by M. Leighton
Damn.
I didn’t get as good a look at the rest of her. Once I spoke and she sat up, all I could really focus on was her face. Heart-shaped, pale skin, plump lips just the right shade of pink. And her eyes . . . God, those eyes could make a man beg. If that body, with its round breasts, flat stomach and smoothly shaved everything, wouldn’t do it, those eyes would. They’re a rich blue. Almost violet. They have an exotic shape to them that makes her look like she’s turned on all the time.
That, or she was turned on.
I grit my teeth.
Double damn!
Yeah, her arrival is definitely not going to make things any easier for me. Especially considering how she could play into my plans, plans I can’t let her find out about. But nothing worth having is ever easy.
And I’d be willing to bet having her would be worth a lot of trouble.
I saunter down the dappled path to the patio that surrounds the pool. Weatherly’s head snaps toward me the instant my boot hits the hard surface and alerts her to my presence. Her mouth drops open the slightest bit and, for a second, there’s nothing but steam between us. Hell, I’m surprised the pool water isn’t evaporating.
I don’t stop until I’m standing over her, my shadow shading her face. She pushes her sunglasses up into the smooth sheet of her straight, black hair and focuses those amazing eyes on me.
“I’m sorry that I interrupted your bath,” I say, pausing to inhale the decadent scent coming off her skin. “I’d have apologized at the time if I hadn’t been so . . . distracted.”
Her lips quirk, but just at the corners. “Distracted?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Hmmm, what on earth had you distracted?”
She likes to play. God, this is going to be fun!
“The local . . . scenery changed today. It became much more . . . dazzling. Took my breath away, in fact. Made it hard for me to think. My manners went right out the window.”
“That’s understandable. I was a little, um, preoccupied myself.”
“I thought you might’ve been. You looked deep in . . . thought.”
Her lips spread all the way into a full-on smile this time, making her even more striking. The only sign of embarrassment is the telltale pink stains that appear on her cheeks.
“I was definitely deep. In thought.”
The innuendo is as thick as the humid air seems to be. “Care to share what you were . . . wrestling with?”
“No, not yet.”
“Not yet?” I ask. She shakes her head, mouth still curved. “Well, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’d love to hear allll about it.”
“I might take you up on that.”
I nod. “Will you be eating in tonight?”
“I will, yes.”
“Is there something particular you’d like? I can let Mom know.”
“Anything that goes well with a Chiara red. I’m in the mood for red.”
“I see that,” I say, nodding to her red strappy top. “Anything else you’re in the mood for that I should know about?”
She shrugs her shoulders, drawing my eye to the crease of her cleavage. “A surprise. Surprise me.”
“Oh, I can definitely surprise you,” I reply with an enthusiastic grin.
“Will you be joining me tonight, then? You and your mother, I mean?”
“Isn’t it frowned upon to mingle with the help?”
“Nobody is here to care, is there?”
“Not a damn soul,” I say. “Seven?”
She nods and lets her head drop back. The way she’s staring up at me with that sleepy, sexy look on her face . . . the way her body language seems to be begging me to touch, to taste, to take . . . Holy God!
I nod and turn to walk away, only because if I stay any longer, I won’t be able to resist.
THREE
Weatherly
I got ready too early. I’m far too anxious. The only good thing I can say about that is that I haven’t thought about Dad and Michael even once. And that’s a miracle!
I head for the kitchen, thinking I should at least go down and speak to Stella. I downplay the fact that I secretly plan to grill her about her son until he arrives. I find her stirring a pan of red sauce that smells like heaven.
“Hi, Stella,” I greet loud enough for her to hear me over the overhead fan that’s sucking most of the fumes from the room.
She turns a somewhat haggard yet still beautiful face in my direction. “Weatherly, it’s been too long! Look at you, all grown up.”
I walk over and bend to kiss her pale cheek. She’s a tiny woman, probably not more than five feet or so. “It has been too long. How are you?”
Her hair is still mostly black and wound on her crown just like I remember, but her smile seems weaker somehow. Tired maybe. Of course, I guess it could be just that she’s aged. It’s been years since I’ve seen her.
“I’m fine, my dear. How have you been?”
I pause then shrug. “Okay.” No need to burden this poor woman with all my issues. The fact that I even considered it for a few seconds is probably an excellent indication of my level of distress. Or my level of aloneness in all this. The people in my circles aren’t the type of friends that I share with. At least not anything that matters.
“I don’t suppose I’ve seen you since you went to college. Are you working?”
The embarrassing truth—God, how I hate sharing it. “No, I’m . . . still looking for the right job.”
And I am. I have been since the day I graduated. Part of the problem is that I majored in business, which wasn’t at all where my passion was. It was simply what was expected of me so that I would be better able to support my billionaire mogul husband when I landed him. Support as in keep his domestic affairs in order. Because in my family’s circles, that requires a college degree. But since that hasn’t happened, much to my father’s dismay, no job that I’ve showed interest in has met with my father’s approval.
“What is it that you want to do?”
I sigh wistfully. “I’d love to expand Safe Passage, but my father doesn’t think that’s a good use of money.”
“Is that your children’s charity?”
“Yes.” I nod and smile. It makes me happy that she’s heard of it. It’s such an important cause to me, one I wish I could further. “I plan to invest more when I get my trust.” My funds are limited until I turn twenty-five. I’ve been holding out until then, until I can get out from under my father’s thumb, but he threw the ultimate kink in my plan by announcing that I’ll be marrying Michael Stromberg or my trust will be forfeited.
My father is a land developer and he ran into some financial trouble when one of his backers reneged on a deal. Stock prices for his company fell and their financial distress drew the eye of a larger company, Randolph Consolidated, that has tried to buy out the stockholders. However, rather than trying to work out a deal with Randolph, whom my father hates, he came up with a diabolical plan to merge with another developing company, Stromberg Holdings, through marriage. Marriage to me. Dad had no problem pimping me out to sweeten the deal. It’s not even that I’m his only option; I’m just the easiest one. The one that’s the least distasteful to him. It doesn’t matter what I find distasteful. It’s just about the money. Always the money. He’s even using money to manipulate me, threatening to take my trust if I don’t cooperate. He knows that I plan to use my trust to help the kids at Safe Passage, so I can’t stand for my trust to be forfeited.
So far, his plan seems to be working. But I’m not ready to give up yet, which is why I came to Chiara. I just need time to come up with my own plan.
“I’m glad to see you doing something meaningful with your life.” A gentle knock to the rest of my family? Possibly. The sad thing is, it’s warranted.
As if on cue, my cell rings from the hidden poc
ket of my skirt. I’d almost forgotten I’d brought it down with me. I take it out and see my mother’s face displayed on the caller ID.
It’s like she can read my mind.
“Excuse me, Stella.”
She nods and returns her attention to the sauce while I make my way toward the study.
“Hello?”
“Weatherly, why must you be so willful?” Aurora O’Neal is usually much more circumspect. Her blunt disregard of pleasantries tells me just exactly how upset she really is.
“Hi, Mom. I’m great. How are you?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Weatherly. You know I’m concerned about you. Always. That’s why I’m positively baffled by your reaction to this merger.”
“That’s the problem, Mother. I don’t want a merger. I want a marriage. To someone I at least like.”
“Michael is a kind, intelligent, very handsome man. How could you not like him?”
“He’s fine, Mom, but I . . . I . . .” Michael is fine. For a friend. Or a business associate. Or one of my father’s cronies. But I want more from a marriage.
“You can learn to love him, Weatherly. Just like I learned to love your father. Now I can’t imagine my life without him.”
“I’m glad it worked out so well for you, Mom, but this is not the way I want my life to go. I want to fall in love the natural way.”
“And risk meeting the wrong kind of man? The kind who might break your heart?”
“Who’s to say Michael won’t break my heart?”
“This merger is a large part business. He would never.”
I can’t help sighing. “Maybe I want someone who will be good to me because he loves me and wants to keep me happy, and not because it might mess up some big financial deal that a bunch of rich men have cooked up at the country club over sixty-year-old scotch.”
“Weatherly,” my mother begins again, her voice laden with all the patience she can muster, like she’s trying to reason with a difficult child. “Take time if you need it. Just don’t take too long. Your father loves you, but he is convinced this is the best thing for you and the family. Don’t push him on the trust fund. He will take it. And seeing that would break my heart. But this business with Randolph Consolidated is—”
“Why is everyone’s happiness and financial stability my responsibility? How did that happen?”
“You’re an only child. If I could’ve given your father another heir, this wouldn’t be so important. You’d be free. There would be another option. But it didn’t work out that way, sweetheart. Can’t you just trust me that this is for the best? Because I promise you that it is.”
“Maybe I know what’s best for me, Mom. Did anyone consider that?”
“You’re not a selfish woman. You never have been. I know you’ll make the right decision.” Her tone is certain, so certain it sets my teeth on edge. Is everyone so convinced that I’ll succumb? That I don’t have the intelligence or the backbone to figure out another way? That I can’t devise a plan to keep the family intact without prostituting myself?
Well, to hell with that! To hell with them! I will find another way. I just need time. And maybe the nerve to call my father’s bluff.
“Maybe it’s time to be selfish, Mom. Maybe it’s finally time. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hang up before she can say anything else and I immediately put my phone on silent. If I’m to get anything at all accomplished on this reprieve, I’ll have to avoid talking to my parents. At least until I have some inkling of what I’m going to do.
I head back inside, making my way to the kitchen once again. I’m surprised to find Tag rather than his mother dumping dry pasta into a pot and tasting the red sauce. His hair is wet, the ends just long enough to curl around the collar of his loose white button-up shirt, and I can smell the clean scent of his soap above the spicy notes of oregano.
“You looked much different a few minutes ago,” I say from the doorway, leaning one hip against the counter.
“Shorter? Older? Nicer?” he asks as he licks tomato sauce from his full lower lip.
“Definitely shorter and older, but I’m not sure yet about the nicer part.”
“Oh, I think you are,” he says with a wicked little half smile.
“Are you trying to tell me that you aren’t nice?”
He shrugs his big shoulders as he sprinkles a pinch of something into the pan and gives it another stir. “I guess it depends on how you define nice.”
“And how do you define nice?”
He turns his smoky-gray eyes back to me. “I don’t think the thoughts I’ve been having about you could, in any way, be considered ‘nice.’”
My mother and my current troubles are forgotten as heat creeps into my core like the lightest of caresses. It makes me feel careless. Daring. A little wild. “I suppose it would be rude of me to ask about those thoughts.”
Ohmigod, what am I doing?
I know I’m playing with fire. Within minutes of talking to Tag today, I quickly surmised that he’s dangerous. To hearts, to minds. Certainly to panties. Mine feel in danger of combusting just watching him, for heaven’s sake. Which is unlike me. In fact, all of this is pretty unusual for me. I can’t remember the last time I was so immediately and thoroughly intrigued by a man, or the last time I considered doing anything with such reckless abandon. I don’t even flirt! Maybe that’s why this is to tempting to me—it’s not something I would ever do. He’s not someone I would ever do.
And maybe that makes him perfect.
“I don’t think it would be rude of you. Dangerous, maybe, but not rude.”
“Dangerous, how?”
Tag wipes his hand on a towel and turns toward me. With his eyes on mine, he takes a few steps to close the gap between us. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asks. My body is like a tuning fork, reacting to the vibration of his gruff voice in a quiet shiver that moves all the way through me.
“No,” I answer honestly, realizing that I’m probably way out of my depth with a man like this.
“Well, when you are sure, you just let me know. I’d be more than happy to . . . educate you when you’re ready.”
With him so close, I feel claustrophobic. But in the best possible way. His eyes are glued to mine, the silver of his irises appearing to flow around his dilated pupils like mercury. I can’t look away, even though it’s hard to breathe. But now, I’m not even sure I want to. I like the feel of him crowding me. I like the feel of his body heat radiating into mine. Plainly put, I like the way he makes me feel.
“What makes you think I need educating?”
“Maybe I’m just hoping that you do.”
“I could always lie.”
“And I could always believe you.”
Stella’s soft voice interrupts from somewhere behind Tag. “Is this why you were shooing me out of here?”
I hear her, but I can’t see her. Tag is so big, his presence so consuming, I’m not sure the world even exists beyond the breadth of his shoulders.
Beautifully sculpted lips tip up at one corner before he replies to his mother. “No, Mom. I was just getting the bread.”
Tag leans in to reach onto the counter behind me, his chest brushing mine and his arm grazing my hip. I hear the rattle of a bag and then he’s leaning away, a ring of Italian Ciambella bread gripped in his long fingers.
When he steps away, air rushes back into my lungs as though he had consumed all the oxygen around me when he was near. I sag ever so slightly against the counter and plaster a polite smile on my face.
“I can finish,” Stella tells her son when he returns to the stove with the bread. He holds it aloft, out of her reach.
“You need to rest. I told you I’d take care of this. But thank you for watching it while I showered.”
She gives him a stern look, but she doesn’t argue, and even n
ow, I notice the unnatural pallor to her skin. “At least let me set the table.”
“You don’t even feel well enough to stay and eat. I’m certainly not going to let you do the work.”
“But I—”
“Don’t make me pick you up and carry you out of here,” Tag threatens with mock severity.
Stella smacks her lips and dismisses him with a wave of her hand. Her small smile returns, though, when Tag bends his head to kiss her cheek and then physically turns her away from the stove, one big hand cupping her shoulder.
Stella exits slowly, more slowly than I remember her moving in previous years. Of course, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her, but she can’t be much over fifty. I would think she’d still have lots of spring in her step. But she doesn’t.
When she disappears around the corner and out of sight, I drag my eyes back to Tag. He’s got a long bread knife in one hand, slicing the ring in half. Although his expression is inscrutable from this angle, there’s an air of melancholy in the kitchen now that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
“Is your mom okay?”
“Not really.” His beautifully buttery voice holds so much sadness that my heart aches for him, this handsome man that I don’t even know.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Although I’m curious, I don’t ask for details. I simply wait to see if he offers any.
“She’s got cirrhosis,” he confesses softly.
I gasp. I can’t help it. “Oh God! Is it because of—”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head and turning to meet my eyes with his now dark gray ones. “No, it’s not alcoholic cirrhosis.”
I clutch my chest with my hand. “Thank goodness.” My voice is awash with relief. Even though it wouldn’t be my fault, I’d feel horrible if working here at Chiara, producing and tasting and enjoying wine all these years, had damaged her liver to the point of illness.
“She has Wilson’s disease. She was diagnosed as a child and they’ve treated it for years, but they didn’t catch it as early as they should have. Her liver is scarred. Failing.”