Miranda found her own parents sitting near the open bar. Aña wore a red cocktail dress that complemented her petite figure. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she looked at her husband, Clayton, who had his high voltage smile aimed at one of the pretty waitresses. If she looked at her father with an objective eye, Miranda knew that she would have seen a well-built, handsome man who was aging remarkably well. Silver threaded the black hair at his temples, and deep laugh lines creased the nut-brown skin at the corners of his hazel eyes, but Clayton Penney still had the star quality that had made him such a popular baseball player.
Beyond that, Miranda couldn’t view her father objectively. She knew too well what he was.
She knocked back the remaining drops of the mango martini she had ordered earlier. By the time she was slamming the glass back down on the table, she wasn’t alone anymore.
“Hey,” Calista said, taking a chair near Miranda.
“Hey what?” she grumbled.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since I hit Boston.” Calista gave her a crooked smile. “It’s a good thing the tabloids keep up with you, or I might never have known that Lucas Fletcher is practically my brother-in-law.”
“I’ve been busy with work and stuff,” Miranda said glumly.
“By ‘stuff’ you mean Lucas?” Calista persisted.
“Why do Alec’s brothers keep staring at me like that?”
Calista looked over her shoulder. “Like what?”
The Henderson brothers stood in a huddle at the bar. Chas was the tallest and youngest, and, like Alec, he had their father’s merry black eyes and mahogany skin. Chas kept peering over his shoulder in Miranda’s direction. Tucker, the oldest, repeatedly glanced at her over the tops of his glasses. Tucker had a slightly slimmer build, square jaw, and his mother’s dark cocoa complexion. The looks the handsome Henderson brothers gave Miranda didn’t bother her as much as the enigmatic little grins they kept flashing at her.
“Maybe they want you to get them tickets to Lucas’s next concert,” Calista joked, earning a scowl from Miranda. “What’s the matter? I was only kidding.”
“Is that all people see when they look at me?” Miranda whispered, leaning in toward her sister. “Lucas Fletcher’s girlfriend?”
“They see a smart, beautiful woman who’s been hiding out at this table all night. Is there something on your mind? Do you want to talk?”
“This is your big family powwow,” Miranda said. “You should be mingling with your future mother-, father-, sister-, brothers-, aunts-, uncles- and cousins-in-law.”
“Unlike you, the Hendersons aren’t family. Yet.” Calista scooted her chair closer to Miranda’s and elegantly crossed one knee over the other. “How are things with Lucas?”
A surge of unfamiliar emotion calmed Miranda. “Good,” she smiled. “Surprisingly good. We’re spending New Year’s in Barnsley Gardens.”
“Is that in Wales?”
A blush darkened Miranda’s cheeks. “It’s in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Georgia. It’s sort of a resort. Julia Barnsley, the daughter of the man who built the place, supposedly originated the ‘With God as my witness, I will never go hungry again’ line that Margaret Mitchell used in Gone With The Wind.”
Calista rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so enamored of that stupid book. I’m guessing it was your idea to go there?”
Miranda didn’t answer. “He wanted to come here with me tonight.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“At the time, I didn’t want to have him spend Christmas with our family.” Miranda looked at her father. He was standing at his table, holding a waitress’s hand in both of his. “It would have been too depressing. Plus, Jordan’s here.”
“Well, he is Alec’s best friend.”
“I just think it’s best to keep Lucas and Jordan as far apart as possible. Lucas would be cool about the whole thing, but Jordan would make a scene. He’d do anything to get his picture in the paper.”
“You’re going to have to introduce Lucas to us eventually.”
“I haven’t been seeing him for that long. I’d rather not bring him into my personal life.”
“Andy, you’re sleeping with him. How much more personal can it get between you?”
“I can’t explain it, Callie. I can’t just bring him down to Silver Springs for Mama’s bobó de camarão and to meet the family.”
“Is that because he’s allergic to shellfish or because you’re sure that he’s not going to be in your life long enough to make meeting us worthwhile?”
Miranda wanted to deny her sister’s speculation, but it happened to be the truth. “I just want things to stay the way they are. It’s perfect the way it is, when it’s just the two of us. I don’t want to tamper with it.”
Calista nudged her sister with the toe of her shoe. “You mean you don’t want to move forward.”
“I think I need another drink.” Miranda signaled for the waiter.
“What you need is to get over your extreme mistrust of the men you—”
Clayton Penney’s loud appearance drowned out Calista’s words. “What are the two most beautiful girls in the world talking about over here?” He rested a hand on the backs of their chairs and bent over between them to give them each a kiss on the cheek. Calista, ever the sophisticate, took up a linen napkin and delicately dabbed at the bourbon-scented spot of moisture Clayton’s kiss had left on her face. Miranda used the sleeve of Grandma Tillie’s dress to give her cheek an angry rub. “It’s a party, girls,” he went on. “You look like you’re over here discussing nuclear disarmament. Let’s drop the intensity from a ten to a two.”
“I have to go check my college basketball scores,” Miranda said, rising from her chair.
“Or maybe you just want to sneak off with Jordan,” Clayton loudly guffawed. “I saw the picture the Herald-Star ran of you and Jordan at the ballpark. Great interview, honey. Are you and Jordan getting back together? I thought you dumped him for that musician.”
Calista quickly stood between Miranda and Clayton. “Dad, why don’t you go get Miranda and me a couple of cocktails?” Calista took her father by the shoulders and gave him a gentle nudge toward the bar.
“The Herald-Star would love to have people thinking that Jordan and I are an item, but nothing could be more ridiculous,” Miranda hissed. “And just so you know, Daddy, Jordan tossed me aside. I wasn’t enough for him.” Miranda saw herself reflected in eyes that were exactly like her own. “One woman doesn’t seem to be enough for certain men.”
Clayton couldn’t have looked at her with more distaste if she had spit on him. His smile froze as he took a step closer to her. “You just can’t stand to see other people happy, can you? Why are you trying to ruin your sister’s dinner by bringing up something that just doesn’t matter?”
“You’re the one who brought this up,” Miranda said.
“Don’t you have any respect for your mother?”
Miranda shook with anger as she pushed her chair in and readied herself to leave. A soft but firm voice held her in place.
“Hypocrite.”
Miranda and her father turned toward the tiny figure of Aña Penney. “How dare you, of all people, question Miranda’s respect for me?” she said quietly, her words carrying the lilt of her native land.
Clayton’s hazel-green eyes searched his wife’s knowing black ones, then narrowed at Miranda. “It’s been years, and you just had to tell her, didn’t you?” he accused.
“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, Clayton,” Aña said. “I’ve known about every one of them.” She fingered the diamond and pearl necklace he had given her seven years ago following that particular “business” overnight in Baltimore. “The wife is the last to know, but only if she isn’t the one doing her husband’s laundry. You were smart to pay for gifts and hotels with cash, but you shouldn’t have left so many restaurant receipts in your pockets.”
A burst of laughter came from
the dance floor as Alec and Jordan danced with each other. The dinner guests seemed to have no idea that while they were celebrating the building of one family, another one was breaking down.
Clayton’s broad shoulders sank as he eased himself into a chair. “Why didn’t you say anything, Aña?”
Her mother’s bitter smile chilled Miranda’s heart. When Calista moved to her side, Miranda put an arm around her waist. “I thought that you would leave me if I said anything,” Aña admitted. “You see, Clayton, I loved you more than I loved myself for a long time.” She sought Miranda’s gaze, and found it. “For too long.”
Miranda wasn’t the only one who heard the finality in her mother’s tone. “We need to talk about this, Aña, please, before you do anything rash,” Clayton pleaded.
“Sure.” Aña nodded thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure how much good it will do.”
“Mama,” Miranda intervened. “Please…don’t do anything hasty. I’m sorry about bringing any of this up tonight.”
Aña took her daughter’s hands. Miranda was surprised by the strength in their delicacy. “Don’t apologize. I owe you an apology. My lie,” she shifted her gaze to Clayton, “our lie, has affected you in the very way I’d hoped to avoid by keeping up this masquerade of a marriage. I’m sorry, for deceiving you.”
“You’re not the one who should be apologizing, Mom,” Miranda said.
“I don’t owe either of you anything!” Clayton snarled, his face darkening with fury. He calmed enough to take Calista’s arm and draw her to his side. “Can’t you see that your sister is trying to ruin my marriage?”
“Dad,” Calista said evenly, disengaging herself from her father’s grasp, “you beat her to it.”
Chapter 9
Lucas surveyed the suite, making sure that everything was just right. For the past month, he and Miranda had been meeting in various hotel rooms in North America, rarely spending more than a night together before one or the other was forced to jet to another city or time zone for a game or a concert. The travel was little more than a necessary inconvenience when compared to the ongoing nightmare of the paparazzi.
The Herald-Star had placed a premium bounty on photographs of them together, and stories about them had been appearing regularly in Meg LaParosa’s egregious column. Some were clearly made-up, mean-spirited musings—such as one accusing Miranda of sleeping with every man in the sports department—and others were just plain ludicrous.
One item had given Lucas momentary pause. His manager had secured an issue of the Herald-Star in Sydney. The paper, dated two days after his arrival in Australia, had carried a photograph in Psst! of Miranda leaving Fenway Park with Jordan Duquette. Miranda hadn’t seemed aware of the camera as she exited the ballpark, pulling her collar up against a blustery winter wind. Jordan, on the other hand, looked directly at the camera. He had a million-dollar smile befitting a multimillion-dollar baseball star.
The picture was wholly innocuous at first glance, but had become irritating at second glance. Upon closer inspection, Lucas had noticed four big brown knuckles peeking around Miranda’s right hip. The picture—the knuckles—wouldn’t have bothered him if not for the blurb beneath it:
When the Tomcat’s away the Tomboy will play. Luscious Lucas Fletcher was still in the air bound for the Land Of Aussies when our eagle-eyed photog captured this cozy couple leaving Fenway Park…
In finer print at the end of the column was a tease referring the reader to Page 89 and Miranda’s interview with Jordan.
Common sense told Lucas that Miranda’s meeting with Jordan had been strictly work related. Still, he had suffered a piercing flash of jealousy at seeing her with another man. Particularly the one who had dealt some of the emotional bruises she still bore.
Lucas paced the suite, repositioning a vase of four-dozen scarlet roses, and wondering why Miranda hadn’t told him of the interview. But then she never spoke of her work, unless he prodded her into it. She hadn’t mentioned the paper at all during their three-day New Year’s retreat to Barnsley Gardens two weeks ago. As he brushed an imagined speck of lint from the heavy white drapes, Lucas recalled that she had gone oddly quiet when, on the same holiday, he had asked about her family’s visit to Boston.
He’d had the best New Year’s of his life in their cozy mountain resort. Every morning he’d awakened to mist-shrouded mountains and his body wrapped around Miranda’s as though they were a pair of linked question marks. It was the offseason, so the resort was in hibernation, for the most part. The quiet was a nice change from the hustle and hassle of sneaking in and out of big-city hotel rooms.
Lucas stood at the windows and stared out at his perfect view of Capitol Hill. Washington, D.C. was a beautiful and energetic international city. As such, reporters and photographers from all over the world lined the street ten stories below his windows, and they were probably waiting on the same thing he was: Miranda.
Her flight had landed an hour ago, and Lucas had arranged for a car to bring her to the hotel. The driver would take her directly through the underground garage and she’d enter the hotel through the service doors. If all went as planned, Miranda would be spared yet another run through a gauntlet of media.
The media had been a part of Lucas’s life for twenty years. He was used to it, and now it bothered him only as much as it bothered Miranda. In London, he’d assumed that she was as voracious and intrusive as all the other reporters he’d ever encountered. But having seen her in action, he knew that her style was far less aggressive and much more comfortable for both her and her subjects.
It was also more fruitful. Miranda was an excellent researcher, and she knew her sports and stats thoroughly. She managed to be warm yet professional, and she had a knack for drawing out that ephemeral something that gained an interviewee’s trust. Lucas had accompanied her on one of her interviews in Dallas. He remembered staring wide-eyed in amazement when a strapping star basketball player spilled his past as an abused child after Miranda asked him about his volunteer work with foster children. And true to her word, she didn’t print any of his pained memories in her story. Miranda was that rarest of creatures—a gifted reporter who could be trusted.
The more time he spent with her, the more he came to know her. And to love her.
Lucas stepped away from the windows. His bare feet moved soundlessly across the white shag carpeting. The room was an opulent study in white and chrome. It was very nice; then again, all of his hotel rooms were nice. But Lucas was tired of meeting her in hotels, no matter how luxurious. Nothing compared to the nights they had spent at Miranda’s, in the gigantic bed in her rented apartment. He wanted more nights like that. He suddenly wanted a place of permanence to share with her, a sanctuary. Like Conwy.
He looked at his watch. “Where is she?” He was like a schoolboy anxious for the afternoon bell to ring. He started for the phone, to call her on her cell, when a soft knock sounded on the door. Lucas couldn’t answer it fast enough. He flung it open, expecting Miranda to be standing there. She was, and still his heart seemed to fill his entire chest cavity as he gazed at her.
She was coming off a three-day stretch of games in Miami and a four-day road stretch in Cleveland. An overstuffed backpack and duffel bag weighed down her shoulders, and her ponytail was a little off-center. The corners of her lips rose in a watery smile, and when Lucas took her in his arms, she seemed to melt against him.
“Tired, love?” he asked. He kissed her cheek and the side of her neck before nuzzling her ear.
She nodded into his chest and let him walk her into the suite. “How were your shows?”
He took her bags and set them on a white marble table. “Annapolis is always good. All three shows were sold out. Midshipmen always turn out for the show and give it that extra charge. Baltimore was a bit better only in that I like playing the smaller venues. I can relate to the fans more intimately.”
Her face stiffened as she unbuttoned her coat. “Exactly how intimately?”
Lucas
shrugged and helped her out of her coat. “I dunno. The venue held about fifteen hundred.”
Her forehead relaxed, but her mouth remained in a severe line.
“We do a shorter set, but it’s more intense,” Lucas said, hanging up her coat. “I like being able to pick individual faces out of the crowd.”
“I’ll bet,” Miranda said under her breath as she went to the bar area and inspected the contents of the fridge at the minibar, which in Lucas’s luxury suite, was actually more of a maxibar. She pulled out a small carton of orange juice and poured it into a crystal tumbler. Lucas quietly watched her gulp it down.
“What?” she snapped.
He approached her, tapping his fingertips together. “I haven’t seen you in person in two weeks. Ordinarily, you would have fallen victim to my irresistible charms and covered me with your delectable kisses by now.” He braced his hands on his side of the bar. “You’ve been distracted and somber since New Year’s,” he said gently. “Have you gone off me?”
She set down her empty glass, hooked her thumbs in the back pockets of her jeans and stared at her feet. “I’m just feeling a little run down. I haven’t had a break since New Year’s. Rex is trotting me around like a prized pet, I haven’t slept since we left Barnsley Gardens, my stomach’s been bothering me, and…” She finally looked at him. His attentive and concerned gaze made her feel guilty about her lukewarm reception at the door. He had gotten his hair cut since the last time she’d seen him, and as usual, the handsome planes of his face were clean-shaven. The first three buttons of his black shirt were undone, he wore his favorite pair of faded jeans, and his feet were bare. He looked fresh and relaxed, and Miranda envied him for it. “It’s been a rough stretch,” she finished.
He cupped her cheek. She turned her face into his palm and pressed the heel of it to her lips. “I’m not off you,” she said. “Looking forward to seeing you today is the only thing that kept me going for the past two weeks.”
Lucas leaned over the bar and framed her face in his hands. He pressed kisses to her forehead and her cheek, and he was embarrassed at how relieved he was to know that she still wanted him.
Crush Page 19