Читать книгу Once Upon a Valentine - Allison Leigh - Страница 9

Chapter Three

“Cupcake!”

Shea looked up from her computer when she heard her editor bellow from his glass-walled office. She saved the article she was writing—a light-hearted piece about a duck that was making his home in an elementary school fountain—and went into his office just as Stu, the most senior member of their team, was coming out.

It was Saturday and half the crew was there working because their computers had crashed yet again the day before.

“Got an event I want you to cover,” Harvey said.

“Political scandal? Corporate malfeasance?” She smiled facetiously because the man never put her on any such hot topics. “Since Cooper’s been out sick, I could do the background at least on that helicopter crash—”

“No.” He looked at her over his glasses. “It’s a fundraiser for some place called Fresh Grounds.” He was obviously hunting for something on his messy desk. “A nonprofit located downtown. Merrick & Sullivan are sponsoring the shindig.”

Shea’s stomach tightened. She should have known she wouldn’t get a break just because she’d come in to work on what was supposed to be her day off. She was being punished for not telling Pax her secret the night before. “When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“What if I had plans for tonight? I do have a life, you know.”

“No, you don’t. No more ’n I do.” Harvey finally unearthed the paper he’d been hunting and pushed it across his cluttered desk toward her. “Dressy, so see if you can’t beg, borrow or steal something appropriate.”

She flushed and picked up the press release. The dress code around the Tub’s offices was decidedly casual, and her usual jacket and jeans was more professional than some. “How dressy?” If it was black tie, she’d be in trouble.

“I don’t know. Just don’t embarrass me, all right?” He looked even more cranky than usual, his bristle-brush gray hair standing out from his head.

“Maybe you should send someone else,” Shea suggested tartly. “Someone you pay enough to actually own a wardrobe that wouldn’t embarrass you.”

“Social scene and human interest,” he snapped. “Take it or walk, cupcake.”

Since she wasn’t entirely sure he was joking, she sighed and took the press release with her back to her desk.

“And get plenty of shots this time,” he yelled after her. “Readers love the photos.”

She just waved her hand in response. He was always complaining that she didn’t get enough photographs when she went out. She wanted to remind him that she was a writer, not a photographer. But considering their meager budget, everyone pulled dual duty.

According to the release, the fundraiser was a silent auction, with the proceeds benefiting Fresh Grounds, an agency that provided affordable housing for low-income families. And it was, indeed, being sponsored by Merrick & Sullivan Yachting.

She traced her fingertip over the edge of the page. The kinds of photos that Harvey would want, she knew, would heavily feature Pax or his partner, Erik. Every time they printed either one’s image in the Tub, the free paper’s advertising spiked and their Internet traffic doubled. For Harvey, the two men behind Merrick & Sullivan were golden.

But just thinking about seeing Pax again made Shea break out in a cold sweat. And wouldn’t that be an attractive look?

She quickly finished the duck article and submitted it, then shut down her computer and gathered up her belongings. The auction was being held at the Olympic Hotel, and that alone was enough to tell her that the dress was definitely more black-tie than not. Which meant she had to go see her mother.

No way could Shea afford a fancy gown. She was still paying off the repairs to her car from December.

Her mother, however, was presently married to a cosmetic surgeon and had a closet full of fancy clothing.

“Get those shots,” Harvey barked as she walked past his office on her way out.

If there’d only been a shot to ward off Pax’s appeal, Shea wouldn’t be in the fix that she was in now.

She dumped her stuff in the passenger seat of her car and drove out to Magnolia, the neighborhood where her mother lived with Jonathan Jones, hubby number seven. The sporty little BMW that Jon had given Gloria for her forty-eighth birthday was parked in the four-car driveway, telling Shea there was no hope of her being able to sneak in and raid her mother’s closet without having to actually see her.

She blew out a breath, wondering if it was worth chancing her job and showing up at the event wearing her one and only black dress and deciding that it wasn’t. She went to the front door and rang the bell, nervously tapping the toe of her boot in time to the chiming she could hear from inside the house.

Two more rings and the door swung open and Gloria Weatherby Garcia Monroe Nelson Garcia Frasier Jones stood there. Surprise filled her blue eyes, though there was no hope of it showing otherwise in her expression because Botox had been her best friend since Shea was sixteen.

“Shea!” Gloria stepped back, pulling the door wide. “You know you don’t have to ring the bell,” she chided.

Shea stepped inside and gave her mother a quick kiss on her perfectly smooth cheek. “Last time I didn’t ring the bell, I walked in on you and the pool boy doing it on the living room rug,” she reminded.

Gloria waved her bejeweled hand in dismissal. “That was years ago. Jonathan keeps me interested enough that I don’t need a pool boy anymore.” She pushed the door shut and padded barefoot into the living room, leaving Shea to follow. “You just missed your brother.” She grabbed two empty glasses from an ornate marble-topped cocktail table and carried them into the kitchen. “He stopped by to get my signature on a few things.”

“I don’t have a brother.” But she knew her mother was referring to her former stepbrother Marco Garcia, who still acted as Gloria’s attorney even though she and his father, Ruben, hadn’t been together for more than a decade. In fact, they’d been married and divorced twice, but Marco hadn’t lived with them during either marriage period. Shea’s contact with Marco had been limited to a handful of holidays that had always been short on celebration and long on awkwardness. It was the same with the rest of her stepsiblings, too. Seventeen of them in all, and that was just from her mother’s revolving door of husbands. “You’re not even married to Ruben anymore.”

Gloria huffed. “Details,” she dismissed. Then she narrowed her eyes and studied Shea. “You look terrible,” she said bluntly. “Jonathan could take care of those lines you’re getting around the eyes. All you have to do is say the word.”

Shea ignored her and dumped her purse on the overstuffed white couch. Her mother loved all things white because it left her to provide the only color around. “I came to borrow a dress. I’m covering a deal at the Olympic tonight. It’s black tie.”

“Work?” Gloria pouted her bee-stung lips. “That’s disappointing. You’re never going to find yourself a husband if you’re always working. Didn’t you learn anything from that mess with Bruce?”

“I’m not looking for a husband!” She clamped down on the pang inside her chest. “Just a dress suitable for tonight,” she managed in a reasonable tone.

Gloria sighed dramatically. “Fine.” She led the way out of the kitchen and up the carpeted stairs to the master bedroom that she’d remodeled just as soon as she and Jonathan had moved into the house a year ago. She crossed the white carpet and threw open the double doors to a walk-in closet that was bigger than Shea’s living room. “You can thank your lucky stars that we’re still the same size,” Gloria was saying as she disappeared into the closet. “Although if your boobs get any bigger you’re going to pop out of anything of mine. Be glad I’m married to Jon. He’ll be able to keep those girls looking good for you.”

Shea dropped her arms, which she’d folded self-consciously over her chest. “I don’t want anything that sparkles,” she warned, stepping to the closet doorway.

Gloria pouted again and placed two of the plastic-protected hangers back on the rack. “Here.” She thrust three choices at Shea. “Try those.”

Shea took the gowns into the en suite bathroom and closed the door. She rapidly undressed, avoiding her own reflection in the mirrors that surrounded the room until she’d pulled on the first of the gowns. It was scarlet, cut up to here and down to there, and Shea couldn’t even get the zipper under her arm all the way up thanks to the tight fit across her bust. She quickly tried the second, a brilliant pink strapless satin that clung revealingly like a second skin, making her wonder what on earth her mother was able to wear underneath it. The third was a slight improvement, but only because it had narrow straps and was a simple black. The skirt had a deep slit up the back, but Shea could zip it up and her chest didn’t pop out of the top, so she figured it would do for the hour or so that she’d have to spend at the fundraiser getting what she needed to satisfy Harvey.

She pulled it off, put on her jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt again and carried the dresses out of the bathroom.

Her mother was sitting on the wide bed, studying her nails. “I thought you’d at least show me,” she scolded without much conviction.

Shea hung the rejects on their hangers and slid them back into their plastic sheaths.

“Ah. The black,” Gloria deduced. “Boring and safe but presentable.” She rose and went to a full-length mirror that she pulled back to reveal a hidden jewelry case. “You’ll need earrings.”

The thought of wearing a pair of her mother’s heavy earrings all evening was vaguely nauseating.

Earrings aren’t what’s making your stomach queasy.

Shea ignored the annoying voice of her conscience.

“Here.” Gloria turned and held out a pair of sparkling earrings on her outstretched palm. “I hope you’ll take time for once to put on some blush, too. You need the color. Honestly, Shea. You’d be a pretty girl if you’d just put a little effort into it.”

“Ever helpful, Mom.” Shea took the dress and the chandelier earrings even though she knew she’d never wear them. It was easier to go along than argue. “I’d stay for more motherly advice, but I’ve got things I need to take care of.” She had to admit that her mom was generous with her clothing when the situation called for it. “Thanks for the dress. I’ll have it cleaned before I bring it back.”

“Don’t go covering yourself up with a sweater, either.” Gloria followed her down the staircase. “The one thing you’ve got going for you is your figure.”

“It’s February,” Shea reminded. “It’s cold.”

“A coat!” Gloria turned on her heel and ran back up the stairs.

Shea wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

A moment later, Gloria returned with a long black coat. “Here.” She pushed it into Shea’s hands. “Just promise you won’t wear it once you’re at your little event. If you’re going to insist on working all the time, you might as well show yourself off while you’re walking through the hotel lobby. Maybe you’ll catch someone’s eye.”

“Mom! What do you want me to do? Advertise that I’m open for business?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Gloria put her hand on her trim hip. “I’m not suggesting you’re a prostitute. A smart woman gets a ring on her finger before she starts giving away her favors. I learned that the hard way with your father, didn’t I? But do you think I would have ever gotten Jonathan’s attention if I’d have been covered from head to toe in black wool?”

“Jonathan was the cosmetic surgeon who did your butt lift,” Shea reminded dryly. “And I’m not looking to give away any favors to earn husband number one, much less number seven.” She knew the conversation had nowhere to go but down, and it was already low enough. She could only imagine what Gloria would have to say once Shea told her she was pregnant after what was essentially a one-night stand.

Her mother had had a lot of husbands for the simple reason that she claimed not to sleep with anyone before marriage—aside from Shea’s dad. That, and the fact that she bored easily. Jonathan had lasted eighteen months now, but Shea figured his time was probably not as limited as it might otherwise have been, considering her mother’s avid pursuit of plastic surgery to stave off any sort of natural aging process.

“I don’t know how you ended up so judgmental,” Gloria lamented. “You’re just like your father.”

Shea’s father lived in Europe with his fourth wife, who was younger than Shea. Last she’d heard, Number Four was trying to get pregnant. If she succeeded, the baby would be Shea’s only sibling actually related by blood. The news had come in her only communication from her father in a year—a Christmas postcard. Written and signed only by Number Four, yet she supposed it could have been worse: no postcard at all.

“Not being judgmental, Mom, just stating facts.” Her temples pounded and she’d been with her mother for less than thirty minutes. A new record. “Thanks again for the dress.”

Gloria brushed her lips in the air near Shea’s cheek. “You’re welcome.” Her gaze went past her to the expensive car that was pulling into the driveway next to Shea’s four-wheeled heap, and her smile widened. “Jonathan’s back from his tennis game.” As if Shea were already gone, Gloria jogged out to greet the dark-haired man who was only five years older than her daughter with a long kiss.

Neither one of them noticed when Shea hastily got into her car and drove away.

If Pax ever met her mother, he’d understand why she wasn’t a believer in enduring relationships.

Right on cue, her stomach rolled.

Groaning, she rolled down her window, hoping the cold air would blow away her nausea and wishing that everything else in her life could have such a simple solution.

* * *

“That’s her, isn’t it?”

Pax glanced down at his sister, Beatrice, as she tucked her arm through his. Her gaze was focused where his had been—on the entryway to the hotel ballroom where the fundraiser was being held.

Shea had arrived and was standing there, surveying the room through her digital camera.

“I suppose this is your doing.”

His sister shrugged, too innocent for belief. “I sent out a press release or two,” she allowed. “But I’m right, aren’t I? That’s her. The reporter you’ve been mooning over.”

He’d hoped that, with the distraction of the auction, he could get through a few hours without thinking about Shea. Yet there she was. In the flesh and looking like a million bucks. “I’m not mooning.” Laughter cackled inside his head.

His sister’s eyebrows were situated halfway up her forehead in disbelief. “When’s the last time you had a date?”

He’d been on plenty of dates over the past few years. Casual ones that hadn’t tied him in knots at all. But he hadn’t been out with anyone since the ice storm.

He wasn’t sure what bugged him more: Shea’s continued elusiveness, or his unaccountable unwillingness to move on from what even his own common sense told him was a losing proposition.

“Don’t you have things you’re supposed to be attending to here?” As the event planner, Beatrice had put together the high-brow auction.

She gave him a look. “Please. I’m good at what I do, Brother dear. An event by Beatrice runs as smoothly as a Merrick & Sullivan Yacht cuts through the water.”

“Cute.”

“I try.” She smiled brightly, and he was glad to see it. She hadn’t been doing a lot of that since the scumbag she’d been planning to marry had called it off. It was one of the reasons he’d been willing to fork over the sponsorship for this particular event. It was her first project since coming back to Seattle after her fiancé and partner in their San Francisco event-planning business had become an ex in every way.

“Not that I’m surprised,” Beatrice mused, “but you never said she was so pretty.” She poked him in the side. “What are you standing here for? Go talk to her.”

“Did you send a press release to the Washtub to matchmake or to get publicity for Fresh Grounds?”

She lifted her shoulder. “Why not both?” She reached up and planted a kiss on his cheek, then sauntered away, leaving Pax’s attention to return, way too easily, to the door.

Shea had lowered the camera; it was hanging off her bare shoulder by a long strap. The black dress she was wearing just made her hair look more golden and her skin creamier. And even from across the room, he could see the expression on her face directed his way, as if she’d tasted something sour.

Because she’d been tasked with another story like this, or because he was there?

“Yo.” Erik walked up and shoved a squat glass into Pax’s hand. “Get a grip, man. You’re drooling on yourself.”

“Like you haven’t drooled over your fiancée?”

Erik grinned. He was solo tonight for his brief appearance because Rory had stayed home with her little boy who had a cold. “Difference is,” the other man pointed out, “I’m getting Rory to the altar. Where have you gotten Shea?”

Pax hadn’t admitted even to his partner and best friend what had happened between him and Shea during the ice storm.

“Look sharp,” Erik murmured. “She’s heading this way.”

As if Pax didn’t know.

He watched her walk toward them. The gown she was wearing was blessedly simple in comparison to some of the overdone getups that night, but it was still sexy as hell, subtly molding her figure. Her hair streamed down her back, held away from her face by a narrow black band. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry; her only accessory was the small notepad she was carrying in addition to the camera.

He lifted the drink Erik had given him and drank down half of it. Probably a good thing that it was only water and not alcohol. Judging by the look on Shea’s face, he was going to need all of his wits about him.

“Mr. Sullivan,” she greeted Erik first. “Congratulations. I heard you’re getting married very soon.”

He nodded. “Next week. And I’ve told you before. It’s Erik.”

“Will I be lucky enough to get a photo of you and your fiancée this evening?”

“Not this time. Rory’s home with our son, Tyler.”

Pax heard the pride in his partner’s voice. Tyler wasn’t Erik’s by blood, but that didn’t stop him from loving the kid with everything he had.

“A son.” Shea’s gaze flicked to Pax so briefly he almost missed it. Her smile looked a little stiff. “How old is he?”

“Five.”

“And will he be going into the yacht-building business some day?”

Erik laughed. “That’ll be up to him.” He clapped Pax on the shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse me for now. I need to talk with someone.”

Shea’s eyes followed Erik as he walked away. “He seems different,” she murmured.

“He’s getting married soon. He’s happy.”

She finally looked up at him. Her long lashes were darker than usual, but it was the only hint of cosmetics that he could see. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is.” He shifted, touching her elbow to guide her out of the way of a waiter bearing a tray loaded with cocktails. He snagged a slender flute of champagne. “With Rory and Tyler in his life, Erik’s finally found what he’s always wanted.” Even though his partner had shunned anything approaching romance since a bitter divorce, he now couldn’t wait until the day he and Rory exchanged their vows. He handed Shea the glass and their fingers brushed.

Those lashes of hers quickly lowered, shielding her strikingly blue eyes. She started to lift the glass to her lips, but stopped and looked back up at him. “With him being married soon, will that put a greater load on your shoulders at Merrick & Sullivan?”

“Is that an official question, or are you personally curious?”

She pursed her soft, pink lips. He figured if she had any clue how he wanted to kiss her every time she did that, she’d want to drag a bag over her head.

“Both, I guess,” she finally allowed, and he wondered who was more surprised by the admission.

“Our partnership is like any good partnership,” he said. “Nothing’s exactly fifty-fifty all the time. It ebbs and flows on each side.”

Amusement suddenly glinted in her eyes. “That’s not quite a direct answer.”

“Sometimes Erik takes more of a load and sometimes I do. It always works out because we trust each other and we’re equally committed to our business.”

“You’ve been partners for a long time now.”

“Twenty years.” He smiled slightly. “Some relationships do last.”

The glint went out as abruptly as a candle flame doused with water. “So you’ve claimed.” She set the untouched glass on the table next to them, lifted her notepad and slid a pen right out of the top of her dress.

He couldn’t help but grin. “That’s better than a magician pulling roses from his sleeve. Anything else interesting down there?” From his height, he had a stellar view of the top curves of her breasts contained within the square-cut dress. His memory all too easily filled in the details of blush-colored nipples that tasted sweeter than summer strawberries.

Her cheeks had turned pink and she grimaced. “I forgot to borrow an appropriate purse along with the rest of this getup.”

He dragged his mind out of their memories with an effort. “You borrowed the dress?”

She looked like she regretted the admission. “From my mother.” She clicked her pen once. “What was it about Fresh Grounds that inspired you and your partner to sponsor the auction here tonight?”

“That dress belongs to your mother?” It was a helluva dress on Shea. But he couldn’t imagine someone old enough to be her mother wearing it.

“Yes.” She clicked her pen again. “The sponsorship?”

“How many times have I told you that all work and no play is no fun at all?”

She just looked at him.

He relented. “Fresh Grounds does good work.” The gig might have been Beatrice’s first since coming back to town, but he and Erik wouldn’t have footed the bill for the event if the cause behind it hadn’t had significant merit. “Regardless of whose dress it is, you look beautiful.”

Her jaw looked tighter than ever. She clicked her pen again and looked pointedly at Beatrice, who was standing a few tables away having an animated discussion with one of the guests. “Shouldn’t you be saving comments like that for your date if you expect to get anywhere with her? She’s the one who is beautiful.”

His dark-haired sister was wearing red and did look beautiful. But what interested him a whole lot more was the look in Shea’s eyes.

She was jealous.

He managed not to smile. “You think she’s my date?”

Her chin angled, challenging. “Isn’t she?”

If she only knew.

“You should meet her.” He raised his voice enough for his sister to hear and called her name.

Shea gave an annoyed little hiss but greeted Beatrice with a polite smile when she immediately came over.

Pax put his arm fondly around his sister’s shoulders. Knowing he shouldn’t be enjoying Shea’s obvious annoyance didn’t stop him from doing so. “Beatrice, this is Shea Weatherby.” He looked into her blue eyes. “Shea,” he drawled, slowly, “this is Beatrice Merrick.”

He saw the quick dilation of her pupils. The accusation. “You got married?”

His enjoyment screeched to a standstill and face-planted right there on the busily patterned ballroom carpet. So much for briefly thinking he was gaining some ground.

“Beatrice is my sister,” he corrected flatly.

The relief that filled her eyes might have been comical if he didn’t know just how low her opinion of him really was.

“Bad enough being his sister,” Beatrice laughed quickly, brave enough to ignore the sudden tension. She grabbed Shea’s hand between hers and pumped it. “I feel like I’ve known you for ages. After that first article you wrote about Pax and Erik a few years ago, I’ve followed your work in the Tub. You have a wonderful gift with words.”

* * *

Shea barely heard a word of what the other woman was saying.

His sister.

Beatrice might well be Pax’s date for the night, but the tall, stunning brunette was his sister.

And while the beautiful woman was all smiles, Pax’s expression had turned to stone.

Some portion of her mind recognized that she needed to respond to Beatrice, but she couldn’t seem to look away from Pax. “Your brother mentioned he had a sister once,” she managed, “but I...I had the impression you lived in San Francisco.”

Pax finally looked away from her, staring down into his glass, and Shea swallowed, glancing quickly at his sister.

Beatrice’s eyes were the same shade of brown as her brother’s. “I moved back about six months ago.” She lifted her shoulder. “Decided that I didn’t want to go back to working for someone else, so I opened up my own shop here.”

Pax suddenly shifted. “Beatrice is the event planner who put this auction together. She’s the one you want to talk to tonight.” With a faint nod that was clearly directed only at his sister, he turned and strode across the room toward his partner.

Shea had to fight the urge to go after him.

What could she possibly say right there in the middle of the crowded ballroom?

She was sorry she’d misjudged him?

And, oh, by the way, she was pregnant?

“So how long have you been writing for the Washtub?”

Shea moistened her lips. It was an effort to look away from Pax, resplendent in his black suit and pale gray tie. But like it or not, she still had a job to do.

“Six years.” It was almost a surprise to realize she was still holding her notepad and pen. “And I should be asking you the questions.”

“Not really.” As if they were long-time friends, Beatrice looped her arm through Shea’s and steered her toward the front of the room, where a head table was set on a dais. “George Summers is the director of Fresh Grounds. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

From the corner of her eye, Shea saw Pax heading for the ballroom doors. The intention in his stride was unmistakable.

Sponsor or not, he was leaving, and she guiltily knew that she was the reason.

“I will,” she said abruptly. “I just need to take care of something first.” She pulled away from Beatrice and followed him.

Catching him was easier said than done. He was long-legged and didn’t have high heels and a tightly fitted gown to hinder him. Only the fact that he was waylaid by an older couple he obviously knew just outside the ballroom doors allowed her to reach him at all.

Since she’d known him, he’d always had a smile in his eyes. Usually a wicked one. But when he glanced at her this time, acknowledging her presence before finishing his conversation with the couple, there was nothing in his eyes at all.

Regret swamped her and she hovered awkwardly nearby until the couple moved off. Only then did Pax turn her way. His face was hard, and her nerves flagged.

“You just going to stand there clicking that pen of yours?”

She flushed and realized she had been nervously clicking the pen. “I, um, I need to talk to you about something.”

His expression didn’t change. “Like the fact that you actually thought Bea was my wife?”

She opened her mouth to deny it but couldn’t. “I don’t know what I thought!” She stuck the pen behind her ear and moistened her dry lips. “I haven’t been able to think straight where you’re concerned since—” She broke off and took a deep breath.

“I just told you yesterday that I’d never been married.” His voice was low, but that didn’t mask his anger.

“Yes, well, people say things all the time that aren’t true.”

“What do you think I did? Stopped by a wedding chapel between then and now? Or that I’ve been married all along and been lying about it every time the subject came up? That for the past few years, I’ve been hiding her locked in a closet?” His lips thinned. “There’s nothing about me you don’t know.”

“I don’t know everything about you!”

He waved one hand. “Then do that digging Cornelia keeps telling me you’re so good at.”

How many times had she fought the temptation to use her sources to learn more about him? He’d never let her forget it if he knew. “Invading your privacy wouldn’t be right. And I’m doing a job for Cornelia, vetting the requests she gets for accuracy. Because people lie. All the time. They exaggerate, they omit and they twist the facts to suit their situations and their wants.” She was guilty herself, still omitting that teensy detail that she was pregnant.

“I don’t,” he repeated flatly.

She was breathless and felt dizzy, so badly did she want to believe him. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” She drew in a shaky breath. Cowardly or not, she couldn’t make herself tell him the truth then and there while just feet away strangers dressed in fancy clothes bid on everything from free haircuts to a season of sailboat rentals from Merrick & Sullivan.

She leaned against the nearby wall and tried to compose herself. Making a scene in the fancy hotel would infuriate Harvey beyond hope. “I have to go back to my editor with some quotes from you and a few photographs, or he’s going to be very unhappy with me.”

His lips twisted and he yanked at his tie as if it were suddenly strangling him. “The story tonight isn’t about me or Erik. It’s about Fresh Grounds.”

He’d never refused to cooperate for a story before, and she was desperately afraid he’d choose now to start. She’d have only herself to blame, too. “If you want more people to read about the agency’s work, it’s going to be because you and your partner’s names are attached to the story. And—” she admitted huskily “—I’d sort of like to keep my job. I have rent to pay and all that.”