She set the takeout food she’d brought on the counter and frowned at the large number of prescription bottles lined up by the sink. Quietly, she checked the recently filled bottle of oxycodone. Not only was it half empty, but the prescribing doctor was one she wasn’t familiar with. Gen closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to quell the sense of dread that bubbled in her stomach like battery acid. Takeout had definitely been a good idea. Any excuse she could give her mother to not use the stove was a damn good one.
“Mom?” Gen called as she walked into the small, dingy living room and wrinkled her nose. Cigarette smoke hung in the living room as dense as fog. “You should open a window or something.”
Emily Hawthorn was parked in her favorite recliner. Stacks of worn gothic mystery novels surrounded her as if they were condemned buildings, teetering and ready to fall over. The dark shadows under her puffy eyes made her look older than her fifty-two years. Her bleached hair was twisted into a tight knot at the base of her skull, gray beginning to show at the roots.
Gen remembered when her mom had been vibrant and happy, full of smiles and laughter. That seemed like a lifetime ago. It was sad to miss someone who was physically right in front of you. But this woman, this pitiful, medicated husk, was not the same woman who had read her Alice in Wonderland every night, handmade her Halloween costumes and sang her Edelweiss when she couldn’t sleep. If Dad hadn’t died, would she still be that person?
No, I can’t go there.
“Genny girl, what have you done to your hair?” A cigarette dangled between her fingers and a book was cleaved open on her knee.
Gen tucked a red strand behind her ear. “Dyed it. I thought that was pretty obvious.”
After Brian had invited her to dinner, she’d dyed it a garish, cherry red. He was probably going to hate it, but she didn’t care. Call it a last act of rebellion. She knew she’d have to relinquish control once she gave him her decision about their strange little arrangement. Dyeing her hair was her way of saying I’m here, but on my own terms. Was it immature? Sure, but agreeing to an exchange of power didn’t mean she had to lose her sense of self in the process, did it? Gen was who she was and Brian could take it or leave it.
“I’ll never understand why you don’t like what the good Lord gave you. You used to have the prettiest long brown hair. I remember how sun-streaked it would get in the summertime.”
Gen rolled her eyes. “I haven’t had hair like that since I was fifteen.”
Emily ignored her as she stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “What’s with the getup? Are you going to a costume party?”
Her outfit was not costumish. So what if the buttons on her short-sleeved black cardigan were silver spiders? It matched perfectly with the slim violet skirt. She wished she had a sexy pair of heels to complete her ensemble. The purple cheetah-print flats had to suffice. There wasn’t a stitch of designer or conservative clothing in her miniscule wardrobe, not that she’d have worn it anyway. She preferred an edgier style, something her mother had never liked.
“I’m here a little early because I have a…date tonight.” Well, it wasn’t really a date. Gen had no idea what to call it, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell her mother the truth.
“It’s early?” she asked, bewildered.
“It’s six o’clock. How many pills have you had today?” She regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. She knew asking would only make her mom angry and defensive. Worry had a way of overriding Gen’s better judgment where her mother was concerned.
“Oh for chrissakes! I take them for pain. You know working those long hours at the library are murder on my back. Not that you care. Did I hear you right? You have a date? It’s not with one of those ruffians you usually go out with, is it?”
Only her mother would use a word like ruffian. “Actually, he’s clean-cut and pretty successful.”
“Really?” Emily smiled brightly. “You should bring him by sometime. I’d love to meet him.”
No way. Gen rubbed her fingers over her forehead. A dull ache had formed just behind her eyes. She wasn’t embarrassed by her mom. Okay, so maybe she was, but she also didn’t want to give her the wrong idea about Brian. “It’s just a date. Nothing serious, so don’t go picking out invitations or anything. I don’t think he’s the marrying kind. Not that I’m even looking for that.”
“If he’s not the marrying kind then why are you going out with him? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
Gen forced a smile and changed the subject. “I thought since you’ve had such a rough week at work, I’d save you from having to cook tonight and brought takeout. A blackened grouper sandwich and some hush puppies from that place at John’s Pass you like. I left it in the kitchen.”
“That was nice of you, dear. I wish you had time to stay. Your visits are always so short. I know you have a life, but it wouldn’t kill you to spend a little time with your mother.”
Great, now the guilt trip. Gen really should spend more time with her, but hiding her resentment had become more and more difficult as the years passed. She understood why her mom used pills to kill more than the physical pain, but she couldn’t seem to forgive her for not being strong enough to face her husband’s death. After all, Gen had done it without numbing herself into oblivion. Why couldn’t she?
A glimpse of sadness leaked from her mother’s opiate-induced fog. “It gets a little lonesome with just me and my books.”
Gen sat on the arm of the big, overstuffed chair and leaned over to give her a hug. “I know, Mom. How ’bout I come over on Saturday and do your hair for you? Maybe we can watch a movie or something?”
“That would be lovely. You better get going. Don’t want to keep your young man waiting.” She gave Gen’s arm a pat.
“You going to be okay tonight?”Gen stood, smoothing out her skirt.
“Don’t worry about me.” Her false grin back in place, she tapped the cover of her book. “I’ve got a mystery to solve.”
Gen’s gaze drifted to the full ashtray. “I’m just going to empty this before I go,” she said, grabbing it off the glass endtable.
“No, leave it. I can do that.”
“It’s no trouble, really.” Gen walked to the kitchen, emptied it into the trash then washed her hands. She went back and set it down next to her mother. “See?”
“I can take care of myself, you know.”
“I know.” Gen kissed her quickly on the forehead. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Have fun, but be safe.”
“I will. Bye, Mom,” she hollered on her way out the door.
She closed it behind her and locked it with a sigh. Sick dread clung to her like a life-sucking parasite. She hated what her mother was doing to herself with every cell in her body, but knew she was powerless to change it. Things were the way they were. All Gen could do was live her life and hope her mother got the picture before something bad happened.
Gen simply didn’t have the energy for this right now. Brian was waiting, a bright spot in her dreary existence. Or maybe it was a dark spot. Jesus, she had no idea what the hell it was.
She drove toward the beach, Portishead blaring from the speakers. When she crossed the bridge, she lowered the windows, knowing full well it would blow her hair all to shit, but she didn’t care. The warm, salty breeze helped clear her head and did wonders for her mood. Brian lived only a mile or two from her apartment right on Gulf Boulevard. Judging from the address, his house was a few steps up from the dump she called home. Quite a few, she thought as she passed the sprawling waterfront homes. She paid careful attention to the numbers, searching for the correct one.
Despite the soothing music, her anxiety jumped a notch when she reached her destination. She frowned, lowering the volume on the stereo as she turned into the driveway. She killed the engine then leaned forward to peer out her dirty windshield.
Jesus.
His house was enormous. Stark white w
ith sharp angles, flowing curves and row after row of huge rectangular windows, it was a modern architectural masterpiece. Gen sat behind the wheel of her car in awe. Was this even the right house? She double-checked the address he’d given her. This was definitely the place.
Get out of the car, walk up and ring the bell, you coward.
So what if his home was worth more money than she would see in several lifetimes? It was just a house. She raked her fingers through her windblown hair, attempting to put it to rights, then grabbed her purse and got out of the car. On her way to the door, she searched her bag frantically for her breath spray. Fresh breath was always a plus. She squirted three quick bursts into her mouth before putting it away. Her eyes watered from the intense minty flavor. Blinking the moisture away, she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell with a shaky finger.
Her heart pounded as she heard footsteps approach. A man she’d never seen before answered the door. He was dressed in a baby-blue polo shirt and black slacks. Judging by the laugh lines that bracketed his thin lips and accented his pale-blue eyes, she guessed he was somewhere in his forties. His dark-blond hair was neatly cut in a conservative style. He seemed polished, almost formal, but his warm, genuine smile put her at ease.
“Ms. Hawthorn?”
She nodded nervously.
“Please come in. Master Brian is waiting for you in the salon.”
Master Brian? The salon? Was this guy for real?
“Would you like me to take your bag? I’ll just put it in the coat closet. If you need it, you have only to ask and I’ll retrieve it for you.”
“Okay.” She handed him her purse.
He placed it on a shelf then turned toward her. “Could I get you something to drink? A cocktail perhaps?”
“Maybe a diet soda?”
He gave her a wink. “Absolutely. The salon is straight ahead. I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Thank you…?”
“It’s Chris.”
“Thank you, Chris.”
“You are very welcome,” he said with such sincerity she had to wonder at it.
She watched him walk down the hallway to the right and decided then and there to like him, no matter what he called Brian or the living room.
Hesitantly she crept through the entryway, her shoes echoing on the polished slate. The foyer opened into a large space where the ceiling stretched a lofty three stories. The back wall, facing the Gulf, was made almost entirely of glass. The serene turquoise glow from a large infinity pool lit up the scenery beyond. The interior décor was modern and minimalistic. The curved leather couches and hard-angled tables—all in shades of black and gray and accented with silver—stood out starkly against the glaring white walls.
Gen’s breath caught.
Recessed into the wall on her left was a very large painting, a riot of emotion and color in an otherwise lifeless room. The effect was awe-inspiring. There was really no other way to describe it. Brian owned a Kandinsky? She was absolutely green. It was probably a reproduction.
A throat cleared, breaking her from her trance. She turned to see Brian standing next to the black granite bar on the right side of the room. He was a vision of elegance in tailored charcoal slacks and black button-down shirt. Did the man even know the meaning of the word casual?
He seemed cool and aloof, until she looked into his eyes. The predatory gleam in those green depths made her feel as if he had plans to eat her for dinner. She thought briefly of the savage kiss they shared last week. He could project cold and icy all he wanted. She’d had a taste of the passion he hid beneath the surface.
“Um, hi.” She suddenly felt very small and out of place, standing before him in this grand house with her unnaturally red hair and funky clothes.
“Red this time.Very interesting and very bright.”
Her hand self-consciously flew to her vibrant locks. Was he making fun of her? “I’m sorry. Was I supposed to consult you first?”
“Sarcasm. And you haven’t even been here a full five minutes. No glasses tonight.” He sounded almost disappointed.
Maybe he had a geek-girl kink. That would definitely explain his attraction to her. Judging by the looks of his house, women must have flocked to him as they did a Black Friday sale. What he saw in her she had no idea.
She tapped her temple. “Contacts. In case…” We get down and dirty. “Well, I don’t know.” Face flushed, she turned back toward the painting.
Chris appeared with the diet soda she’d requested. She took the slim highball glass from him and murmured a quick thanks.
“Dinner will be served shortly. I hope you like sea bass.” Chris offered her a polite smile then headed off to the kitchen, she assumed.
“What is he? Your butler? Chef? Housekeeper?”
“A little bit of everything, I suppose. Chris manages the house for me, cooks on occasion, handles some of my affairs.”
A house manager, a luxurious home and priceless art all at the age of thirty-two? Brian lived on a different planet than she did. It was a lot to take in. “Is this an original Kandinsky?”
“Yes,” he answered, but offered nothing more.
She blew out a breath as she approached the masterpiece. She could stare for hours at the colliding forms and moody colors. “It’s beautiful. Is it your only piece?”
“The only Kandinsky.”
Wow, Brian was able to gaze at an original Kandinsky while he sipped a cocktail. Ugh. That irked her as much as it amazed her. She’d been to the local museums. St. Petersburg proudly boasted one of the largest Salvador Dali collections in the world. She’d spent more afternoons there than she could count. Unfortunately, books and the internet were her only means of enjoying work by other artists of his caliber. Seeing art firsthand was an entirely different experience.
“Okay, so I’m impressed. There, I said it. This house… Donovan’s has been very good to you.” There was no way he afforded all of this on the profit from the pub. He would see right through her little ruse, but she didn’t care. She wanted to know more about what she was getting herself into.
“Come sit.” He patted the matte-silver barstool next to him.
Wary, she closed the distance between them and took a seat on the cool metal. The bar—which, by the way, was fully stocked with premium liquors and even had a wine chiller—curved into a dimly lit dining room. Everything was so perfect, so cold in its modern brilliance. She was almost afraid to touch anything and had the mischievous urge to mess it up a bit, make it look more livable. God, if he ever saw her place, he would think she was a total slob.
“You had no problem finding your way?”
“Like I could miss it. The place is huge, Brian. I had no idea you had all of this.”
“Donovan’s isn’t my only financial venture.”
“You don’t say?” She smirked before taking a sip of her diet cola.
“My family owns Gulf Coast Wine and Spirits.”
Gen choked, coughing and sputtering. Brian quickly handed her a napkin and rubbed a comforting hand on her back.
“Are you all right?” He actually sounded concerned.
She nodded, attempting to catch her breath as she dabbed her mouth. Holy shit. His family owned one of the largest beverage distribution companies in the country? No wonder he could afford a Kandinsky.
When she felt she could safely continue without embarrassing herself further, she asked, “So why Donovan’s? I mean, it’s not like you need the income.”
He leaned an elbow on the bar, a smile softening his regal features. “I like it, working with people, getting my hands dirty, so to speak. The executive life seems rather boring in comparison. Don’t get me wrong, running the pub certainly has its dull moments, but I like that it isn’t the same job every day. The occasional bar fight, the atmosphere and smart-mouthed bartenders tend to keep things interesting.”
She purposely averted her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He chuckled. “Let’s f
inish this conversation in the dining room. Chris should have dinner ready soon.”
She slid off her stool then followed him. The consummate gentleman, Brian pulled out one of the strangely curved chairs and gestured for her to sit. The table, a long, narrow affair in light gray, had already been set for two—one place at the head and another to the left. The nouveau dinnerware was an arrangement of flat squares and rectangles in brilliant vermillion and black. Brian took the seat next to her just as Chris arrived with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
She snapped out the black linen napkin that had been neatly folded on her plate and laid it across her lap. Chris gingerly placed the thin stemware before them then efficiently uncorked the Sauvignon blanc. He poured Brian a taste. After his boss approved the choice, Chris filled their glasses then promptly returned to the kitchen.
Who got served at their home as if they were in a fine-dining restaurant? Brian, obviously. Pretentious ass. The person he was at work showed hints of how cultured and refined he was, but she would never have guessed he was this wealthy.
Brian sipped his wine and studied her as if to gauge her reactions to what she’d discovered about him so far this evening. She tried not to fidget under the weight of his gaze as she took a small taste of the crisp, faintly floral white wine.
“Mm, this is very good.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said.
“You know, you don’t have to go through all this for me.” She’d have been perfectly happy with a pizza and a six-pack of beer. Admitting that would reveal just how out of her element she really was so she kept that bit of information to herself.
“This isn’t for you.” His matter-of-fact tone grated her nerves.
She didn’t doubt it for a second. He seemed to like watching her squirm. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Open the top three buttons of your blouse.”
A Firm Hand: 2 (Bound to You) Page 4