Читать книгу About That Night - Beth Andrews - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCLINTON BARTASAVICH JR. tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”
He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.
Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”
He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”
Not Bart-as-a-vitch.
With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”
He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.
“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”
One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.
Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”
He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.
While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.
And definitely no simpering.
But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.
Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.
Not his money.
“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.
And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very pink hell.
It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.
A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.
Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.
Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.
He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.
No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.
But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.
Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.
“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”
C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”
From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.
He’d failed.
“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”
“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.
Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”
“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.
At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”
She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course. He isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.
“It’s too...” Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult. “...red.”
“How can something be too red?”
He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”
“Who is Evan?”
She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”
“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”
“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”
C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”
She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”
“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.
“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”
She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”
Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”
“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”
“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.
He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”
She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”
He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.
“You don’t even want to be here.”
He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.
Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?
“What I want doesn’t matter,” he told her.
“It’s just—” she threw her hands into the air, beseeching the heavens to help her cope with the disappointment “—I tried so hard to make this party special for Daddy and Charlotte, but it’s a disaster. First Uncle Zach texted me that he wasn’t coming and then you were late. Granddad’s been an absolute grump all night, making angry noises and thumping his good hand. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be here or because Carrie’s drunk and been hanging on Uncle Oakes. Then there’s Grandma...” Estelle shivered dramatically. “Well, you’re going to have to see that for yourself.” Her eyes welled. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, it’s ruined.”
He sighed. Hung his head. Women. Care about one of them too much and they’d get their hooks into you—either by the balls or by the gut. Either way, once they had you, you were never free.
He hoped like hell that, if he ever had children, he followed in his father’s footsteps and had all boys.
He held out his arms, but Estelle lifted her chin.
Stubborn as her father.
C.J. amped up his grin by a few degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re going to stay mad at your favorite uncle.”
“At the moment, Uncle Oakes is my favorite,” she said, prissy as a princess to a peasant. But then she relented enough to step into his embrace. Wrap her arms around him for a hug.
He squeezed her hard. Kissed the top of her head. Damn, but he was crazy about her.
“Oakes is everyone’s favorite,” he said, not offended in the least to be usurped by his brother. If she’d wanted to go for the jugular, she would have picked Zach.
There wasn’t anything he could do about his youngest brother not showing up, but he could take care of the rest for her. He looked over her head and scanned the room. People laughed and conversed around the round tables or stood in small groups, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping tall flutes of champagne brought around by the waitstaff. Others had paired off, swaying to the band’s acoustic rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain,” the lead singer’s smoky voice giving the song a slow, seductive quality.
Among the dancers, it was easy enough to find his brother Kane and his new fiancée, Charlotte Ellison. Hard to miss Charlotte, with that bright beacon of short red hair. Usually more cute than beautiful, she was a knockout tonight in an emerald-green dress that showed off her long legs and gave her thin figure the illusion of curves. For his part, Kane still looked every inch the badass he pretended to be. One of only a few men without a suit, he’d tied back his too-long hair into a stupid, stubby ponytail and wore dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that covered his tattoos.
“For a disaster, everyone seems to be having a good time,” C.J. said.
Estelle stepped back and nodded toward the room. “Look again.”
He followed her gaze to the far window where Carrie was pressed like a second skin against a pale, grim-mouthed Oakes. Though Carrie was doing her best to get a reaction, Oakes stood still as a statue, his eyes straight ahead and not on her impressive breasts, which were spilling out of her pale yellow dress.
Poor bastard looked as though he’d been cornered by a pissed-off bobcat and not a perky blonde.
C.J. would have laughed if that perky blonde hadn’t also happened to be married to their father.
Problem number one.
“You say Carrie’s drunk?” C.J. asked Estelle.
“The way she’s been groping Uncle Oakes all night, she’d better be drunk. God. It’s, like, completely disgusting. And with Granddad right there, too.”
It was then that C.J. spotted his father, his once robust form slumped to the side of his wheelchair. The stroke Senior had suffered almost a year ago had stolen his ability to speak and paralyzed the right side of his body. But judging from the glare he was shooting at his wife and third son, his mind was still in working order. Behind him, Mark, his large bald nurse, took a hold of Senior under the arms and lifted him straight.
Senior slid down again. His mouth moved, his body jerked, and C.J. knew he was trying to say something, more than likely giving Mark, Oakes and Carrie hell.
Problem number two.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” Estelle said.
C.J. sent his niece a sidelong glance. “It gets worse?”
“Much.” She looked so solemn. So serious. Not expressions she wore often. C.J. bit back a groan. What sort of fresh hell had he walked into? “Like, catastrophically worse.”
She pointed to the dance floor. The band had started another song, this one an upbeat pop song. People bounced and danced along.
And there, surrounded by a circle of dancers, his mother did a slow bump and grind against a tall, dark-haired man.
C.J. grabbed the back of his neck. Squeezed hard. Worse, indeed.
Estelle nodded. “I know. It’s gross.” She made the mistake of looking at the dance floor again only to whirl back, horrified. “Ugh. Grandma Gwen just totally, like, groped him. In front of God and everybody.” Estelle leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. “Like, her hand was on his butt squeezing and—and stroking. I’m going to have to have my brain sprayed with bleach in the hopes of taking the memory out of my head. You have to do something, Uncle C.J. You’re so good at fixing things.”
He snorted. Right. He should be good at it. He’d had enough practice. He wouldn’t mind a night off every now and then, but he couldn’t refuse his niece. Couldn’t refuse to do what had been his responsibility since birth.
Take care of his family.
“What would you suggest?” he asked.
“Make her stop.”
If only it was that easy. But then, for Estelle, life was simple. She asked for something and got it. She was indulged at every turn, her every wish granted.
Tonight was no different.
He patted her hand. “I’ll handle it.”
She smiled and threw her arms around him for another hug, this one more enthusiastic and warmer than before. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I know Daddy and Char will appreciate your help, too.”
C.J. doubted that, but it wouldn’t stop him from doing what was right.
His mother took that moment to rub her ass against her date’s pelvis.
C.J. winced. He’d have to tag along when Estelle had her brain scrubbed.
“Excuse me, darlin’,” he drawled to a teenage waitress as she passed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any forks on you, would you?”
“They’re just mini quiches...” Frowning, she tipped her head to the side, her ponytail of light brown corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement. “Is that the proper plural form of quiche? Or is it one of those words like deer or fish?”
It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the food on her tray. And that her question hadn’t been rhetorical.
“I think either form is correct,” he said.
“But you don’t know for sure. What if it’s one of the questions on the SATs? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know. Leighann—my best friend—took them last fall, even though you really don’t need to take them until the spring of your junior year, but she’s always trying to be The First, you know? Which is why I think she finally gave in and slept with her boyfriend, so she’d be the first of our group to lose her virginity.”
C.J. blinked. Blinked again. “Uh...”
“My stepmom says it’s because deep down, Leighann’s insecure, and she overcompensates by acting overly confident. Like men with little—”
“I hope like hell you’re about to say wallets,” C.J. said quickly. “Or brains.”
“No,” she said slowly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can just say men who aren’t quite as endowed—”
“No. That doesn’t make me feel better at all. How about we skip that part in its entirety?”
She lifted a shoulder, then switched the tray to her other hand. “Anyway, Leighann said there were a ton of arbitrary questions on the SATs, most of them not having to do with real life at all. What if the plural form of weird words is one of them?”
“Sorry, darlin’. Quiche isn’t exactly a word I use very often. In any form.”
She nodded sagely. “That’s good. They’re pies of death, if you think about it. All those eggs. And cream. And cheese. Really, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Or at least, high-cholesterol levels. Plus, it’s not natural—humans eating products made from cow’s milk. Except I’m not allowed to—” she made air quotes with one hand “—preach about my personal views to guests.” Another set of air quotes as if closing what must have been a direct order from her supervisor. “So I’ll just say I’m sure these appetizers are extremely delicious. At least, I’m guessing they are. I wouldn’t know personally, as I don’t eat any animal products.” She frowned. “Usually. And, best of all, you don’t need a fork to eat them. They’re small enough to just pop into your mouth.”
She lifted the tray higher, obviously expecting him to do just that.
How she managed to get so many words out with so little breath was beyond C.J. But get them out she did, all the while holding his gaze innocently.
Amazing.
Back in Houston, people treated him with a certain...reverence. Because of his father’s last name, his father’s money. The old man had always eaten it up. Had loved having servants fawn all over him, unable to make eye contact, bowing and scraping as if it was all nothing less than expected. Deserved.
But Clint’s ego was just fine. It didn’t need to be stroked.
No matter what Kane said.
“I don’t need the fork to eat. I wanted to use it to stab my eyes out.” He nodded toward the dance floor where his mother gave a loud whoop and threw her arms in the air, lifting the hem of her short dress so high C.J. quickly averted his gaze lest he see parts no one but Gwen’s gynecologist should see. “Anything sharp and pointy will do.”
The waitress followed his gaze. “Yes. That is disturbing.” She shifted the tray to her hip. Studied him closely. “Is she your date?”
He flinched, but he couldn’t blame the kid for thinking Gwen was younger than her actual age. She saw her plastic surgeon more often than her own sons. “My mother.”
“Oh.” Then she shocked the hell out of C.J. by giving his forearm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow as amusement flowed through him. Not many felt sorry for him. He was a Bartasavich, after all. People usually envied him—his looks, his money, his business acumen.
He nodded his thanks. “Wish I could say you get used to it, but that’d be a lie.”
His mother caused drama wherever she went. If C.J. had to guess, he’d say tonight’s show was all for his father’s benefit. But Senior was still staring at Carrie. C.J. doubted Senior even knew what Gwen, the first in a long line of Mrs. Bartasaviches, was doing. How hard she was trying to prove she was over him.
How hard she was trying to make the old man jealous.
The waitress watched his mother do a pelvic thrust that should have been illegal, then bend at the waist, stick her ass in the air and shake it.
The waitress scrunched up her face. “Eww. Mothers should never twerk. Something like that could scar a person for life. Have you tried therapy? It might help.”
He chuckled, surprised he could laugh at this. “After tonight, I just might need it.”
He helped himself to a couple of the quiches. Pie of death or not, he was hungry. He’d worked through lunch and hadn’t bothered with dinner before catching his flight to Pittsburgh.
He was still chewing the first one when Kane approached him. As they had so many times throughout their lives, they sized each other up. There’d been a time when C.J. could read every thought in Kane’s head. When he’d known his little brother’s strengths and weaknesses as well as his own.
Those days were long gone, killed by Kane’s drug addiction and subsequent stint in the army. Kane was now clean and sober—had been for years—and even owned a local bar called O’Riley’s. But there was too much hostility, too much anger to ever mend the bond that had been broken between them. There were days C.J. could admit he regretted that. That he missed his brother.
But he’d be damned before he’d ever say it out loud.
“Estelle said you were here,” Kane said, his expression closed, his eyes hooded. “I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your desk.”
Not as surprised as C.J. had been to hear about his brother’s engagement. He hadn’t known Kane and the redheaded ER nurse he’d gotten involved with last year were that serious, until Estelle had told him they were engaged as she’d hand delivered his invitation to this little soiree.
Kane had spent the past twelve years doing his best to avoid any ties whatsoever to anyone—except Estelle. What the hell made him think he was ready to commit to one woman?
“I wouldn’t have disappointed Estelle,” C.J. said, eating the second quiche. “Or miss the chance to get to know your fiancée better.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and crumpled it in his hand as he scanned the ballroom. Spotting his future sister-in-law across the room, laughing at something a pretty, very pregnant blonde said, he sent Kane a grin. “Charlotte seems like a nice woman. A smart woman. Too good for the likes of you. I’ll have to do my best to make sure she realizes that before she makes the biggest mistake of her life and goes through with this marriage.”
“I think you’re safe,” the waitress told Kane. “I mean, look at you.” She swept her hand up and down in front of him. “You’re gorgeous. And you have that whole bad-boy vibe going on, which most women find irresistible but, personally, I don’t get. No offense or anything.”
“None taken,” Kane said, looking torn between amusement and horror at the girl’s assessment of him.
“Yes, my brother sure is a fine catch.” As long as a woman didn’t mind being tied to an ex-addict with a bad attitude and a ton of emotional baggage. “He’s a real prince among men. All the women fall for that pretty face. Want to smooth out those rough edges.”
Kane’s mouth thinned. He made a show of looking around. “Couldn’t find a date, Junior? All the big-haired, big-breasted debutantes in Texas busy this weekend?”
“Between Mom and Carrie, I’d say there are two too many here now. I’m not sure this party could handle another one.” He nodded toward Oakes, who was valiantly trying to hold a conversation with an older man while Carrie clung to his arm, her hand caressing his bicep. “You try to put a stop to that?”
Kane followed C.J.’s gaze and shrugged. “Oakes is a big boy. He can handle himself. He’ll give Carrie a gentle brush-off, something that will save her from being embarrassed.”
Kane’s way of dealing with problems was to avoid them until they went away on their own. Or someone else took care of them. Oakes’s was to be patient, to pick and choose his words and actions carefully and hope for the best.
“She’s humiliating Dad,” C.J. said. “And getting more than her fair share of attention for it. You need to go over there and tell her to back off.”
“Not my job. Being in charge of everyone and everything, being a huge pain in the ass, is your thing.”
C.J.’s fingers tightened on his hat. Kane could give lessons in being a pain in the ass. “I take charge,” he said, “because no one else ever steps up.”
“Why don’t you just beat the crap out of each other and get it over with?” the waitress asked. Why was she still there? “That’s what my brothers do when they’re mad at each other. Then, while the blood is drying, they’re suddenly best friends again.”
“We’re not friends,” C.J. assured her, not taking his eyes off Kane.
But at one point they had been. Less than two years apart in age, they’d spent every moment together. Had been playmates. Confidantes. And as close as two brothers could be.
Those days were long gone. No sense wishing them back.
Or regretting the distance between them now.
“Guys are so weird,” the waitress murmured while C.J. and Kane continued to glare at each other. “This is what’s wrong with the world, by the way. Too much testosterone. Especially in leadership positions. I’m seriously considering forming a society consisting solely of women. Sort of like the Amazons but not as bloodthirsty. I wonder how much my own island would cost?” she asked in a thoughtful tone as she walked away.
“I’d buy her an island,” C.J. muttered, “if we could convince Estelle to live there with her.”
“A society with no hormonal teenage boys?” Kane asked. “Or horny adult drummers? I’d pitch in for that.”
They shared a grin. Too bad their moment of brotherly bonding was interrupted by another of their mother’s enthusiastic “whoop-whoops,” this one accompanied by a fist pump.
“That’s your cue, Junior,” Kane said, his grin turning into a knowing smirk. “Go save the day.”
C.J. wished the waitress hadn’t taken off. He could use more food. And a drink. A strong one.
He’d need one to deal with his mother.
With nowhere to leave his hat, he stuck it back on his head, then crossed the dance floor, weaving his way through the jostling bodies. “Excuse me,” he said, tapping Gwen’s date on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
“C.J.!” Gwen trilled, her voice somehow carrying over the blaring guitar riff, the pounding bass. Tottering on her four-inch heels, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re late.”
C.J. wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist so she didn’t do a face-plant on the floor. Looked like someone had had a few too many dirty martinis. “So I’ve been told.”
Linking her hands behind his neck, she leaned back, studying him with none-too-clear eyes. “Darling, you look absolutely horrid.”
C.J.’s left eye twitched. He’d come to save her from herself and all he got was grief. No good deed went unpunished. Not in his life anyway.
He took in her black leather minidress and matching thigh-high boots. “You look...” Like you’re trying way too hard. Desperate. Needy. “...beautiful as ever.”
She smiled and patted his cheek. “Such a charmer. Just like your father.”
“Not quite the same.”
His father had spent his entire life making promises to women. Vows of love and fidelity that he’d broken, over and over again, without a second thought.
C.J. didn’t make promises he couldn’t—or in his father’s case, wouldn’t—keep.
“Oh, you have to meet Javier,” Gwen said, craning her head to seek out her date with such determination, C.J. was surprised she didn’t twist it clean off. “Javier.” She held out her hand. “Darling, come here. C.J.,” she continued when her date joined them, “this is my dear, dear friend Javier Ramirez. Javier, my eldest son, Clinton Jr.”
Tucking Gwen to his side, Javier flipped his hair from his eyes. “Dude,” he said, offering C.J. a fist bump.
C.J. stared at Javier’s hand until he slowly lowered it. “My mother needs some coffee,” he told the younger man. His mother was dating a man younger than her own sons. Then again, his father’s last two wives had also been younger than him. Maybe he could fix Javier up with Carrie. Get them both of out his hair. “Black. And plenty of it.”
Before Javier could respond, C.J. gently tugged his mother away from him and escorted her to a table in the corner. Helped her into a chair.
She frowned at him the best she could with a forehead full of Botox. “Are we done dancing?”
“We’re taking a break,” he told his mother, sitting next to her. “Your dear, dear friend is going to get us some coffee.”
She patted his knee. “Javier is such a sweetheart. He’s an aspiring model, you know. Though his true love is the theater.”
A model. That explained the thick neck, gelled hair and blindingly white teeth. “I hadn’t realized you were seeing anyone,” C.J. said casually. “Or that you’d be bringing a date.”
“Javier and I met weeks ago at a yoga class,” she said with a wave of her hand, her red, talon-like nails almost taking out C.J.’s eye. “I enjoy spending time with him. He’s attractive and attentive. I hadn’t realized how advantageous it was for a man to be so limber until we made love in the backseat of the Bentley. Of course I’m referring to his limbs being flexible,” she said, leaning forward and patting C.J.’s hand reassuringly, “not his penis, which is quite straight, thank goodness.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though, just between us, it could use another inch or two.”
C.J. sat frozen, his mouth hanging open, a strange buzzing in his head. Forget the forks in his eyes. He’d much rather use them to dig his mother’s words from his ears.
She was often thoughtless with her words, careless with her deeds, but the alcohol had obviously washed away any and all filters between her brain and her mouth.
No doubt about it. He really was in hell.
“Please,” he managed to choke out, holding up his hand as if that would stop her from talking, “I’d like to keep up the illusion that you don’t have a sex life, and that would be easier to do if you didn’t share details.”
He made a mental note never to ride in her car again.
She laughed and slapped his arm. “Don’t be silly. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends, as well. And friends tell each other such things.”
“I will never tell you such things,” he promised solemnly. “Ever.”
“Well, just know that you can. But I do hope you won’t divulge anything I’ve said to your father.”
Her voice had been casual, her expression clear. If C.J. hadn’t looked carefully, he would have missed the calculation in her eyes, the small, satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth. As if all she needed for her evil plans to come to fruition was for C.J. to regale his disabled father with stories of her sexual escapades, causing Senior to become insanely jealous, toss aside his latest bimbo and finally come crawling back to Gwen.
C.J. had an entire lifetime of experience when it came to Gwen and her manipulations. As a kid, he’d fallen for her act too many times to count. Had run to his father every time Gwen had a date, had told Senior about the days she’d spent locked in her room, crying over him. But no matter how hard C.J. had tried, no matter how much he’d begged, his father had never come back.
Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.
C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.
He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.
Trouble.
That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.
Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.
His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.
Definitely trouble.
The very best kind.
“Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”
The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a bless your heart at the end of his sentences.
She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”
He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.
The instant connection.
He frowned. No. Not connection. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.
He wanted her.
And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.
Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.
Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.
He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.
“Gotcha.”
