by Nora Roberts
She slid onto a stool, then sent the pool players one long, hot look.
It only took one look at her eyes for Seth to realize at least a portion of the money he’d given her had gone up her nose.
“G and T,” she told the bartender. “Easy on the T.”
She took out a cigarette, flicked on a silver lighter, then blew a slow stream of smoke at the ceiling. She crossed her legs, and her foot jiggled in triple time.
“Hot enough for you?” she said and laughed.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
“What’s your hurry?” She sucked in more smoke, tapped her glittery nails in a rapid tattoo on the bar. “Drink your beer and relax.”
“I don’t drink with people I don’t like. What do you want, Gloria?”
“I want this gin and tonic.” She picked up the glass the bartender set in front of her. Drank long and deep. “Maybe a little action.” She sent the pool players another look, licked her lips in a way that curdled Seth’s stomach. “And just lately I’ve been thinking I need a nice little place at the beach. Daytona maybe.”
She took another drink, left lipstick smeared on the rim. “You, now, you don’t want a place of your own, do you? Still living in that same house, crowded in with those kids and dogs. You’re in a rut.”
“Stay away from my family.”
“Or what?” She sent him a smile as glittery and black as her nails. “You’ll tell your big brothers on me? You think the Quinns worry me? They’ve all gone soft and stupid, the way people do when they hang around some dead-ass town their whole fucking, useless lives, breeding noisy kids and sitting around the TV every night like a bunch of goddamn zombies. Only smart thing they did was take you in so they could get the old man’s money—just like that asshole married my spineless sister for hers.”
She tossed back the rest of her drink, rapped it hard twice on the bar to signal for another. Her body was in constant motion—the jiggling foot, the tapping fingers, the swivel of her head on her neck. “The old man was my blood, not theirs. That money should’ve been mine.”
“You bled him for plenty before he died. But it’s never enough, is it?”
“Fucking A.” She fired up another cigarette. “You got yourself some smarts, after all these years. Hooked yourself up with a live one, didn’t you? Drusilla Whitcomb Banks. Woo-hoo.” Gloria threw back her head, let out a hoot. “Fancy stuff. Rich stuff. Bagging her’s the only smart thing you ever did. Set yourself up for life.”
She snatched the glass the minute the bartender set it down. “ ’Course you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself drawing pictures. Better than I realized.” She crunched down on ice. “Can’t figure why people’d piss away all that money on something to hang on the wall. Takes all kinds.”
He laid a hand on her wrist, slowly closed his fingers around it in a grip mean enough to make her jolt. “Understand this: You go near my family or Dru, you go around anyone who matters to me, and you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of. It’ll be a hell of a lot worse on you than Sybill knocking you on your ass the way she did years ago.”
She leaned her face into his. “You threatening me? Son?”
“I’m promising you.”
Through the drugs and alcohol, she caught some hint of that promise. And eased back, as the bartender had done. “That your bottom line?” She picked up her drink with her free hand, and her thin, used face went cagey. “You want me to steer clear of your nearest and dearest?”
“That’s my bottom line.”
“Here’s mine.” She jerked her hand free, reached for her cigarette. “We’ve been playing nickel and dime long enough, you and me. You’re raking in the dough with your pictures, and you’re screwing your way into a big, fat pile of it. I want my cut. One-time deal, lump-sum payment, and I’m gone. That’s what you want, right? You want me gone.”
“How much?”
Satisfied, she took another deep drag, let the smoke stream into his face. He’d always been the easiest of marks. “One million.”
He didn’t even blink. “You want a million dollars.”
“I’ve done my homework, sweetie pie. You get big bucks when the suckers plunk it down for your paintings. You pulled in a pile over there in Europe. Who knows how long you can run that con? Add to that the fancy piece you’re busy banging.”
She shifted on the stool, recrossed her legs. The mix of drugs and alcohol raging through her system made her feel powerful. Made her feel alive.
“She’s rolling in it. Lots of money there. Old money, too. The kind of money that doesn’t like scandal. Mess things up for you if it got out in the press that the senator’s purebred granddaughter was spreading her legs for a mongrel. One that was ripped from his mother’s arms when she came to the father she’d never known for help. I can play it all kinds of ways,” she added. “You and the Quinns won’t come out clean in any of them. And the dirt’ll stick to your girlfriend, too. She won’t hang around once the shit starts to fly.”
She signaled for a third drink, shifted again. “She’ll dump you, and fast, and maybe people won’t be so willing to shell out for your pictures once they hear my side of things. Oh, I bought him his first little paint kit. Sniff, sniff.”
She threw back her head and laughed, the sound so full of malice and glee, the pool players stopped smacking balls to look over. “Press’ll lap it up. Fact is, I could sell the story, make a nice little bundle. But I’m giving you a chance to buy it first. You can consider it an investment. You pay me, and I’m out of your life once and for all. You don’t, and someone else will.”
His face was blank, had stayed blank throughout her rant. He wouldn’t give her even his disgust. “Your story’s bullshit.”
“Sure it is.” She laughed and gulped gin. “People can’t get enough bullshit, not when it’s piling up on somebody else. I’ll give you a week to come up with it—cash. But I want a down payment. We’ll just call it good-faith money. Ten thousand. You bring it here, tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. You don’t show, then I start making some calls.”
He got to his feet. “Spend another ten on nose candy, Gloria, you’ll be dead in the back room of some dump like this long before you can enjoy any part of that million.”
“Just let me worry about me. Pay for the drinks.”
He simply turned his back on her and walked toward the door.
HE couldn’t go home, not when he intended to sit in the dark and get quietly and thoroughly drunk.
He knew better. He knew it was an escape, self-pity, a one-way trip. Steady, deliberate drinking was a crutch, an illusion, a trapdoor.
He didn’t give a damn. So he poured another shot of Jameson and studied its deep amber glow in the single light he’d turned on in his studio.
His brothers had given him his first taste of whiskey on his twenty-first birthday. Just the four of them, Seth remembered, sitting around the kitchen table with the kids and the women gone.
It was one of those solid, rich-toned memories that he knew would never leave him. The sharp scent of the cigar smoke after Ethan had passed them around. The sting of the whiskey on his tongue, down his throat, mellowing out as it reached his belly. The sound of his brothers’ voices, their laughter, and the absolute certainty he’d felt of his own belonging.
He hadn’t cared much for the taste of the whiskey. Still didn’t. But it was what a man reached for when his single intention was oblivion.
He’d long since stopped questioning what Gloria DeLauter was, and how she became. Part of her was inside him, and he accepted that as he would a birthmark. He didn’t believe in the sins of the father—or mother. He didn’t believe in tainted blood. Each one of his brothers had come from some sort of horror, and they were the best men he knew.
Whatever there was of Gloria inside him had been drowned out by the decency and pride and compassion given to him by the Quinns.
Maybe that alone was part of the reason she hated him—hated all of them. It didn�
�t matter why. She was part of his life, and he had to deal with her.
One way or the other.
He sat drinking by that single light in a room filled with his paintings and the tools of the work he loved. He’d already made his decision, and he would live with it. But for tonight, he’d cloud his future with Irish whiskey and the throb of the mournful blues he’d chosen as his drinking music.
When his cell phone rang he ignored it. Picked up the bottle, poured another shot.
DRU hung up and paced her living room. She’d tried Seth’s number half a dozen times, had worn a path on the floor over the last two hours. Since Aubrey had called, looking for him.
He wasn’t with Aubrey, as he’d told Dru he would be that evening. Nor was he with Dru—as he’d told Aubrey and his family he would be.
So where the hell was he?
He’d been off. Something had been off, she decided, since the night before. Even before the party, she thought now. Before the drive. There’d been some kind of repressed violence in him—viciously repressed, she realized. It had, eventually, taken its form in rough sex.
And even then, after they’d exhausted each other, she’d sensed an underlying turbulence. She’d let it go, Dru admitted. It wasn’t in her nature to pry. She resented the way her parents questioned and picked apart her every mood. Moods, she liked to think, were often private matters.
Now he’d lied to her. That, she felt strongly, was not his nature.
If something was wrong, she needed to help. Wasn’t that part of the duty of love?
She checked her watch, barely stopped herself from wringing her hands. It was after midnight. What if he was hurt? What if he’d been in an accident?
And what if he’d simply wanted an evening to himself?
“If he did, he should have said so,” she mumbled and marched to the door.
There was one place she imagined he could be. She wasn’t going to rest until she checked.
On the drive into town she lectured herself. Her relationship with Seth didn’t mean he had to account to her for every minute of his time. They both had lives, interests, obligations of their own. She certainly wasn’t the sort of woman who couldn’t be content and productive with her own company.
But that didn’t give him the right to lie to her about his plans for the evening. If he’d just answer his goddamn phone, she wouldn’t be driving into town in the middle of the night to look for him like some clichéd, nagging sitcom wife.
And she was going to ream him inside out for making her feel like one.
She’d worked up a good head of steam by the time she turned toward the rear lot and saw his car parked. The insult of it nearly had her driving right past and back home again. He couldn’t have told her, and everyone else, that he’d wanted to work? He couldn’t just pick up the phone and . . .
She slammed on the brakes.
What if he couldn’t get to the phone? What if he was unable to answer because he was unconscious, or ill?
She whipped the car into the lot, leaped out and charged up the stairs.
The image of him lying helpless on the floor was so strong that when she burst in, saw him sitting on the bed pouring liquor from a bottle into a short glass, it didn’t register.
“You’re all right.” The relief came first, made her knees weak. “Oh, Seth, God! I was so worried.”
“What for?” He set the bottle down, studied her out of bleary eyes as he drank.
“Nobody knew where . . .” Realization came next, made her blood boil. “You’re drunk.”
“Working on it. Got a ways to go yet. What’re you doing here?”
“Aubrey called looking for you hours ago. Your stories got crossed. Since you didn’t answer your phone, I was foolish enough to worry about you.”
He was still much too sober. Sober enough to consider her mood could make it easier on both of them. “If you came running in here hoping to catch me in bed with another woman, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“It never occurred to me that you would cheat.” Nearly as baffled as she was angry, she walked toward the bed, noted the level of whiskey in the bottle. “Then again, it never crossed my mind that you’d need to lie to me either. Or that you’d sit here alone drinking yourself drunk.”
“Told you there’s a lot you don’t know about me, sugar.” He jerked a thumb at the bottle. “Want one? Glasses in the kitchen.”
“No, thank you. Is there a reason you’re worrying your family and having a drinking marathon?”
“I’m a big boy, Dru, and I don’t need you crawling up my ass because I want a couple drinks. This is more my style than a couple polite belts of champagne at some boring political gala. You can’t deal with it, it’s not my problem.”
It stung, and had her chin lifting. “I was obliged to go. You weren’t. That choice was yours. You want to drown yourself in a whiskey bottle, that’s certainly your choice as well. But I won’t be lied to. I won’t be made a fool of.”
He gave a careless shrug and, riding on the whiskey, decided he knew what was best for her. A few more jabs to the pride, he thought, and she’d be gone.
“You know the problem with women? You sleep with them a few times, you tell them what they want to hear. You show them a good time. Right away, they start crowding you. Take a little breather, and they’re all over you like lice on a monkey. Jesus, I knew I should never’ve gone to that deal with you last night. Told myself it’d give you ideas.”
“Ideas?” she repeated. She felt her throat fill and burn. “Ideas?”
“Can’t just let things be, can you?” He shook his head, poured another drink. “Always got to be looking ahead. What’s the deal for tomorrow, what’s going to happen next week? You’re plotting out a future, sugar, and that’s just not what I’m about. You’re a hell of a lot of fun to be with once you loosen up, but we’d better quit while we’re ahead.”
“You—you’re dumping me?”
“Aw now, don’t put it like that, sweetheart. We just need to throttle back some.”
Grief rolled up, and numbed her. “All this, all this was just for, what, for sex and art? I don’t believe that. I don’t.”
“Let’s not make a big thing out of it.” He reached for the bottle again. Poured whiskey onto whiskey. Anything to keep from looking at her, at the tears swimming in her eyes.
“I trusted you, with my body and my heart. I never asked you for anything. You always gave it before I could. I don’t deserve to be treated this way, discarded this way, only because I fell in love with you.”
He looked at her then, and the combination of pride and sadness on her face destroyed him. “Dru—”
“I love you.” She said it calmly, while she could still be calm. “But that’s my problem. I’ll leave you alone with yours, and your bottle.”
“Goddamn it. Goddamn it, don’t go,” he said when she spun toward the door. “Dru, don’t walk out. Please don’t.” He shoved the glass onto the table, dropped his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. I can’t let her steal this from me, too.”
“You think I’m going to stand here and cry in front of you? Even speak to you when you’re drunk and insulting?”
“I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry.”
“You are that. You’re very sorry.” The hand that gripped the doorknob trembled, and a tear spilled over. The combination infuriated her. “I don’t want your pathetic guilty male conscience because you hurt me enough to bring on a few tears. What I really want right now is for you to go straight to hell.”
“Please don’t walk out the door. I don’t think I could stand it.” Everything inside him—grief, guilt, loathing and love—clamped his throat like strangling hands. “I thought I should shove you out before you got pulled under. I can’t do it. I can’t stand it. I don’t know if it’s selfish or if it’s right, but I can’t let you go. For God’s sake, don’t walk on me.”
She stared at him, at the naked misery on his face. Her heart, already
cracked, split in two. “Seth, please tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s hurting you.”
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It was stupid.”
“Tell me why you said them. Tell me why you’re sitting here alone, drinking yourself sick.”
“I was sick before I bought the bottle. I don’t know where to start.” He raked his hands through his hair. “The beginning, I guess.” He pressed his fingers to his lids. “I got about halfway drunk. I’m going to need some coffee.”
“I’ll make it.”
“Dru.” He lifted his hands again, then just let them fall. “Everything I said to you since you walked in the door was a lie.”
She took a deep breath. For now, she thought, she would tuck the anger and hurt away, and listen. “All right. I’ll make you coffee, then you can tell me the truth.”
“IT goes back a long time,” he began. “Back before my grandfather. Before Ray Quinn married Stella. Before he met her. Dru, I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Just tell me. We’ll deal with that later.”
He drank coffee. “Ray met this woman, and they got involved. They had an affair,” he corrected. “They were both young and single, so why not? Anyway, he wasn’t the type she was looking for. You know, a teacher, one who leaned toward the left while she leaned right. She came from a family like yours. What I mean is—”
“I know what you mean. She had a certain social position, and certain social aspirations.”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath, drank more coffee. “Thanks. She broke it off, left. She was pregnant, and not too pleased about it from the way I’ve heard it. She met another guy, one she clicked with. So she decided to go through with the pregnancy, and she married him.”
“She never told your grandfather about the child.”
“No, she never told him. Little ways down the road, she had a second daughter. She had Sybill.”
“Sybill, but . . . oh.” Dru let it sift in her mind until it fell into place. “I see. Ray Quinn’s daughter, Sybill’s half sister. Your mother.”