Taste for Trouble (Blake Brothers Trilogy)

by Sey, Susan

  He got as far as shifting one elbow and straightening one knee before his tux launched a vicious assault on a few key areas of his anatomy. He hunched miserably back into his seat.

  Bel gave him a sharp look from the passenger side. “What?”

  He scowled. “I hate dressing up.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess spending all night in a suit that’s trying like hell to strangle my crotch isn’t my idea of a good time.”

  “That tux is custom-made,” she said, frowning. “I noticed when I was pressing it. Why on earth is it strangling you?”

  Drew poked his head between the two front seats. “Because he’s, like, twenty pounds heavier than when he had that bad boy fitted.”

  James felt his neck going red. “Okay, so I’ve enjoyed our return to the Land of the Whopper. But come on. I run for a living. I couldn’t have gained twenty pounds. Could I?”

  “Land of the Whopper.” Drew laughed. “I’m totally tweeting that.” He pulled out his beloved iPhone while Bel peered at James’ jacket with a concern that had the tips of his ears burning.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But now that I’m looking, those seams are under some serious stress.”

  “You know, your stats haven’t been exactly up to par this season, either,” Will said thoughtfully. “You could maybe use a little more conditioning.”

  “You want to start running wind sprints at dawn?” James shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “Be happy to join you.”

  “Hey, my tux fits just fine,” Will said. And James had to admit, he did look pretty comfortable sprawled across the enormous backseat, an evil half-smile kicking up one corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m not the one who runs for a living.”

  James glared at him, something mean and petty stealing into his gut. His stats were down, his damn suit didn’t fit, he was stuck in traffic, and a pretty girl was speculating on how fat he’d gotten. Now Will wanted to pile on? Maybe his brother had a mean set of teeth, but James knew how to bite, too.

  “Well, you don’t have to run for a living, do you, Will?” he asked, a deliberate cool in his voice. “I do it for you.”

  The wicked, teasing light died out of Will’s eyes. “That’s right,” he said. “You run for all of our livings. James, the grand and benevolent provider. How shall we show our gratitude today?”

  James looked away from Will’s eyes in rearview mirror only to meet Drew’s. In the watery light of his phone’s screen, Drew looked uncomfortably like their father, from the long thin face to the eyes full of gentle rebuke. Temper, James. Even now he could hear his father’s voice. With every red card he earned, for every foul he threw. Temper, James. Drew gave his head a small, slow shake and James shrugged irritably. The seams of his tux creaked a protest.

  “All right,” Bel said into the tense silence, her assessing gaze bouncing between the three of them. “Enough. New plan.”

  Ten minutes later, James exited the truck, marginally more comfortable than he’d gone in. The jacket was gone, as was the bow tie, thank the good lord. His cuff links had disappeared into that tiny little confection Bel called a purse but she’d insisted on keeping the shirt tucked in.

  “You want to look casual,” she said. “But dressy casual. Not I’m-too-hung-over-to-iron casual.”

  “Right,” he said. He eyed the simple black dress she wore, the way it skimmed her knee caps as she stepped out of the SUV. It barely showed any skin but managed to suggest a trim little body all the same. “You set some serious store by ironing, don’t you?”

  “All the best people do.”

  He had a witty retort all set to send her way, but then she smiled at him. Just nailed him with a full-on, dimpled charmer. He stared, verbal capacity utterly short circuited. Good lord, where had she been hiding that smile? It was all earthy promise and home-made goodness, like sugar cookies for your eyes, and he suddenly understood how somebody so prim, so buttoned-up, so well-pressed, could cook the way she did.

  He stared at her until the smile petered out into something less amused and more uncertain. When he could think again he said, “You should do that more often.”

  “What?”

  “Smile.”

  She frowned at him. “I smile.”

  “Not like you mean it. Not with—” He waved a finger toward her cheek and she drew back as if he’d threatened her with a red-hot poker. “—dimples.”

  “You want me to smile more often.” Those severe brows of hers headed for the sky. “With dimples.”

  “Not for me in particular.” God, he was an idiot. Way to keep the upper hand, James. “Just in general. It’s...” He groped for an explanation that didn’t make him sound like a kid with a crush. “...some smile,” he finished lamely.

  “I see.” She studied him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He slammed the door behind her just a shade harder than strictly necessary.

  “Hey,” she said. “Easy on the seams.”

  “Right,” he said. “The seams.”

  The truck pulled away and Bel said, “Aren’t Drew and Will going to—”

  “Nope.” James put a hand in the small of her back and pointed her toward the red carpet. “Those boys are in it for the free drinks, not the press coverage. They’ll park and meet us inside.”

  “Oh.” She peered after the vanished SUV.

  “Don’t worry. They won’t get into trouble in the fifteen minutes it takes us to walk from here to there.”

  “Are you sure? There could be alcohol in there. Unattended women.”

  He pretended to consider this. “Best not waste time.”

  She took off for the entrance at a trot. James grinned. She was so easy to tweak. He might enjoy the next month or so after all.

  He followed her into the pack of photographers and fans lining the red carpet. This was without a doubt his favorite kind of crowd. U.S. soccer didn’t bring ‘em out of the woodwork yet—a fact he was ridiculously well-paid to change—but after the madness of English football fans he actually enjoyed the low-key U.S. crowds.

  Tonight, for example, he was looking at a few disinterested sports writers, a couple eager gossip columnists and a whole bunch of star-struck kids wearing jerseys for teams most folks in this country had never heard of. The press pointed their cameras at him and clicked away in an obligatory fashion, but the kids surged forward, a jostling mass of idol worship in human form armed with pens, soccer balls, posters and photos.

  James caught up to Bel and tucked her under his arm, partly because he was starting to enjoy derailing her when she got that task-oriented look in her eye but mostly because she was going to miss all the fun racing off like that. Giving this moment to a bunch of screaming kids was hands-down the best part of his job these days.

  He sank into the crowd like it was a warm bath and started scrawling his name onto anything that got shoved his way. Bel, who’d gone stiff as a broomstick the minute he’d hauled her into his side, tried to sidle away but he caught her wrist.

  “Going somewhere?” He dashed his signature across a poster.

  “Your brothers require supervision,” she said. “Why don’t I just meet you inside?”

  “And have the world think I’m one of those guys who abandons his date every time the cameras point his way?” The crowd heaved up a Manchester United jersey with his old number on it, and he signed that, too. “I don’t think so.”

  Her dark eyes snapped. “I am not your date.”

  “They don’t know that.” He grinned and snuggled her a little closer. Her long, lean body fit into his like a dream. Might be something to dating tall girls after all, he thought. Then she turned her face up to glare at him, bringing that plump, curvy mouth of hers close enough to bite. Definitely something to dating tall girls. The cameras went into hyper-drive, painting the moment with a washed-out unreality that half-convinced him to do it. Just lean in and nibble a little. Satisfy the curiosity that had been nagging him
all day without mercy.

  She might slap his face but damn, it would be worth it to find out what that pretty mouth tasted like. Not sugar cookies, he decided. Gingersnaps. Hot and sweet and buttery, all home-cooked goodness with a surprising little kick of spice.

  “Don’t—” she began, alarm flaring in those huge dark eyes.

  “Then stop telling me what to do.” He leaned a little closer, his gaze on her lips. “I have a weakness for bossy women and you’re making it awfully hard to resist.”

  “I am not bossy.”

  “Contradictory, too. Mmm.”

  She stepped back. He followed. Flashbulbs popped, the crowd cheered, and James, buoyed as always by a little support from his fans, made his move.

  He was a wish away from her parted lips, close enough to feel her startled, indrawn breath against his chin when a soccer ball popped out of the crowd and bounced off his side.

  He didn’t wonder where it had come from or what he ought to do with it. It didn’t occur to him that he wasn’t on a soccer field and thus the ball was out of place. The ball was there, so he controlled it. He jerked up a knee, settled the ball into the inside of his thigh, then let it roll down his calf to the ground where he trapped it under foot. The crowd went berserk. James found himself unexpectedly entertained, too.

  Because Bel had just grabbed herself a big old handful of his backside.

  Bel watched James flip the ball into the air with another one of those effortless motions. He scribbled something on it and sent it flying back into the crowd that had shot it at him in the first place. And because her hand was still clapped firmly against his extremely fine behind, she discovered that he felt as smooth as he looked. All those lovely muscles working together in graceful concert against the skin of her palm, with only a thin layer of expensive cotton between them. Then his arm came around her waist and settled against the curve of her hip with a heavy assurance that had her stomach twirling up into her throat.

  “So,” he said, those green eyes hot and interested. “Where was I?”

  “You were waving goodbye to all your friends here and getting inside.”

  “I was?” He eased forward and Bel shot him a clenched smile that said try it and I’ll bite you. He froze.

  “You were.” Cameras flashed continuously and Bel gave up on the idea of appearing like anything other than a...God, what did they call women who chased soccer players? Soccer sluts? Football floozies?

  “Sure, all right.” He backed cautiously away from the warning in her eyes then beamed at the crowd which roared its adoration in return. “Let me just sign this one last—”

  “Now.”

  He shook his head in mock consternation and put his mouth very near her ear. “There’s that boss-lady tone again. What did I tell you about that?” His voice was all burnt sugar, hot and melty and tempting, and it sent a delicious shiver chasing down her nape. A thoroughly unwelcome and inappropriate shiver, she told herself.

  “And what did I tell you about your seams?” she said.

  He frowned at her. “My seams?”

  “Yeah. The one in the seat of your pants, to be specific. The one your fancy footwork there just blew out.” She glared at him. “And don’t tell me you can’t feel the draft either, because we’re not talking about a cute little peek-a-boo hole.”

  “Blew...” Comprehension stole into his eyes and a dull flush mounted his cheekbones. “How bad?”

  “Sizeable.”

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. “And here I thought you were just warming up.”

  Bel’s hand twitched involuntarily on the gaping rip in his pants, on the firm curve of his backside. She was warm, all right. “I have a sewing kit in my purse,” she said. “Can we please just go in?”

  He shot her a sidelong glance. “You’re going to keep your hand on my ass the whole way?”

  “That was my plan,” she said, cheeks burning. “Unless you’d rather the press just took pictures of your shorts?”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. In fact—” He snugged her into his side again and splayed a big hand over her butt crack. The vital heat of his touch soaked through her dress and sang through her entire body, pooling in all the most interesting bits. “I’ll return the favor. Just so you don’t look so forward.”

  “Forward!”

  “Yeah. When the pictures hit the papers. You don’t want to look like one of those desperate groupies copping a quick feel off some footballer who doesn’t even know her name, do you? You’ll come off much better if this is a mutual grope.” He gave her bottom a fond pat. “Trust me.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the way her stomach jumped in response to his touch. This was her job now. Exchanging mock feel-ups with her newest colleague in front of the cameras. Fate never failed to ding the good girls, did it?

  “Fine,” she said. “I defer to your vastly superior experience with public displays of bad taste. But if you pat me one more time, I’m going to pinch you. Hard.”

  He paused, arrested. “I’m starting to think you want me to make a move.”

  She treated him to an icy smile. “Try it and I’ll make you very sorry.”

  “Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow, more interested than wary. “How?”

  She stared at him. She might as well be talking dirty to him for the look on his face. “Just try to remember that I’m the girl who’s going to sew up your pants in a minute, okay? Mess with me and I can make this a very uncomfortable evening.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  He stared at her, then laughed. “I bet you would, too.” He started up the red carpet at the leisurely amble he seemed to apply to all situations that didn’t involve a soccer ball. “Only makes it worse, though, Bel. Just so you know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “I sincerely hope you will.”

  Will perused the top shelf scotch collection with an expert eye. Free alcohol was nothing to take lightly, after all. This was a big decision. And considering that Drew was already mooning around over one of the waitresses, he could use a stiff drink. Add to that the fact that James and the new nanny had gone directly from the red carpet to the bathrooms with their hands plastered all over each other and this night was shaping up to be a real misery.

  God, he was sick of his life.

  “I’ll take the Glen Garioch,” he said to the bartender. “Neat.”

  “It’s her,” Drew said, his gaze following some curvy little waitress around the room. “I know it is.”

  Will glanced at him, then back at the bartender. “Better make it a double.”

  The glass arrived in his hand, heavy-bottomed and cool, two inches of gorgeous amber liquid swirling inside it. The impulse to pound the drink back was there—always there—but it would be a crime to gulp down scotch of this quality. An insult to all the wizened little brewers who babied dank cellars full of oak barrels in the wilds of Scotland to ensure that their fine, life-sustaining product could end up here where Will needed it most.

  He raised the glass slowly, relishing the moment. He loved that instant when the alcohol first hit his tongue, the way it spun into his system all lazy and reassuring. He especially loved the way it blurred the sharpest edges of his stupid fucking life. The one where his only professional, social or emotional obligations revolved around somebody else’s talent. The one where Will, at thirty years of age, was still making his living off his younger brother and building his weekends around opportunities for free alcohol.

  He rolled that first taste around his mouth, forbidding himself to swallow until he’d savored it. Then Drew poked him with a sharp elbow and said, “Seriously, will you look? It’s totally her.”

  Will closed his eyes and let the scotch trickle down his throat. Then he threw the rest of it back in a single gulp. Fuck it.

  “Which one?” he asked.

  “The blonde,” Drew said, his dark eyes glued
to a pretty little thing with curves that, even in a waitress uniform almost made up for that salad spinner haircut. “God, how can you not remember her? From Maxwell’s? Last night? I tried to get her number for hours. Ordered all kinds of drinks I didn’t want.”

  Will remembered that. He’d drunk most of them. He set his glass down on the bar and forbade himself another for at least an hour.

  “She told me she was leaving for Tucson in the morning.” That was true confusion in Drew’s voice. No anger, no petulance, just hurt wonder. “She lied to me.”

  “They’ll do that.”

  “But why?” Honest bafflement now. Will shook his head in disbelief. Kid was an optimist, sure. Just wired like that, lucky him. But he’d have to be purely, willfully ignorant to think any woman was going to choose him when James Blake, superstar, was sitting across the table all alone. “I really liked her.”

  Will didn’t bother to enlighten him, just made a non-committal noise and turned back to the bar. He thought about reducing the interval between drinks to half an hour. An hour was starting to look unreasonable. Good thing he’d treated himself to a couple quick shots before leaving the house. He’d had a feeling tonight was going to be a total cock-up and he’d been right. As usual. The curse of his genius IQ.

  A movement in the mirror behind the bottles caught his attention and he turned to see James and Bel exiting the bathroom. Together. She gave his shirt a furtive tug, as if to make sure she’d retucked it properly, and it sent a black rage rolling into his stomach.

  Their new nanny couldn’t be bothered to scramble Will an egg but she had no problem fucking his brother in a bathroom stall her first night on the job. Proving once again that there was no limit to James’ magical luck.

  He checked his watch and gauged his level of sobriety. Even if he adopted the new half-hour-between-drinks policy he was still looking at 25 minutes until the next scotch. And while he wasn’t precisely sober, he wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough to endure 25 minutes of James’ post-coital glow. Not with this ugly urge to break shit crawling up his throat. He needed to bleed it off, he realized dully. Break something small before he broke something big. It wouldn’t satisfy the itch but it would take the edge off. He hoped.