by Nina Bruhns
Ross's brows converged in confusion. “I don't—”
She glanced over Ross's shoulder. Ari Kafakis was here. “Ooh. That's the reason I'm here early. Let him in.”
Ross gave a wave and the guard allowed Kafakis to pass.
Reaching into the messenger bag, Mo grasped the envelope. She crouched slightly behind Ross so Kafakis wouldn't get a good look at her. She had to be ready.
Kafakis approached and held a hand out to Ross, paying no attention at all to Mo “What an honor to meet you, Mr. Grant. Of course, I had heard you were filming in Savannah, but I never dreamed I'd get a private audition.”
Ross shook his hand. “Audition? Right. Remind me what—”
“Your assistant said you wanted someone to do a singing telegram routine. Just tell me what you want. I'm great at improv. And if you want a character, the most popular is Marilyn Monroe.”
“Marilyn?” Ross said, his jaw clenching.
“Right, I have the white halter dress, wig… everything. Then I sing: Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, Mr. President… “ Kafakis leaned into Ross with pouty lips and breathy voice, before pulling back. “But you have to picture me wearing the costume. Damn. I should've worn it today, right?”
“I'm sorry,” Ross said. “You've been misled. There is no singing telegram role in this film.”
“What? I'm certain your assistant, Leo, said—”
“Why don't you talk to my assistant's sister.” Ross grabbed Mo's arm and pulled her forward.
Kafakis blinked and then seemed to focus on her face. “You!”
Mo had the envelope out. She thrust it forward. “Ari Kafakis—”
“No,” he shouted into her face, turned on one heel, and then took off running.
Mo started to follow, but Ross still held her arm. “Let go,” she said. “I have to chase him.”
Ross's face was etched with angry lines. “You told him he had a role in my film?”
Kafakis jumped the barricade and then screamed over his shoulder, “Bitch, I'll get you.”
“He's getting away,” Mo cried, jerking against Ross's grip.
“I don't care about that,” Ross said, holding fast. “I care that you used me.”
“Leo told Kafakis he had an audition as a way of getting him here. He was never told he would audition for you. I didn't even think you'd be around when he arrived.”
Shaking his head, Ross let out a sigh. “You do not joke with an actor about having a role. That is sacred.”
“The guy pelted me with garbage yesterday,” Mo said. “He deserves anything he gets.”
“No actor deserves that, Mo.” He shook his head with a disapproving pursing of the lips.
Shitake! She was still out five hundred bucks. Worse, this Kafakis guy had come between Mo and her man.
* * *
“You're not still mad about Kafakis and the singing telegram are you, Ross?” Mo asked as they walked through the sliding glass arrivals entrance to Savannah/Hilton Head International. Despite its lofty name, the airport was small with just one long corridor of gates. “You've been pretty quiet.”
“No.” Ross paused under a television monitor display of gate information. “Father's plane has landed.”
Mo trotted after Ross as he strode through the smattering of people and into the baggage claim area toward the furthest carousel.
“No, you haven't been quiet? Or no, you aren't mad?” Mo asked.
They passed a couple—obviously gay partners in their sixties—and one man pointed at Ross. “That's Stephen Dagger.”
If she'd heard them, then Ross had as well. But he didn't react. Either he was getting over being mistaken for his famous superspy character or he was so perturbed at Mo that the fan's comment hadn't upset him.
“Come on, Ross. Talk to me. I can't meet your dad for the first time when you're ticked at me.”
When Ross came to an abrupt halt, Mo almost plowed into him.
“I'm not angry.” Ross took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “But I am mad.” He smiled and brushed a lock of long brown hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear as he continued, “I feel like I've been crazy since we met and became enmeshed in your bizarre world.”
“My bizarre world?” Her eyebrow arched and she shot him a mock glare. “It's not my family that insists on celebrating a winter holiday in the sweltering heat of summer.”
His lips quirked up at one end and he nodded. “Point taken.”
“But you're such a good kisser, I'm prepared to put up with it,” Mo said only half-jokingly.
“You have certain talents in that area also,” Ross said, his blue eyes suddenly holding a glint as they gazed into hers. His tone was low, gravelly, and sensuous as he murmured, “Actually, if we weren't in public, where any git with a mobile phone could snap a photo, I'd snog you senseless right now.”
For a few long seconds they continued to stare into one another's eyes. Mo suspected that, like her, he was imagining what they could do to one another if they were alone.
At that moment, a voice with a British accent interrupted their interlude. “Son!”
“Here's Father,” Ross said. “Just remember I'm not responsible for him.”
“What?” Mo sputtered, feeling like she'd just been hit in the face with a snowball.
Ross took her hand and tugged her forward to meet his father. Mo had a quick impression of a tall, slender man in a three-piece, charcoal gray suit and neatly cropped silver hair. As Bertram Grant came toward them dragging two large suitcases by their handles, she noticed that Ross and his father shared only a slight resemblance. The elder man looked more like a Monty Python character than he did his famous son.
“Two suitcases? I thought he was only staying a few days,” Mo said, rubbing her suddenly sweaty hands against the skirt of her short-sleeved, yellow dress. Then her hands went to her brown hair, smoothing its length over one shoulder.
When he reached them, Bertram Grant dropped the suitcases with a loud huff. “Ross.” He thrust out a hand and the two men shook like business acquaintances. “A toddler kicked the back of my seat all the way from London to Atlanta and then an atrocious woman with horrible perfume crowded me from Atlanta to Savannah. Damnable coach seating.”
“If you'd given me more notice, I would have booked you first class,” Ross replied. After shaking his father's hand, Ross put an arm around her. “This is Imogene… Mo.”
She plastered a smile on her face and held out a hand. “Hello. It's lovely to finally meet you in person.”
“Yes, thank goodness.” Bertram took the handles of his suitcases and thrust them into her outstretched hand. “Finally, someone to carry these bags.”
“Ummm,” Mo said, gazing down at the suitcases.
“Not ummm, young lady. You may call me Mr. Grant.”
Mo turned to Ross and murmured, “I told you he thinks I'm your assistant.”
“Father,” Ross warned. “Don't start.”
“What am I starting?” his father asked.
“I'll go get a sky cap to help with Mr. Grant's luggage,” Mo said.
Ross stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Don't be ridiculous. Mo is not calling you Mr. Grant the entire time you're here.”
His father pursed his lips, shook his head, and then said, “All right. You can call me Pater.”
Ross blew out a puff of air and his eyes rolled upward
“What? Peter?” She glanced from Ross to his father and then back again in confusion. “I thought your name was Bertram.”
“It is,” Ross said.
“Pater is Latin for father.” Bertram shook his head and said under his breath, “I knew you Yanks weren't very well educated.”
“Knock it off,” Ross warned in an angry tone. “You're being a perfect prat. Mo can't tell you're joking.”
“I'm perfectly serious,” Bertram said. “But since you are so very close to my son, I insist you call me Pater. Ac
tually, I want you both to call me Pater.”
“He's joking. Just call him Bertram,” Ross said. “Or Bertie. He'll love that.”
Mo nodded. She definitely wasn't calling him Bertie. Maybe she could get by with not calling him by name at all in the next few days. 'Hey you' could become a very useful phrase.
“Let's get out of here,” Ross said, taking the handles of the suitcases and starting for the exit.
“Where are your car keys?” Bertram asked. “I'm driving.”
“You're not driving,” Ross replied. “You don't know how to drive on the right side of the road. You're barely competent driving on the left side.”
“I've been driving for fifty years, so navigating the American wilderness will be no problem.”
“Savannah was the thirteenth colony of America, as you well know. It's not a wilderness. It's a highly developed urban area,” Ross said.
“Handling the colonials doesn't trouble me.” Bertram sniffed.
“You're not driving… Pater,” Ross said, putting sarcastic emphasis on the title. “And Savannah is not a colony any longer. A revolution took care of that.”
“Don't remind me,” Bertram grumbled.
Mo ran to keep up as they all passed through the sliding glass doors to the outside.
* * *
The bickering continued during the car ride. Ross drove, his father rode shotgun, and Mo sat in the back.
“Imogene is pretty. I'll give you that,” Bertram said. “But, son. She's a bloody Yank. Americans… Frightful manners.”
“Mo can hear you,” Ross growled. “She isn't deaf.”
“I know. I said she was pretty, didn't I?” Bertram tugged at the seat belt biting into the side of his neck.
“You're being rude.” Ross checked the mirror and merged them into the highway traffic.
Bertram subsided into silence for a few moments before launching into a new topic. “Do you remember our neighbor, John Wells?”
Ross nodded, keeping his eye on I-95 as he drove.
“His daughter is now divorced. Remember Cordelia? She is such a lovely English girl. So elegant and well bred. And she's interested in re-connecting with you, Ross. You could come for a visit and—” Bertram pulled again at the strap across his chest.
“Still here. Still listening.” Mo congratulated herself on resisting the urge to choke him with the seatbelt.
“Father,” Ross shouted. “This whole sodding performance is not funny. If you don't stop, I'm turning the car around and taking you back to the airport. I swear I'll shove your sorry arse onto the first flight out of Savannah.”
Bertram sat back with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. The rest of the ride took place in brooding silence.
* * *
Back at the house, the rails of the upper and lower porches of the shotgun-style, Victorian house had been wrapped with brightly colored lights. Decorations, including plastic reindeer, sleigh and Santa, sat perched on the roof. A wreath hung over the doorknocker.
Ross parked the car on the street. He jumped out, opened the back door for Mo, and helped her out. Putting an arm around her, he squeezed. “The house looks fantastic, love. Thank you.”
Bertram got out, glanced at the house, and grunted, “Passable.”
Inside, more decorations glittered in the entry hall. The smell of baking gingerbread cookies filled the air along with the melody of 'The Little Drummer Boy'.
Talley approached them in greeting, his fluffy feline tail held high like a flag.
“You have a cat. I love cats,” Bertram said, clapping his hands together. He bent down and held out his hand. “Here, kitty.”
After taking one sniff, Talley arched his back into a Halloween cat pose. The hair stood up on his back into a faux hawk.
“Better leave him alone,” Mo said at the same time Bertram reached for Talley.
“Cat's love me,” he said.
“Mrrrrrrrrrrrow,” Talley howled. “Hsssssssssss.” The cat swung his razor claws just missing Bertram's hand. Then Talley ran off, heading for the Christmas tree. He sideswiped the lower branches, shaking the tree before he finally ended up crouched behind its branches. From his hiding place, Talley issued a low, howling growl.
“Strange cat,” Bertram said, rising. “Probably because the beastie is American.” Ross's father was introduced to Leo and Trayanne, and immediately thereafter he burst out with, “When do we go caroling?”
“I'm not caroling.” Ross groaned. “The neighbors would think we're daft. I can just see the tabloid article headline: SpyMatrix star caught harassing people in their houses with off-tune singing of Christmas music in June.”
“I have an extremely pleasant singing voice,” Bertram insisted. “I believe the neighbors will enjoy our caroling.”
“I'd have to claim to be an alcoholic and go into rehab. Otherwise my career would never recover from such idiocy,” Ross shouted. “Absolutely not.”
“We'll take him.” Trayanne pointed at herself and Leo. “And I have some friends who'll come with us.”
“Great,” Mo said. Anything to get rid of Bertram for a few hours. “Can you go now?”
The consensus was that it would take at least an hour to arrange. Meanwhile Mo and Ross took refuge behind the closed door of their bedroom.
“Remind me again why I'm putting up with your father?” She kicked off her sandals and rubbed her neck.
Encircling her waist with both arms, Ross lifted Mo off her feet and tossed her on the bed. After one bounce, he came down on top of her, his jean clad hips and legs settling between her thighs and forcing her sundress to ride up. His full lips pressed against hers in a soul-searching kiss as one hand stroking her from thigh to neck before caressing her breast. Their tongues played together in a tender duel for a few seconds before she pulled away, breathless.
“That's it. Now I recall why,” she cooed, her palm caressing his stubbled cheek.
Ross smirked and then his mouth returned to her lips for a sip as he ground his hips against hers.
She pulled his blue dress shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans in order to explore the smooth skin of his back with her palms. The feel of his powerful muscles under that skin intoxicated her.
Lost in the sensation, Mo gave herself up to the emotions those sensations created in her body and in her heart. She was immersed in Ross. His father didn't matter. Nothing mattered except him. Except them. Together.
Just then, the door to the room slammed open and Bertram entered without further announcement. “The guest room is far too small.”
Mo broke off the kiss.
“Get out, Father,” Ross growled.
“Where am I to hang all my clothes?” Bertram asked.
“I can always book you a hotel suite,” Ross answered.
“No, no. I'll cope. But these towels are far too scratchy. Do you have others?” Bertram glanced around the bedroom.
“Out!” Ross shouted.
Grumbling about inferior American linens, Bertram departed, closing the door.
Mo gazed up at Ross. “I think the mood's been broken.” She hadn't been thinking about the embarrassment of making love in the house while Ross's father was there, but now the inherent problems had been illustrated vividly. “I just can't do it with your father in the house.”
Ross groaned and rolled away, throwing one arm over his face. “All right. If I'm not getting sex, I at least want warm cookies and cold milk.”
Laughing, Mo scrambled off the bed and held out a hand to him to pull him up. “That I can do. Maybe we can sneak up here while they're caroling.”
* * *
The June Christmas Day arrived. While Ross and his father argued in the living room, Mo and Leo were finishing up the dinner preparations.
Mo squirted juices over the browning turkey with a baster. “Forty more minutes, I'd say.”
“Anyway, the caroling was cray-cray.” Leo chuckled, placing the bowl of salad in the refrigerator before closing
the door. “We only knew at most the first five lines of any of the songs. We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Then we'd have to switch to another carol.”
“You could've pulled up the lyrics on your phone.”
“And spoil all the fun?” Leo grinned. “You should've seen Mrs. Harper's face. Hilarious.”
“Sounds like it,” Mo said. “Although, she is very elderly. She may have thought it was actually Christmas.”
“Ross's dad! What a hoot.”
“Not how I'd describe him,” Mo grumbled.
“Mrrrrrrrrrrr. Hssssssssss.” The cat's screech pierced the air. A speeding Talley ran from the dining room and through the kitchen. He knocked into Mo's legs on his way past before heading out another door to the sun porch. Mo glanced after him and saw a tail disappear under the sofa that was positioned on the porch's back wall.
You and me both, buddy, Mo thought, shaking her head.
“Bloody hell, Ross. Cats have always liked me,” she heard Bertram say.
After sticking the turkey back in the oven, Mo began to prepare a plate of cheese, crackers and fruit. She had just finished when the doorbell rang.
“That must be Harry,” Mo said.
With an, “I'll answer it”, Leo left the kitchen. Shortly afterward, a commotion of scuffling feet and whooping shouts commenced.
“Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas!”
Mo came around the corner to see Santa Claus entering the parlor living room carrying a sack full of indiscriminate lumpiness.
“Have you been good little girls and boys?” Santa asked in a booming baritone as he set down the sack. Then Santa struck a pose. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. You better not shout. You better not cry. You better not pout…” He danced, tapping against the wood floor, as he sang.
Oh my sweet potatoes! Ari Kafakis was in that Santa suit. Ari Kafakis was in her house. Mo ducked back into the kitchen while he continued to sing and dance.
I can serve him right here. I just needed—Crêpe.
The envelope was in Ross's car. Maybe she could sneak through the sun porch to the other entrance in order to get to the hall. If she could reach the door without Santa Ari seeing her…
As Mo crept down the hall, the Christmas carol continued. When she came to the shelf mid-way down the hall, she reached into the bowl of keys. Mo carefully extracted Ross's set attached to a metal Mercedes logo before continuing toward the front door one tiptoe at a time. She soon realized that her last few steps would be visible to those in the parlor through an open archway.