and the way she made him breathless every time she walked into a room. So stop already, you wanker. If only it were that easy.

  Cal strode inside the house. The air felt cool and smelled a bit stale. He took the curving stairway to the second floor and down the long, wide hall to his father’s bedroom. George had been ensconced in there for nearly two weeks and was chomping at the bit to get back to work.

  The household had descended into chaos when George first got home. Cal had caught him on three separate occasions looking over stock profiles. The man couldn’t stop himself, and as a result, his blood pressure was still far too high. But the old man eventually made a bargain with Cal. George could talk to his secretary for ten minutes each day, if he agreed to stop disrupting the staff’s schedule and quit hounding Tara about every domestic decision. That seemed to do the trick.

  Cal stood in the doorway. “You rang?”

  George waved him in. “Yes, come. Sit. I want to show you something, and I think you’ll be pleased.”

  Doubtful. George held out a folder, his expression rather smug.

  “What is it?” Cal asked.

  “I said sit down. Read it for yourself. Your mother did teach you how to do that much, didn’t she?”

  Suppressing a sigh, Cal moved to a bedside chair and lowered himself. He stretched out his legs and crossed one boot over the other. Then he snatched the folder and skimmed the first page. Irritated, he lifted his gaze to his father and shook his head. “No. This is not happening.”

  “You haven’t even read the bloody thing.”

  “I don’t want to be in your will. Give it all to Tara and Jules.” He tossed the file on his father’s legs.

  The nurse, dressed in plain blue scrubs, walked into the room. “Time to take your vitals,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “Woman, can you not see that I’m busy right now? Come back later.”

  This one was older and less nervous than the previous five. She ignored the old man by grabbing his wrist and studying her watch. George tried to pull out of her grasp, but she held on tight.

  He snarled at her, then turned his focus back to Cal. “Look, I can admit when I’m wrong. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often. But you’ve been here for Tara and Juliette, and I’d like to show my appreciation. It’s merely a token.”

  “Send me a fruit basket. I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it.”

  George rolled his eyes, and as the nurse attempted to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm, he slapped her hand. “Get away from me. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

  Cal glanced up at her and smiled. “Can you give us five?”

  She shot George a hateful glance. “I’ll give you ten.” She marched out of the room, mumbling under her breath.

  “Making friends wherever you go,” Cal said.

  “I pay people. I don’t need friends. So what are you going to do with yourself after all this?”

  “I don’t know, really.” Without Monica, Cal felt worse than when he’d stayed in Cairns, puttering around the beach all day. He felt rudderless. Lost without her.

  “You could stay in California,” George said. “It’s not too bad, you know. Perhaps we could find something useful for you to do, rather than play with cars all day.”

  When Cal was
eighteen, he would have loved to hear that sentiment—if not those exact words—from his father. But Cal had made his own way in the world, was respected in his field. The old man might not understand that, but it didn’t matter. Calum knew who he was. “No thanks. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Father.” Still pale, George appeared older and frailer than his years. That disapproving man from Cal’s memories had now become less of an ogre and more human.

  “Suit yourself. I was only trying to do the right thing. Now take this file on your way out.”

  Cal left the room, tipping his head to the nurse in the hallway. Downstairs in the pink floral living room, he found Jules.

  “I thought he looked better today,” she said. “Is he still being an ass to the nurse?”

  “As ever.” He sat and tossed the file on the coffee table. He sighed heavily and glanced at the roses in varying shades of pink and white in a small glass vase.

  “God, I’m tired of hearing that,” Jules said.

  Cal glanced up at her. “What?”

  “You, sighing constantly. Like a leaky tire. Have you called her?”

  Not wanting to talk about Monica, he stood, retrieved the folder, and headed to Father’s study. Jules padded after him.

  “Have you?”

  “It’s none of your fucking business, Jules. Leave it.” Cal had never spoken so harshly to his sister. He turned, and another sigh escaped him. Damn, she was right. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No shit. But it might help, you know. Instead of moping around here all day, like some brooding, wet bloke. You’ve lost weight. You can’t sit still. You’re bloody miserable. You’re in love with her.”

  Cal stopped at Jules’s words. “No, I’m not. What nonsense. Two grown people can share admiration and mutual respect. That’s all it was.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jules crossed her arms. “So you don’t miss her?”

  Of course he missed her. She was vital, like sunshine or fresh air. “It’s complicated, Jules. At your age, I don’t expect you to understand it.”

  She laughed then. “My age? Monica’s only five years older than I am. I’m not a child, and I can see how you’re pining away for her.”