by Jean Oram
“I can’t let them take Tigger.”
“They aren’t going to. Mistral and I will talk. We’ll figure things out. It’s unrelated, as far as I’m concerned.” The determination in her sister was welcomingly familiar.
“Is this why you were weird about fighting Rubicore?” Melanie asked.
Daphne paused, as if trying to decide how much to divulge. “They only care about money.”
“That’s true.” Tristen interjected. He stood by their table, waiting for Tigger to finish chatting with a nearby family about ice cream and sugar.
“I’ll be your lawyer, Daph. I’ll make this right. We won’t lose her. Not even for an hour a month.”
Mistral was going to lawyer up with some hefty legal guns from the city. Melanie would have to find some smart tricks and loopholes. Quickly, if she planned to keep her niece in Muskoka.
“I don’t get why he wants her all of a sudden,” Dot said, her upper lip curled in confusion.
“This isn’t about Tigger,” Tristen replied. “It’s about making the Summers pay for going up against Rubicore. He likely doesn’t actually want the kid.”
Daphne’s mouth turned down, tears in her eyes.
Melanie squeezed her sister’s hand. “We’ll stall the custody proceedings until we’ve killed the development. Then he’ll drift off and forget about it.” Presuming he wasn’t the type to do the whole vendetta thing when he lost, of course. “Okay? Chin up.”
Her sister tipped her face upward with a sniff. “I can do this. Positivity. Being a mope brings no flowers or sunshine.”
“Damn right,” Tristen said, a stitch developing between his brows.
“Mom?”
Daphne wiped away a tear and replied, “Yeah?”
“Why is there a man taking pictures of our van?”
* * *
Tristen crossed his arms, trying to figure out how he was going to keep the two Summer sisters safe. Dot took Tigger onto the stone patio to play with Max, who was going ballistic trying to keep everyone away from Dot, as he’d been doing ever since the near-drowning incident. He was a guard dog, but only where she was concerned.
Tristen pulled up a stool at his kitchen island and addressed Melanie and Daphne. “You’re going to need a security guard. Both of you.”
It was stupid to have brought them here with the reporters snooping after them, but what else was he supposed to do? When the private eye had been not-so-privately snapping shots of Daphne and her vehicle to, no doubt, build a case against her as a mother, Tristen had realized they had to find a quiet place to come up with a pretty serious game plan. When Connor happened by—and incidentally prevented Tristen from breaking the PI’s camera in front of the women—he’d poured the Summers into Connor’s car and said to meet him at the first place to come to mind—home.
But now they were in his house, with a major media storm brewing, and he’d pretty much placed himself in the middle of it. Funny how it didn’t bother him as much as he figured it should.
“I’ll see if Evander de la Fosse is available.” Connor began scrolling through the contacts in his phone. “Hailey and Finian used him and said he was good.”
“Whoa…wait.” Daphne raised her small hands. “Security? No. This is getting out of hand.”
“I agree,” Tristen said.
“This can be resolved with peace, love, and understanding,” she continued. “We need to sit down and discuss things, not escalate them. Running scared attracts the wrong kind of energy. We need to rise above this slander and arms race.”
“Arms race?” Connor looked up from his phone. “You want him armed?”
“No!” Daphne let out an exasperated sigh. She began explaining the impact of violent energy to Connor and Tristen blocked her out, his attention on Melanie. She’d noticed the box of haphazardly repacked antique cups on the counter. Gently, she picked up the nymph cup, staring at it as though it were a friend she thought she’d never see again.
“Ugly, huh?” Dot grabbed three oranges out of the nearby fruit bowl, while Max gave Connor a preemptive growl and slid his large body between Dot and the group of adults. “Dad’s got exquisitely poor taste. Come on, Tigger. I’ll show you how to juggle.”
“Not in the house,” Tristen called after them, not taking his eyes off Melanie. Her cheeks had flushed and she swallowed hard before slowly raising her gaze to meet his.
“They made me think of you.” He pushed the box in her direction. “I saw them at the antiques show.”
Melanie was clutching the nymph cup against her chest. “But these…” Her eyes lowered to the box, her free hand flipping back the wrappings as she took inventory. “These are really rare, Tristen. Exceedingly rare.”
He wanted to say, Like you.
He could feel the others staring at them, the earlier discussion over war and peace having faded away.
“You get a security guard in place?” he asked Connor.
“I’m not sure Daphne is ready for that,” his friend said carefully.
Daphne, eyes narrowed, feet planted firmly apart, had her small hands clenched into fists. Every fiber in Tristen’s being told him to step away if he wanted to live. He only hoped the men who ran Rubicore felt the same way.
* * *
Tristen stood at the patio door, sipping a cup of decaf and watching Melanie. She had been standing on his back deck gazing at the bay below for almost an hour now. Arms crossed, clutching the teacup. Every once in a while she’d sigh, her shoulder drooping. Then, over the next few minutes, they’d rise up again.
He figured it had to be something big. Bigger than yesterday’s headline that had claimed the two of them were dating. The paper had run a less than flattering photo of Melanie alongside one of him looking, quite frankly, dashing. It was meant to hurt him and his reputation, but he couldn’t help but think it must have hurt her, too.
Connor had driven Daphne and Tigger home, Melanie not answering when they’d called to her. Daphne had told Tristen to give her some space, as she was likely working through something big, and she’d asked him to drive her sister home when she returned to planet Earth.
He’d never seen anything as interesting. Never seen a woman just…think. Men, yes. But women…not so much.
Finally, after an hour of letting her stew things over, he joined her in the growing dusk to see if she needed anything. Privately, he’d been wondering if she’d been having some sort of standing seizure. But she turned, eyes shadowed, fully conscious.
“How’s Daphne?”
“She left.”
“Without saying goodbye?” Melanie took a hesitant step toward the house.
“We called to you, but you were…thinking. I can give you a ride home if you’re ready.”
“I need to go there.”
Had she taken a hit to the head? “Yeah, I’ll take you. Ready?”
“No, Baby Horseshoe.”
“That’s private property, Melanie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I won’t do anything stupid.” She took his hand, still clutching the cup as she lead him down to the boathouse.
He followed her directions out to Baby Horseshoe Island, an argument constantly on the tip of his tongue, but unable to be released. There were so many reasons not to go there. She pointed them between the island and a smaller one, and finally to a boathouse that looked as though it was trying to get up the courage to finally bend all the way over and dive into its watery grave. Her island. Tristen let out a relieved breath and docked his boat before she could ask him to trespass on the neighboring shore.
Melanie moored the boat with ease, then disappeared into the dark. He called to her, uneasy about raising his voice so close to the enemy.
“Coming?” she asked, hidden in darkness.
He found the footpath and followed her up the hill. Small solar lights cast just enough of a glow to reveal tree roots poking out of the earth a second before he could trip on them.
Lights flicked on in the cottag
e and he paused, admiring its rustic charm, before heading up the wooden steps and onto the wraparound veranda.
Melanie shouldered her way out a screen door. She held up one of the cups he’d given her, the one she’d been holding while doing her thinking earlier. “Where it belongs. Nymph Island.”
“How about that?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Of what? Apocalypse due to mythical creatures?” He was losing patience.
She passed him a can of beer, cracking one for herself. She poured part of hers into the cup and toasted him before lighting a lantern above them.
“The whole ‘sign’ thing is a long story,” she said finally. “But basically, I was selling all those cups in order to save this place from a tax sale.” She took a seat in a wicker armchair. “But you bought them as a gift. For me. These things were not meant to leave my hands, it seems.”
“Wait. Back up a second. Did you just say I bought stuff you were trying to get rid of, and then gave it all back to you?”
“Technically, I didn’t want to part with them, but I’m getting kind of desperate. I didn’t think anyone would actually buy them, the price was so ridiculous.” Melanie moved to the railing, gripping it as she leaned out, gazing toward Rubicore’s island. “I owe you three grand.”
Tristen rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I think this is the way it’s supposed to be.” They sat without speaking for a long moment. In the distance, there was a dull roar and whine of a motorboat. Birds had turned in for the night, leaving it quieter that he’d have thought possible. Quieter even than his place. “So? Was it enough?”
“The money?” She shook her head. “Getting closer, though. The cottage…” She turned quickly, watching him in the light of the lantern hanging above. “Do you believe in destiny?”
He shrugged. This was where she showed her crazy side and he ran for the hills, relieved they’d only shared a kiss, right?
“That things happen for a purpose or a reason?” she asked hesitantly. “That maybe there is some sort of energy pulling us along so we are where we’re supposed to be at the right time?” There was something in her tone that suggested she might not believe in destiny.
She was a lawyer, after all.
“Daphne is always talking about it, and my analytical, logical mind just rolls its eyes and groans. But now…” Melanie inhaled shakily. “I kind of…”
“You feel it?” he prompted. He dropped his eyes. Crap. He was buying it, too, wasn’t he? But the fact was, in that huge sale of literally thousands of items, he’d not only found the teacups she was selling, but bought them for her. “Did I buy all the cups you’d put out?”
“Every single one.”
He pulled a hand down his face. Maybe they just had similar tastes. Tastes in ugly nymph cups. Or…more likely, Melanie was so unique that everything about her stood out in a crowd.
“I’ve never felt as though I belong,” she was saying.
He finished his beer, setting the empty can on the coffee table. Confessions? Oh, hell. He couldn’t do this.
Yes, he could. He was trying to change. He could prove to her that he was a good guy who listened, instead of shutting her down by telling her that everyone felt that way. Easy.
“Never?” he asked.
“Everyone walks around as if they have this great purpose and meaning, and know what they want and where they need to be. They’re all so blissfully happy.” He almost laughed at the vehemence behind her words. “With this thing with Rubicore, I feel like I can make a difference. That I am the person who needs to put a stop to it all.” She sighed, hands on the railing as she cast her gaze out into the darkness again. Head bowed, she let out another heavy sigh. “But I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t be the one.”
Tristen relaxed in relief. Thank goodness. She was backing out. Now she’d be safe again and Dot could stay working at the office she so dearly loved.
Melanie turned to him in the soft light of the lantern and he surprised himself by walking to her side, running a hand into her thick hair and pulling her into a kiss.
He needed her. Not for any reason other than to simply have her. To find out what it was that made him toss and turn in the night, dreaming of her and that special hold she seemed to have on him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her hands wandering down to his chest, then his waist. She let out a moan of contentment as he sucked on her lower lip, his hand cupping the roundness of her full breast. She tugged on his belt, ruining any resolve he might have about being a gentleman, his mind set on finding a place to devour her fully. He lifted her in his arms, carrying her inside the cottage where he could make her his.
She directed him to a bedroom and he lowered her onto the high bed, placing himself on top of her when she didn’t let go, her kisses urgent. Her slender hands moved over his skin like fire, hot and consuming. Her kisses left traces of moisture down his neck and he lost himself in the moment, hoping he could be everything she needed to feel right again.
CHAPTER 12
Melanie pushed her mother’s wheelchair toward the flower-painted minivan she’d borrowed from Daphne. Her knees still felt shaky from the intensely passionate sex she’d had with Tristen last night. She hadn’t meant to jump his bones, but after the teacups, then taking her to the island where he’d listened to her woes it had been as though a breaker had been flipped when he’d kissed her. In that moment she’d wanted nothing more than to have utterly, mind-blowingly amazing with the man. And she had. He’d met every urgent thrust, moan, and kiss with his own, digging them in deeper and deeper.
And now she had to deal with the consequences of having a one-night-stand with a man who had been very clear from the start about not seeking a relationship—while she was.
But the sex. Man, that had been simply out of this world and her body got all trembly and hot with want just thinking about it.
She was in too deep with Tristen after one night of sex. Just like that.
“You all right, Melanie?” her mother asked as she helped her into the passenger seat. “You’re sighing a lot.”
“It’s all good,” she said brightly, checking the time. She had forty minutes before she had to be at work, and hoped the doctor was on time for his first appointment of the week. Pushing the empty wheelchair around the van, she loaded it in the back, then gave a little shriek as a man popped up beside her, camera aimed at her face.
“Back off!” she yelled. Her cry caught the attention of the nursing home’s caretaker, who ambled over, rake in hand. “You okay, Melanie?” he called.
“This man is harassing me.”
The photographer backed away, hands raised. “Not infringing on anyone’s rights.”
The caretaker glowered at him, giving his rake a shake when the reporter went to move closer to Melanie. She ducked into the van, squealing the treadless tires as she left the lot, taking several hard turns, hoping to squelch any ideas of him following her.
“What was that about?” Catherine asked, clutching the armrest. With her left side affected by a previous stroke, she was having trouble staying upright.
Melanie slowed the van, her breathing shaky. “Sorry. A photographer was getting in my face.” She checked the rearview mirror. How long would it take for the reporters to figure out that she was giving up the fight? That the risks to her family were too darn high, and she’d back off? Like she’d told Tristen last night, she couldn’t be the one.
“What is that thumping sound?” her mother asked.
Melanie checked the dash. An amber light showed a flat tire. She slammed the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. “Damn it.” She pulled over in a quiet neighborhood and got out to check the damage. All her heavy driving had created a leak in the driver’s side rear tire. She took a long, slow breath, trying not to let it get to her.
It was a fairly quiet road, and so far nobody had discovered the flower-painted silver Caravan. If she was quick about it, she might be able to have
the tire changed before anyone caught up with them.
She glanced up the road, half expecting Tristen to come to her rescue, as she had with him only a week ago. Only a week and he’d crept into her world so solidly.
“Are you okay, Mellie-Melon?” her mother called, as Melanie opened the hatch to look for the jack and spare.
Her lower lip trembled and she pulled in a deep breath to steady herself. “I’m going to change the tire.”
Everything she touched was falling apart. Rubicore was going to ruin Muskoka. Daphne’s life was being turned upside down. Tristen and Dot had been smeared in the papers. And now this.
She dropped the spare on the ground, groaning as it refused to bounce.
Flat.
Melanie stared at the tire, deciding what to do. She could call a tow truck, if she used some of the antiques money to pay for it. The problem was it felt completely wrong taking the cash, even though Tristen was a billionaire. The teacups were probably to appease his guilt for bailing on her and now he was going to think the sex had been a thank you. And it hadn’t been. It had been something so much more.
Always looking but never seeking.
That’s what he’d told her on his doorstep when he was dressed in drag. How much more clear could he have been? He didn’t want what she wanted.
Melanie heaved the spare back into the van and slammed the hatch closed. Looked like they were driving on the flat. Consequences be damned.
“That was fast,” her mom said.
“The spare is flat.”
Stupid Tristen. The way he’d swept in and rescued her, Daphne, and Tigger when the press had closed in yesterday…way too out-of-this-world dreamy. And she kept wishing he’d kiss her again. Once, twice, forever.
She hated him.
He was the right guy in all the wrong ways. Or was it wrong guy in all the right ways?
Either way, she was great at falling for the wrong man.
“Are you okay?” Catherine asked.
Lowering her head onto the steering wheel, Melanie sighed. “Do you believe in signs?”
“Yes. You don’t?”